Now Accepting Donations for a Worthy Cause

MEET the FAMILY NECK: (click on each picture to get the full horror.)

Here's one.

And here's another.

And a couple of them, side by side.

And here is yet another.

And another.

I tell you there is no escaping biology. Heredity. DNA. I've sworn for years that if I ever developed the family neck I would fall off a cliff or wear turtle necks swathed in scarves while falling off a cliff.

But here it is at last. My dearth and my doom. Jeff said, "There are exercises you can do to fix that. Look Left, Look Right, Repeat until you find a Plastic Surgeon."

Ha, ha, Funny, Jeff!

And so here I am, accepting donations for a chin lift. Don't you think it's a worthy cause?

Curb Your Broad

I was eating lunch with a friend at the lovely little Land Park establishment called Central Valley Coffee, when a lady came in from the patio area and in a flurry asked, "Did anyone leave their dog outside? It is running around without a leash!"

Since my hearing is quite dotty and I wasn't facing her or actually paying attention, I heard something else entirely. "Did you say Broad??!!"

"Now why would I say Broad?" the woman asked in a huffy snit. She was sooo offended she actually sniffed and tossed her head.

But of course my friend and I burst out laughing at my silly translation of the word 'Dog' as did the ENTIRE COFFEE SHOP!!. It's a small place, and the woman had been quite the attention getter to begin with.

We laughed so hard about it, I was quite the hit of the party I assure you!

Of course my friend and I had to remark between ourselves what a surly, non-humorous woman that was!

But when she came back inside to take her seat, she gave me a big grin and a bit of a wave.

I decided that it must have taken her a second to get the joke, which was at least some comfort to me. When we left I was determined to take my leave of her in a funny fashion, and as her table was near the exit door, I said, "Don't forget to Walk your Broad!" as we passed.

I got a hateful scowl in return. Hot thunder bolts of menace shot from her eyes. My friend and I skedaddled from her presence as quickly as possible, laughing all the way to the car.

In a moment here came the sourpuss, and she had a BIG smile on her face and was nodding and laughing towards us.

I think she had some kind of condition. Delayed Reaction Syndrome is my guess. So then I couldn't resist one more volley:

"Always tie up your Broad before entering a coffee shop!"

ProActive's Plan for World Domination

Does anyone ever see those ProActive commercials and actually pay attention to them? I started noticing them when Jennifer Love Hewitt was the spokesperson and garbled her English. I felt she should have come across more polished and less like a dunce.

But I think they just want to target stupid teens who never learned any grammar and who don't know to lay off the pop and the candy to help clear up their faces.

The ones that get me are the ones that mix up their syntax something awful. Like the boy who says, "I went to bed at night after putting on ProActive and you wake up in the morning without acne!"

I just scoffed at such Bad English until I realized! OMIGOSH! I DID wake up without Acne!

Expires 10/2056

Almost everyone I know or hope to know or used to know or will never know here in California has a tattoo.

A friend of mine has the pink cancer ribbon tattooed on her chest where her breasts used to be.

Another pal has her new boyfriends name twining around her ankle, in a rolling viney sort of pattern so that if it doesn't work out between them she can just add more vines and obliterate him in the process.

It seems once you get a tattoo, the barriers are down and the next thing that happens is you can't wait for the next one. And the one after that...and so on, until you totally run out of body space and start shopping around for some to rent.

I see it in our future: People with Other People attached to them by rope or chain or staples whose sole purpose in life is to display Permanent Body Art.

Soon, Ralph Lauren and The Gap and Nike and all the Other Hot Brands will be forgoing labeling their clothing and will go straight to body tattooing as a means of dispensing their advertising across the globe.

Remember when Volkswagen did that? You could get a 7-UP commercial painted on your car, drive it around for a year and then they'd pay to have it repainted the color of your choice.

If you got THE GAP tattooed across your chest it would certainly get a lot of people looking at your cleavage.

I suppose the Grand Canyon would be vying for space on the asses of the obese.

And in later years, there will no doubt be a real fad for digging up dead bodies and making collectibles out of the skin art...there may even be a market for being a tattoo donor by then.

But I am adamant that I will not be getting any tattoos. I know they are hugely ingrained in our culture now and for most of the population are considered totally the Norm. But I can't help but hearken back to my childhood when the only people with tattoos were old sailors who smoked Camels and had black, bleary, bleeded-out tattoos on their hairy and wrinkled arms and torsos.

Tattoos were for Truckers and I never can escape that imagery. The tattoo is forever, but the skin it's imprinted on? Gets Old. Gets Wrinkled. Gets Saggy. Gets Liver Spots.

But then, because I never can stand to be left out of a trend, and because I figure when I'm 72 it's really not going to matter if I get a tattoo because there will be no one of my acquaintance left alive to harass me about it, and because I dearly love a good joke, I have decided to get a Tattoo on my Posterior when I'm Old that says...:

BEST IF USED BY:

Got Redemption?

Well, we had another windstorm--just a small one this time-- and once again I got Redeemed!

Who knew I could get redemption every time the wind blows?

A Three Hour Tour

Well, I know you gentle and faithful readers have been wondering why I haven't posted in days and days, and its because I have not been at home where the quill and writing desk reside. Indeed, I have been sitting at the County Clinic waiting for my number to be called.

Yes, for 4 or 5 or 6 days, I believe.

The facts of the matter are these: I got an actual BILL from the county in the mail, which sight sent me into hysterical fits of mirth and laughter. But once the sober truth hit me that they actually want me to PAY for my medical appointment and hundreds of dollars worth of Crazy Psyche Meds each month, I realized I had better get on down there and see about it.

It was only the work of a moment to grasp that my year-long medical plan had expired unbeknownst to me, as there is no expiration date written anywhere on any of the documents.
Therefore, to my reasoning mind, it should only be the work of a moment to pop in there, pick up an application to reapply and be on my merry way.

Au Contraire! Je suis Desolate! Upon entering the building I could clearly see the lines of halt and lame trailing down the hallway, looks of pure resigned boredom on their faces. I secretly smirked because I was not going to the clinic! Oh no! My destination was upstairs to the billing office where I planned upon sweeping in and grabbing my application with aplomb and then ditching the joint.

Upstairs, alas, I also saw trails of people lined up down the hallway, leaning on the wall or even downright snoozing in place upon the floor.

But never one to feel that she is unentitled to receiving an immediate answer to a 'quick question' I mildly barged to the front of the line and got the attention of the weary, brain-fogged reception clerk.

She told me that in fact, I could not be processed until I had a referral form from Lobby A downstairs. Where the Halt and Lame were lazing about in droves. That place of Woe I had just sped past with a smirk in my eye.

And, she suggested, I take a number before I went down there, and as I did so I saw that I had drawn the lucky number of 93 when the little red number on the wall read "Now Serving #25"

Down the stairs I went, implementing my plan to barge to the front of the line again and ask about getting a quick referral form so I could be on my way, but wisely picking a number as I went by. I drew #172. The board with the red indicator number said.....15. And thus you now know why I was at the county clinic for 4 or 5 or 6 days. Just waiting for a referral slip.

Stay Tuned for Part Two where I reveal the scintillating details of waiting in line at the billing office to be told that my appointment for Renewal of Benefits will be held on April 23, 2009 as that is the first available opening.

A Mild Breeze

Some of you probably saw on the news that California had a major winter storm on Friday. The electricity flickered so much that I had to go ahead and turn off the computer and unplug it. I was really afraid of frying my motherboard and I never do trust those surge protectors.

Of course later I discovered that in fact, I had unplugged the paper shredder. And, indeed, the paper shredder was not fried during the wind storm.

This was the view out my window after the storm had blown over. I was very worried about the big banners mounted on aluminum poles outside my window. I was just certain that the whole thing was going to become a projectile and crash through my living room window and impale me or one of my teapots.

Later I found the banner that spells REDEMPTION in my front yard. I have big plans for taking it over to the church and asking them if they have been Seeking Redemption. And then I can tell them that I have their Redemption Right Here, buddy!

Won't that be a hoot?

I was fascinated by my favorite palm tree, as I watched it bend over almost perpendicular to the ground during the wind gusts of up to 65mph.

You can see it in the distance looking a bit like a shredded bachelor's button. Normally it looks like the puffier ones in the foreground.

Later, I was fascinated to see that the Channel 3 satellite truck had pulled into the church parking lot. I figured there must be some limbs down in the street nearby but I couldn't see them from my window.

I turned to Channel 3 in time to see the reporter standing in front of this:

Just on the other side of the church from where I live!

Apparently, every time they run a water line, or a cable line, or a sewer line, or dig down to put in a sidewalk, they hack away at the root structure of the tree. This tree literally just tipped over because it had nothing to anchor it down.

There was no actual damage to the structure of the church however. They will have to do some roof repair but only minor! I think it will be awhile before they even notice that the Redemption Banner is missing.

So THAT'S Where They Went!

Don't even try to make me explain this!

And Now for a Really BIG Shew

Does anyone ever remember the Ed Sullivan Show? He always did his intro by saying "And now it's time for a really Big Show" Only he pronounced it "shew".

I guess it's time for a really Big Year. Back to work after too many days off without pay, I took Miss Kitty to the Walmart for 100 dollars worth of crap and senseless purchases. We then had to decide where to eat for lunch.

I wanted to go to Chili's for their nachos. They have the old fashioned kind that are individually made rather than the lazy, newfangled kind where they throw a handful of chips on a platter and then slop all the stuff on top of them and you have to dig your way through them in the most disgusting, untidy and inefficient manner. All the chips on the bottom get soggy before you reach them and some of the chips don't get any cheese on them at all. I hate that!

Miss Kitty was leaning towards Applebys or some Chinese place. But I've not been her caregiver and chauffeur for 2 years now not to have learned a thing or two.

"Well, you know, Miss Kitty, at Chili's they have these really BIG nachos."

"Ahhh!" she gasped in pure, wide-eyed wonder, "That's Right! Really, Really BIG nachos! I mean, those Nachos are REALLY BIG! Have you ever seen such a Big plate of Nachos? I mean, Really, really BIG!"

And thus I was able to manipulate my way to the lunch venue of my choice, and start the New Working Year off with a really BIG, I mean BIG, BIG Bang.

So Far? No Different from Happy Old Year

It's a New Year and I suppose I'm required to make some kind of statement of purpose.

Like, I intend to loose the same 18 pounds I've lost every other year of my life.

Or that I intend to exercise every day until the Second week of January by which time I'll have forgotten all about it.

Or that I have every desire to quit cursing, dammit.

Or that I wish to really apply myself to taking better care of my heart, soul, mind and body except for the part where I fall in love with vastly inappropriate males, completely ignore going to church, read crap novels, do NOT study improving literature or the Newspaper and binge eat every chance I get.

In the meantime, while I'm still hashing out potential self-promises of disaster, here is what I did yesterday.

I took this old decrepit tray

And gave it a Shiny New Coat of Paint.

And that's the kind of 'Newness' I can enjoy!

Treasures within Treasures

One of my original clients had a horror of garage sales and thrift stores. She often told me that the very idea of pawing through someone else's discards was abhorrent to her. I remember looking at her with pity, scorn and delight. Pity and scorn because she didn't know what she was missing, and delight because that's just one less person getting the goods that I treasure so much.

The whole point of thrifting, in my view, is the thrill of the hidden treasure. It's like hunting for Easter Eggs or digging potatoes. You are looking for something, you know it's there, and suddenly, There it IS! A delightful thingee! Your Heart Leaps! And it's only 50¢ !!!!

A few of my aunts and cousin's have this same hunter/gatherer urge coded deep within their DNA. We simply cannot pass up an opportunity to go thrifting (or junking as it used to be called), forage at the dump or find somewhere to dig up old bottles.

Some of my most prized possessions are not the new things I've acquired, but rather the thrift store treasures that I've collected over the years.

For instance, my collection of Baby Jesus Orphans.

How did they get separated from the rest of the Manger Gang? Who in the world loses a Baby Jesus? And why would anyone bother to put it on a thrift store shelf and charge 98¢ for it? How did it escape being thrown in the trash? I don't know the answer to those burning questions but I have 4 Orphan Infants that come out every Christmas and have a place of pride on my mantle piece.

Or this butter yellow indigo star quilt that I found for 5 bucks. It was wedged between a dismal polyester comforter and a decrepit, stained electric blanket.

I think about the woman who made it, day after day adding another star to the pile until she had enough to start piecing the top together. I love old quilts. Finding one in a junk store is like finding the Golden Fleece as far as I'm concerned.

Very rarely I will find something that is so delightful it is beyond price. Like this framed print of the Beatitudes. It has gold leaf and beautiful calligraphy. It was at the bottom of a pile of framed prints and it was only 75¢. When I saw it I snatched it up and looked around furtively to see if I had just taken the one item that someone else was longing for with all their heart. I couldn't believe my luck! Nobody seemed the least bit interested besides myself.

Then I turned it over and saw the back. And all the little old ladies of religious sensibilities longing for a gold leaf copy of the Beatitudes to hang in their foyer or stairwell could have attacked me at once and torn at my flesh to get their hands on it, and NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING could have pried it from my hands.

Not only was it backed with vintage Rose wallpaper that was the Apex of All that is Shabby Chic, it had a hidden treasure even more delightful than the glorious, decorative back. Something so amazing that I never hang the Beatitudes on my wall. Instead, I hang this picture backwards.

Because along the edge of the frame...in pencil...in old style handwriting...someone had written...

Exceedingly glad

And it just doesn't get any better than that, now does it?

Creation Station

It's been a tradition of mine for the past 20 years or so to take Christmas Afternoon and make my Holiday Thank You cards. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we spent the rest of the day playing in the mess of Christmas wrapping with all our fancy loot.

Dad didn't like us to clean up the paper and ribbons until the day was over. He said it made the Christmas feeling last longer. And I agree! So I create a little chaos and disarray of my own in the afternoon after the Ham and Creamed Peas have been devoured.

I call it a Creation Station. Isn't it a delightful mess? It is my work area for writing my after-Christmas Thank You notes and cards. I make the card and decorate the envelope and include a hand written note inside each one. I feel that if someone has taken the time, in all the holiday bustle, to select a wonderful gift for me, just me, then I can take the time to write a Thank You of the First Order. And I like doing it. Much more than I like shopping!

And this year I had so many things to be thankful for! Good company, friends and family calling from far away to wish me a Merry Christmas, and then get a load of this Loot!!!!!

This candle set spells Noel and you can't see it here but in the back it throws out a field of stars. It came with a bag of pine scented candles, too!

But Wait! There's More!

You can STACK them!

This is an antique soap dish from Cousin Bobbity Jane. I collect them so this was just a blissful present for me. The glaze is cracked and crazed and utterly stained with the patina of age and use. It is just the way I like my antique porcelain.

But Wait! There's More!

Get a load of these kitchen towels! They are made from thick old feed sacking and have a row of 3 different coffee pot/kettles along the bottom. I plan on refolding them every chance I get so I can see all the designs in rotation. Cousin Skeeter Jean, THANK YOU!

But Wait! There's More!

The Q's gave me this set of embroidered pillowcases, which are another weakness of mine. They are PINK flowers with tiny green leaves on a thick, old-style cotton pillowcase and it just doesn't get any better than that.

So even though I don't have a big tree and torn wrapping paper to wade through for the rest of the day, I still get to bask in the glow of opening such gifts as I write my Thank you Notes!

Merry Christmas to All! And to All a Good Night.

Unlocking the Key to Obesity

It is Scientific Fact...

Studies have shown...

And Experts Agree...

That Obesity is caused by an unhealthy obsession with food. Oh, and overeating. And I think I must agree with them because....I had a wonderful Christmas Party on Saturday afternoon, filled with lovely people and all kinds of Holiday Cheer....and the only thing I took pictures of was the FOOD!

Bon Christmas Appetit!

Clone Sheep

One of the things I've always wondered about the Sheep Cloning ...is how in the world could you tell if a sheep was a clone or not? I mean. Think about it. They all look alike anyway. I think someone was just trying to pull the wool over our eyes.

Whenever we would see a Nativity scene that had the sheep on either side of the manger, my Grandma would always say, "Those sheep would be bleating their fool heads off from being separated!" and I always think of that. Every time I see a creche with the sheep apart from each other I want to put them together so they don't baaaaaa and wake the baby.

Incorrect Sheep Placement

Correct Sheep Placement for Peaceful Nativity Viewing

So, DO, please, run over and put all your sheep together in a clump! Then relax and have a Merry Christmas.

Attention Void Syndrome

Patience Onslow suddenly forgot where she was or what she was holding.

Luckily, the children where there to point the way.

*******

I'm here to talk about AVS. Attention Void Syndrome. Different in scope and depth from ADD--Attenion Deficit Disorder--which affects mostly children on a sugar high who've never had any discipline whatsoever and whose brains have been wired to ultra-speed processing by video games and Intendos and X-boxes and stuff, AVS affects women of a certain age whose bodies are busy elsewhere rebuilding the system, leaving the brain in the precarious position of simply shutting down or short-circuiting.

It is important for women with AVS to have an awareness of 'mindfullness' so that mishaps, mistakes and driving fatalities do not occur.

I'd like to use two examples from my own life which occurred only yesterday.

As I was heating some wonderful Tuscany Tomato with Basil soup, I was also preparing a glass of ice so that I could have some chilly ice water to drink. This may have been my first mistake: multi-tasking is a road paved to hell and everybody knows it but are too prideful to admit it.

Suddenly, the AVS set in and all awareness fell into the void. I had filled the water glass full of hot steaming soup before I realized that something was amiss! I had to make the split-second choice of rinsing the ice to salvage it or just saying "To Heck with it!" and dumping the whole mess into the sink and starting over.

This time I was careful to make the ice water and take it Far, Far, far, far faaarrrrr away from the soup.

The second Dreadful Occurance of AVS came about when I realized that Jeff had called me while I was in the powder room and left a message for me to call him back. Since I was just about to reheat my cup of tea in the microwave, I thought I should get that started before calling him.

And do you know what I did? In a fit of complete and utter AVS, I dialed Jeff's phone number onto the keypad of my microwave!

Fortunately I came back to full consciousness before I hit the 'Start' button, otherwise I would have boiled my tea for 555, 4755 minutes.

Time for the Yearly Newsletter, Y'all!

It’s a Wonderful Life
Dear Family, Friends, Acquaintances and Total Strangers:

It’s time once again for the Annual Update on me and my family. As you know, it is a Great Pleasure to send you these yearly reports in a chatty newsletter format. Even though my family and friends talk on the phone daily, this letter is mostly for those of you who don’t really know or care what the heck happens to me all year long but at Christmas Time you really Can’t Escape!

Well, it was a good year for my dear departed husband. Denzel Jamal just turned 50 and that means only 40 more years left on his sentence! He also completed his GED after just 3 tries!

Speaking of successful graduations, our son Remy Daniels Martell successfully completed 30 days of Rehab right before his 16th birthday! I asked him if he met any famous people while he was in there and he looked moody for a moment and then left with his friends to go pick up the 9 mm I promised him for Christmas.

Our daughter, Bane Marie hit the news last summer when she delivered a 12 lb. 9 ounce baby boy in front of the beer cooler at the Arco Quickie Mart. She and little Bubba are doing well. As soon as she gets her figure back, she and Billy Hicks plan on having a Big White Wedding at the Barbecue pit down by the lake. Everyone is welcome to come: the price of admission is a case of beer, but you know I think these young folks could use some cash so don’t be shy.

As for me, well, the Meth got my teeth this year but it sure kept my weight down. And I painted the house TWICE! Of course the Landlord didn’t care for that Orange color I picked with the purple trim even if it was off the back of a truck and dirt cheap so he made me do it over in a color that blended with the neighborhood. I guess all that graffiti does show up better against the lighter Lavender.

Well that’s all my news for this year. I’m doin’ fine trading my cash for food stamps at double the value and hitting up the Food Bank using several different ID’s courtesy of one of Denzel’s buddies on parole. He and I have a thing goin’ on but don’t any of you tell Denzel! He won't get out until he's 90 and a girls' got to have a little fun!

Have a Happy New Year and I’ll see you Next Christmas!

Newspaper Drama

For some reason, everyone in Miss Kitty's world has a name but is called something else entirely. Today she told me all about Gerry her podiatrist. "His name is Alphonse." She has more occurrences of name switching in her vicinity than I've ever seen before in my 51 years! She also, as I've stated before, has more BIG people, babies, and dogs in her world. Just today, as I was changing out the bug light for her on the front porch, she told me that her ex-sister in law had a 15 lb. 27 inch baby. "That girl was big and I don't just mean BIG, I mean BIG".
Yes, I'd say that was extra-big.

On an entirely different subject, I received the copy of the article in the paper about the guy I almost ran over last week. I thought the article was hysterically funny for some reason! The reporter REALLY made it dramatic. Or was that me when I told it to him? Here it is:

Here's what ran in the paper today. Thanks for your help.

Everyday occurrences: After a fruitless search for a Supercuts in Natomas Marketplace recently, midtown resident K**** S Ponsonby made the turn out onto Truxel Road north and nearly ran over a body in the road. "My eyes saw something I interpreted as a Wal-Mart bag," she said. Then it registered. "It was a human." She stopped her car to prevent drivers from hitting the man, put on the flashers and went over to check a guy whose face was bloodied. She doesn't know whether he stumbled or was hit there, but she marveled that people waiting in the turn lane next to him hadn't appeared to notice. When law enforcement arrived, she was too shaky to even notice whether it was police or the Highway Patrol asking for her ID. "I was ill and dizzy and ready to pass out." She told the officer, crying, that it was the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to me. "He shrugged and said, 'Maybe for you, but this happens to me every day.' " ... Postscript: Police report they still don't know what happened. The victim -- once he came to -- remembered nothing.

Carlos Alcala Sacramento Bee (916) 321-1987

And that is my 5 minutes of Fame! Merry Christmas Everybody, I hope it's a BIG, no, I mean BIG, REALLY BIG day!

BIGGEST Baby of All

Ah, that Miss Kitty! She is definitely on a roll with the BIG things. Today we were discussing her nephew who is shacked up with a girl who just gave birth to baby #2. Neither 'parent' is over 21 years old, and are planning on having a very big wedding in a few months.

Miss Kitty wonders if the bride will wear white.

Tea stained is the color I'd pick for her. But then I said I thought it was a moot point as to the color, since she'd be wearing a topless gown so she can walk down the aisle with a babe on each breast and not interrupt their feeding schedule.

Miss Kitty said, "Oh, that's nothing! Do you know how Bob and Betty Bore's boy Bobby got married? His girlfriend had the baby first and it was a BIG baby. I mean, a really BIG baby. I've never seen a baby that BIG, have you? BIG! B I G Baby! Bob Bore is BIG so I guess it's in their bones."

"Well, how big was that baby, Miss Kitty?" I asked.

"The Bore Baby was SO BIG it wouldn't fit into a stroller. They had to wheel it down the aisle in an American Flier Wagon!"

The Failed Horticulturist

Conversation overheard while out and about:

"Why did my plant turn this color?"
"Because it's dead."

Practically Perfect in Every Way

If you've been reading me for a while, or if you've read all the archives, you know that I am a caregiver for Senior Citizens in their homes, and that I love my job. You also know that it is a thankless job, subjecting me to all kinds of abuse: emotional, physical and financial.

It can be amusing and fun, a learning experience and sometimes a real Joy; but what it rarely is, is a job of acknowledgment. If you are doing a good job, you don't even get noticed most of the time. Certainly not by the family who hired you to take their addled Mom or Dad off their hands. And rarely by the company I work for who doesn't really interact with me unless it's time for a Service Call or an In-Service meeting held quarterly.

So you can imagine how utterly delighted and thrilled I was when the placement coordinator in the office told me about my new Client and the daughter who was asking about me before I was placed.

"Is she a good caregiver?" asked the daughter.

Miss Pearl at the office replied, "She's one of our best. It's like if you were hiring a nanny and Mary Poppins showed up."

Now, that made my entire year! Miss Pink Ponsonby: Practically Perfect in Every Way

Apron Pockets

It's all about aprons, right now. Because it's Christmas Time and that means Holiday Baking, and that means donning an apron.


And what Christmas Cookie Marathon would be complete without a new apron? I had purchased some very nice funky Christmas Tree fabric last year at the dollar sale and when I ran across it while digging through a box for something else entirely, I knew I had to get it out and make an apron. With the help, of course, of my Trusty Sewing Apprentice.

Checkin' each seam, Checkin' it twice!

Finding the Straight of Grain is important to keep the apron from bagging inappropriately.

I wish I had taken an 'all finished' photo, but this apron has already been given away to the friend who helped me with all the baking. Hope she's not allergic to cat tails.

Oddly, and delightfully, while I was up late last night completing a few other baking tasks, I noticed that there was something in the pocket of my apron.

Dog Biscuits!!!!!?

A Very Tall Baby

Today at lunch Miss Kitty was talking about her family tree and who all would be coming to Christmas Dinner at her place. This went on and on until she got to the cousin of John's sister who had two children and they got married and they had a baby...

"That was a BIG baby. Really. A TALL baby. You've never seen a baby that tall. That baby was TALL. I mean it. Have you ever seen a baby that tall? That Baby was TALL. A really, really, REALLY big baby. REALLY Tall. Really. Have you ever? I mean, it was a Tall Baby."

"How tall was that baby, Miss Kitty?"

"Taller than his Dad!"

Dylis Dials In

Ages and ages ago I posted about my incarcerated friend's mother named Dylis. (One of these days I'll learn how to insert a link to the post of which I am speaking.) She was supposed to ride up here on the bus and then accompany me to the prison to see her son whom she had not seen in ten years.

But first she needed to go to Las Vegas and Texas.

Time passed and Dylis was still busy, and the plans for her visit just faded away.

Yesterday, the phone rang, and Lo and Behold, it was She! Here is a snippet of our wild conversation:

Girl! Let me tell you, I've been smoking since I was 8 years old. Yes, 8 years old! We used to go out into the streets and pick up cigarette butts and smoke them. It was considered cool. In those days you could buy cigarettes from the corner store 3 for a nickel. We'd buy them and then one of the neighbor lady's would let us smoke at her house. Of course she let us do that because she was stealing them from us!

Stealing cigarettes from an 8 year old! How low can you sink?

O! Christmas Ham O! Christmas Ham

O! Christmas Ham

O! Christmas Ham

O! Thou were Chosen by a Zombie!

I ran to the store this morning to buy my Christmas Ham. I had to wait about a week for them to get a shipment of the spiral cut glazed hams, which are the kind I like. I saw them the other day at the Other Safeway but the store I frequent had not gotten any yet, so I decided to wait until now to get one.

But this morning I couldn't find any spiral cut hams. Just a huge deep freezer bin full of those water processed ones which are so salty I can't eat them without swelling up like a...like a...well, like a ham.

I asked the Meat Produce Girl where the spiral cut hams were and she said she'd go check for me. And she never came back! Never! I stood and stood and stood, and frankly I realized she must have either warped into an alternate reality or was taking a break, and wasn't going to return.

Another Meat Produce person, a Young Man this time, came out the door where she had disappeared and I asked him what happened to her. "Was she ABSORBED?" I asked.

He looked at me and kind of went goggle-eyed. For a moment there I thought, "Oh, No, English is not his First Language and he will neither know nor care about the amazing, and hilarious nuances of my wit."

Without answering that particular salvo, he said, "I'll go check on her."

And he never returned. Not Never! I tooled down the meat aisle, over to produce, picked up a bag of chocolate chips from the Spice and Baking Aisle and wandered back to the meat counter just as he emerged from the depths of the back room.

"She's wrapping up your ham right now and pricing it." He said.

I freaked! "SHE CAN'T DO THAT!" I shrieked with rising hysteria in my voice, "She cannot just pick some random ham for me! She has no idea what size I want or what price I want or anything. Picking a Ham is a Highly Personal Thing, No One can do it for you! It must be done personally, by me! She's just supposed to be checking whether there ARE any, not CHOOSING one for me!"

How can a meat produce person not KNOW this? Picking a Ham is like choosing a turkey. It's like selecting fruit. You can't just have one handed to you lackadaisically. It's not like getting a pound of hamburger or a package of chicken, this is a Holiday Hunk of Meat. You get the wrong ham and the whole meal is off. The holiday is ruined. Civilization as we know it would come to an end. Entire Cultures have toppled for less. Chef Gordon Ramsey would understand this. He would know. He would feel my pain.

Am I wrong about this? Am I wrong to feel this way? I was babbling "NO! No!, NO!" to the young Meat Produce Man, no doubt sounding like Amy Winehouse singing "They want me to go to rehab, I said, No, No, No!" Only my lyric would be: "They want to choose my ham for me, I said No, No, No!"

He just stood there. "Am I not speaking English?" I asked him with a perky yet strained smile.

"So you don't want the ham, then?" he asked nonchalantly.

American Meat Producers: Lost to All Sense of Propriety.

All in a Day's Work

My Dad was a Master Gunsmith. This was back in the day when guns were considered to be tools, works of art, part of life. Not like today where they are viewed with fear and seen as implements of death.

In his basement workshop, my Dad would turn out exquisite pieces of craftsmanship with hand-rubbed finish on the stocks, shiny bluing on the barrel and precision aim.

Downstairs he had two lathes, a huge workbench full of exciting gizmo's, a small target range, and a cluttered pile of greasy, ominous looking tools. Except they weren't ominous, they were fun; and my brothers and I spent hours perched on the work bench tightening various hammers, screwdrivers, files, rasps and pliers into the vice grips.

My Dad, unlike most of my friend's fathers who were scary and aloof, really liked hanging out with us and teaching us things and harassing us. He was a stickler for good grammar, proper manners and enlarging our vocabularies. In fact before my mini-stroke, I had the largest vocabulary of anyone I'd ever met. Also, I had Very Decent manners and could edit a manuscript for grammatical correctness in seconds flat, too.

I also have fairly perfect teeth. And this is because of the Tooth Extractor, and my Dad's cunning use of this implement of torture, pain, and horror.

One of my more delightful memories of childhood is this nasty pair of pliers, which I absconded with as part of my inheritance when we were breaking up and dividing Dad's property after he died.

Anytime one of us kids had a loose tooth, he would race into the basement, dig around in the filing dust and grease and reappear with these scary things in his grip. He would brandish them before our wee, frightened little faces and click them open and shut, cackling with evil glee.

"I can take care of that loose tooth for you. Why should I spend good money on a dentist for you kids when this Dental Extractor would do the trick in no time? Just a little pain, some blood and guts and think of the money I would save!"

We would then scream "DAAAaaaad!" in utter panic and race around the kitchen table half a dozen times as if that would help us escape.

He would then capitulate and sigh in total, mock despondency, "You win this time, but sooner or later I will get to pull one of your teeth."

My Dad, Master Gunsmith, Amateur Dentist.

That'll Stunt Your Growth!

Drinking

Smoking

And Gunplay

The Perfect Childhood.

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!