A Mehendi Mess

A million picnics, and many of them in the fall.

So much for my well laid plans of writing a blog post daily Monday through Friday. This week it will just be a mid-week update. For one thing, nothing ever HAPPENS to me during the work week. At least nothing that I want to talk about.

For instance, I came home from work on Monday and shed my clothing and got into lounge wear and then noticed I could not find my cell phone. What followed was a keystone cops event with me rampaging around the Gulag retracing my steps and accosting my crazy neighbors asking them to call my cell phone number so I could see if I could hear it ringing in the vicinity. I tore my car apart and dug through the shrubberies. I even ran my hand around in the vending machines thinking I may have dropped it in there when retrieving my candy bar.

One helpful neighbor handed me her old dead cell phone and told me I could have it: Just call and activate it, she said. Umm. HOW? With my CELL PHONE? The one I can't find?

I had almost resolved myself to having to buy a new one and was preparing to mourn the loss of every phone number of everyone I've ever known or hoped to know as well as all that auto-text I'd added to the dictionary when I was smitten with an idea...

What if, when I had removed my work slacks and thrown them over the ironing board because I need to take in the waistband and thought that would be a good place to put them for the time being, what if the cell phone just slid out of my pocket and down into the conveniently waiting laundry basket beneath the ironing board? It is a slippery little bugger.

And LO! There it was! I'm sure I lost about 3 dozen more brain cells from the 'stress event' of it all.

And these are hardly the kinds of things I want to talk about in my blog! You know, I want to come across smart, savvy, functional and like someone who has her cell phone permanently attached to her being.

Well since I'm outing myself as a giant doofus, I may as well confess to my Mehendi Misfortunes.

I would love to say this is my foot, but it's not. This is the DREAM of my foot.

You see I had the idea that henna painting is nothing more than doodling and squiggling with the equivalent of a frosting cone on my feet and hands. How hard could it be? I happen to be a very good doodler and line-squiggler.

So I bought a bag of henna at this neat little Pakistani grocery store near my work. The smells and unusual graphics on the labeled merchandise just send me far far away! The man at the cash register tried so hard to get me to buy the little pre-mixed cones of henna but I was having none of it! The raw poundage for me! 3 times as much for the same price! He assured me a single cone could do many hands and feet but he just didn't understand! He was looking at a woman about to embark on a sideline career of henna tattooing!

Well, lets just cut this short, shall we? I returned to the wonderful Pakistani market the next day and bought a couple of the pre-made cones of henna. Would anyone like to buy a semi-used bag of dried henna?

First of all, there appears to be some ART involved. And SKILL. Who knew? Just mixing the stuff up requires sifting, adding lemon juice and sugar in precise measured amounts to get the proper consistency and sugar reaction so it makes strings. THEN my brilliant idea of just cutting the tip off the corner of a Ziploc baggie like I would if I was decorating a Christmas Cookie does not seem to be a viable option for the henna which, for some reason, comes out in chunks and lumps. Apparently I was supposed to SIFT the stuff first. So much for those beautiful foreign looking labels on the packaging. English instructions would have been so nice!

AND! WHAT WAS I THINKING? I can't even REACH my feet. Was I planning on just prying my foot up a few inches from my nose and leaving it hanging in the air so I could apply the henna for 30 minutes? Imagine me roaming around the apartment, looking for a table or a stool or a counter that was the right height for me to hoist my leg onto. Hoist after Hoist, there was nothing that would work. Imagine me trying to fashion some kind of rudimentary sling out of belts and scarves that I could suspend my calves from. Imagine me trying to simply touch my toes from a full and upright position.

I had to abandon the idea. But not before I managed to smear myself liberally with henna in all the cracks and crevices of my fingers. I do have the prettiest henna stain on my nails today though.

So it appears that my bucket list still contains the wish of someday having my hands and feet done in beautiful henna tattooes. And of someday appearing to be utterly together and without mishap or madness. Sigh.

A Santa Sighting!

Yesterday I went to meet a friend for Sushi Lunch. It required going on the Business 80 past the Arden Mall Corridor which means MAYHEM and MADNESS on the highway.

It can take 10 minutes to merge onto the freeway and then another 15 just to get to the next exit where more people are trying to merge onto the freeway.

In the middle of all this merging the retard designers of the freeway itself have placed 2 lanes that END abruptly and you have to merge left because there is nowhere left to go.

So it's always a bottleneck and during Holiday Shopping Time it's just awful.

Yesterday, I was waiting and waiting to merge...creeping along slowly because my lane was going to END in an embankment if I didn't get over...and nobody was budging whatsoever. It's like their attitude is: I'm in a lane that works, screw you!

When suddenly, what should appear behind me but a small red vehicle being driven by...SANTA CLAUS! And he waved me right in! And I merged ahead of him and looked into my rear view mirror and sitting beside him in a bad white hair wig was MRS. CLAUS! You don't see them out for a spin together very often!

They both had Rosy Red Cheeks and Santa, who was not wearing his hat in the car, had flowing white locks and a very beautiful snowy white beard! Very real! And perched on his nose was a lovely pair of gold wire rim glasses.

It just gave me the happiest day, in that moment!

Santa is an excellant driver!

Poor Nelly!

I had planned on getting up early this morning and going to the farmer’s market and having a quiet morning. But alas it was not to be, because I overslept by several hours due to lack of a good night’s sleep the night before.


Last night at 3:15am I heard a commotion in the parking lot of the church. It woke me up but it didn’t sound dangerous so I tried to go back to sleep. But soon I realized I had to get up and check out the scene: I heard women screeching and one of them said, ‘put away that knife!’ so I thought I’d better drag myself over to the window.

Well, the upshot of the deal is that either some guy was trying to rob another guy and these two women intervened, or it was just a drunken knife fight, but by the time I got to the window, somehow one of the women had gotten a face full of pepper spray and was flat out on the ground and the two would-be assailants had high-tailed it out of there to finish their scuffle in peace and quiet and a little privacy.


That left Miss Eggplant (wearing a shimmering purple eggplant dress) who was big and had wild big hair and a loud aggressive voice and a commanding personality, down on the ground rocking and screaming and barking orders at the poor stunned Miss Nelly, who was dressed in what I would swear was hooker garb except they were in the church parking lot so maybe it was just a dress- up evangelical occasion, flailing about gasping for air and in a lot of pepper-spray pain.

There were lots of bystanders trying to help, but Miss Eggplant was running the show. “KEEP BREATHING, NELLY!” she would scream and rock this woman until she must have been addled from the shaking. She forced Miss Nelly to take a hit from her asthma pipe or whatever those things are called—inhaler, that’s it—which then caused Miss Nelly to go totally unconscious or else slip into a fit, I’m not sure, because then Miss Eggplant was screaming, “She’s stopped Breathing! She’s going into Convulsions!” all the while bossing everyone around telling them to call 911, etc;


Pretty soon here came the fireman with their giant truck a-blazin’ lights and diesel fuel, and you could see they washed her face down and then told her she wasn’t having an asthma attack, it was just a little pepper spray and she was going to be all right.

They asked Miss Eggplant to let go of Nelly so they could check her over and Miss Eggplant refused. So they had to fix up Nelly while Eggy was screeching and bossing and commanding the show. At one point she said, “She is signing to you in sign language! It’s because that’s all she knows right now! She can’t talk because of the pepper spray!”

I don’t know, that just made me laugh. It would take a Miss Eggplant to interpret helpless waiving gestures as SIGN LANGUAGE.

I tell you what, I think it was her pepper spray, if you ask me. Nobody asked them any of those kinds of questions but I would bet money on it.

Poor Nelly! Here comes the cops and they took Eggy aside and I could rather hear her talking about a knife and some pepper spray and her asthma inhaler but just at that time a car came tearing up onto Capitol Avenue and out of the driver side jumped a GIANT GRIZZLY BEAR of a man dressed all in white like a plantation owner, or possibly a summer pimp, and it appears that he is married to poor Nelly, because he’s suddenly screaming and wailing, “How did this happen? How did this happen? My Wife! My Wife!” and yet he never got anywhere near her, he just stomped and paced around the giant parking lot Flinging his arms wide in those aggressive/fear gestures you see people do who are under extreme emotion and want you out of their body space.

The police told him to park his car properly, and he did, but then he came right back out again and started rampaging around the parking lot repeating, “how did this happen? How did this happen?”

Meanwhile, Miss Eggplant has told her tale to the cops, the fireman have bundled poor Nelly into the back of Eggy’s car and just LEFT her there, and they all gathered around at the far end of the parking lot and proceeded to laugh and exchange war stories. This went on for at least 15 minutes before they all departed, along with the cops. I wanted to call down to the cops at that point that they might want to try to rein in the emotional Giant Husband but I decided to just keep out of it.

So now, act III: We’ve got poor Nell passed out or just stunned and silent in the backseat of the car with nobody around to hold her or comfort her, we’ve got her husband flailing around violently and stomping up and down freaking out, we’ve got Miss Eggplant now trying to corral him by telling him to go to his wife and hold her.

He was having no part of that suggestion, though! He enacted quite a fierce drama for at least another 15 minutes until Miss Eggplant was able to prevail upon him to get in the back seat of her car and attend to his wife. He would go over to the car and look at her in the back seat and then fling himself away in sheer agony and stomp around the parking lot some more. It was so touching I wish I had a husband who would so thoroughly neglect me like that in a crisis!I just wished so heartily to hear the words, “WOE IS ME!!” come out of his tortured lips.

He finally decided he was going to drive off in his car, still saying “HOW did this HAPPEN???” but Miss Eggplant had determined otherwise. She dragged, cajoled, ordered, coerced and basically muscled the husband to get into her car so she could drive them all somewhere safe and sound.

So the dude gets into the front seat of the car! This will not do for Eggy! She DRAGS the husband by the arm OUT of the passenger seat and basically tries to fold him like a tortilla into her back seat.

Poor Nell, it seems, is sprawled out across the seat so there really isn’t room for the big giant Husband so they all start yelling at Nell to SHOVE OVER! MOVE OVER, NELL! And that poor half-sick, half-unconscious woman had to sit up and drag herself over in the seat so her husband could get in back with her.

There were two other church dudes there, small bit players who helped corral and contain the husband, and one of them offered to drive his car to their destination. But first we had to have the husband, still overcome by the reality of a maced spousal unit confronting him, get back OUT OF THE CAR and start pacing around and rampaging in the parking lot some more. Apparently his grief was too strong to be confined to the mere back seat of a car!

I was seriously praying for this to all end in a big Bang of dramatic Flair: perhaps the husband could throw himself down in front of the car and beg to be run over and put out of his misery? Perhaps he could start beating his head against the brick wall of the church until he bludgeoned himself unconscious? Perhaps Nell would snap out of it and pepper spray her husband to shut him up?


Finally, finally, the husband got into the back seat of the car, Miss Eggplant drove out of there and the extra dudes went in hubby’s car and all was quiet in the parking lot again.


And that was why I overslept because I sat up watching Live Theatre out my living room window on a Saturday night.

The Wise Oracle

Just for the halibut I did a quickie, free tarot reading online. My question was....

Will I meet a new love?

The card drawn was:

The Hermit.

I guess that answers that question.

Brie? Brie? Brie? Brie? Brie? Brie? Brie? Brie?

At the River on Friday

Well, where have I been, you ask? Working, entertaining, working, sleeping, not-sleeping...

Last week I was given the treat of attending a local production of CATS with one of my ladies and her friends and family. Lots of pictures were taken but not by me, and although people always promise to post the pics or email them to you...they never seem to arrive! So until then, I'll hold off on writing a funny blog about that day!

This weekend I went with a fellow caregiver and 7 friends to the Elk Grove/Laguna Comedy Under the Stars Event. I haven't laughed that hard in years! The comics were great, of course, but the laughter came from the people we were with.

This event is held in the park where there is a nifty amphitheater. Everyone brings blankets or low beach chairs (no high-back lawn chairs allowed) and lots and lots to eat and drink. The lady, Bee, who had organized getting the tickets for us was the Hostess with the Mostest! We were sitting in a semi-circle around her copious cooler and she spent her time opening it and bringing out treat after treat. Wine, dessert wine, prosciutto, cheese, shrimp, more cheese...it was awesome and fun and so gourmet.

But the funny part is that even though all eyes were upon her like little trained circus dogs waiting to have a tidbit popped into our mouths, she would take out a food item and politely ask each and every single one of us along the row if we would like some. She never slacked off or varied in her delivery, either.

So the conversation would go like this:

Bee: Oh, Karla, you brought chocolate wine I'd love to try some of that! Shrimp? Shrimp? Shrimp? Shrimp? Shrimp? Shrimp? Shrimp? Shrimp?

Karla: Yes, I'd love some shrimp. The wine is boysenberry with chocolate undertones it's probably just a flashy gimmick to get you to buy it!

Bee: Well, I love chocolate but I don't like Merlot so I'm willing to try it just to see if it tastes like Merlot or chocolate. Brie anyone? Brie anyone? Brie anyone? Brie anyone? Brie anyone? Brie anyone? Brie anyone?

****
The show was from 8-10 but people gather to drink and eat by six o'clock, so everyone was pretty much smashed and in a rip-roaring mood by the time the comics started. Of course us ladies must make frequent trips to the powder room, and we have to travel in packs...and as usual there was a long line for the ladies room and none for the men's room.

A gentleman graciously offered to guard the door for us if a few of us wanted to go use the men's room and since we were next in line we trooped over there and used those facilities. We were laughing our heads off and not thinking a thing about it, but when we all exited the men's room there were about 15 men standing in line waiting! Looking pained! And hopping from foot to foot! I guess beer will do that to a fella.

As we joyously left their company there were many parting shots back and forth about 'now you know what it feels like' and 'guess you females wear the pants in your family!' etc;

Giggling in glee we raced back to our seats in time for the opening act, whose first salvo had us all screaming and cheering because he said, " What a Town, Elk Grove! Where the women use the men's bathroom!"

Skirting the Issue

It seemed like a good idea in my mind.

I planned it out. I went through all my vintage fabrics to find the perkiest ones. I lay them out and observed them. I carefully cut the pieces out and sewed them into the skirt front...

And then it dawned on me!

What was, in my mind, a darling little vintagey-perky pool wrap skirt...had suddenly manifested itself into CLOWN WEAR!!!!!

As if it weren't enough to hang out at the pool with my boob exposed, here I was creating a skirt that would GUARANTEE that I get ALL eyes pointed right at ME.

I was in a dither. I had nowhere to turn! I didn't know how to salvage this mess!

But then I just remembered my default sewing choice and turned this gaudy mess into a very cute apron.

Then I got out some of my other cute, vintage, perky fabric and made a much CALMER pool skirt. I think this is much better, don't you?

That will teach me not to drop acid before I sew!

To Pulp or Not to Pulp

This post is going to be a loose collection of random topics...odds and ends that I've had rattling around in my brain for some time.

First of all, I'm quite addicted to that new show "Hoarders". Has anyone seen it? It is just riveting to see the kind of scary crap people hoard! They fill their entire living space with garbage, rotting food, etc; Unable to let go of anything, they come up with convoluted lies and stories as reasons for keeping their stuff.

Last night I watched in horror as a woman dug through a ROTTING PUMPKIN that had fallen into goo on her living room floor, desperate to keep some of the seeds because she couldn't let go,while the guy with the shovel trying to scoop up the mess was gagging and looking queasy for the camera!

I live my life as somewhat of a Reverse Hoarder! I am obsessively tidy and can't abide a cluttery mess.

Perhaps I shouldn't introduce you to my garage... but what the heck!

This is it! I got this little yellow cabinet (originally fire engine red) at a yard sale many, many years ago for 5 bucks. I have used it for everything from storing linens to dishes to bathroom items. But it seems to have found a permanent use as my Apartment Garage.

Everything that other people would put into their garage has gone into this little cabinet. Tools, paint, glue, tape, sandpaper! And it's a CLUTTERY MESS! There, I've admitted it! I've tried and tried to make it tidy, and it just won't comply. You can't neatly fold an electric drill because believe me, I've tried.

Next Random Thing:

What is up with this sudden thing in the Orange Juice world? Pulp. No Pulp. Some Pulp. Slight Pulp. Less Pulpy than Termite Dust but More Pulpy than Sodden Newspapers Left in the Rain...

All I want is a glass of semi-real Orange Juice. So my question is: to Pulp or Not to Pulp? I'm not so naive that I think just becuase it has More Pulp in it, it has been processed LESS than the stuff that is thin, watery and doesn't have so much as a molecule of orange matter in it. For all we know, the stuff with More Pulp has FAKE PULP added at the very end of the wash cycle. We don't know. We JUST DONT KNOW!!!!

I picked up this awesome fall-floral print KING size sheet at the thrift store. It had no wear on it at all and I couldn't pass it up. I think I got it for 75 cents, as they were having a 30% off sale at the Salvation Army Store. I plan on making napkins and an apron (of course!) but then I'm going to try and do some kind of skirt or tunic top out of the rest of the fabric. I just like how vintage and mid-century it looks.

Finally, I want to say that I HATE FLEA BITES. I really, really hate them! This is a picture of ONE flea bite on my ankle. It's about a week old, and as you can see, it is STILL inflamed, red and itchy. And HUGE. One single flea did this to me. It itches and itches and stings and burns and it doesn't show any signs of abating. I've used everything from Ben Gay to Camphophenique to Vaginal Itch Cream, and nothing has helped.

I even made the sign of the cross on it with my thumbnail, per my Granny Brown's instructions. But nope, this flea bite is even going to deny the supremecy of God.

I just hope I don't die from it, and not before I've learned which kind of orange juice is better.

Baby Shower Featuring...Cannibal Cake!

Every family has it's skeletons in the closet...apparently mine has a cannibal in it.

Men Are Now Officially Obsolete

I'm pretty much dancing a jig over my new 1 GIG!

Having discovered that the only thing I really needed to do to my computer was update the RAM (I only had 512mb which back in the day was SO MUCH MEMORY) and I'd be good to go, I was elated! All this time I've been operating so slowly that it's been a real chore to get anything done.

Having discovered what it would cost me to have a Computer Guy put that RAM in my computer, I decided it would behoove me to do it myself. So I did!

I went and found the book that came with the computer and read the instructions.
I went online and found out the exact type of RAM I needed. (Rimms, Dimms, RD-Dimms, or what?)

I went to the Microsoft website and read up on how to install it.
I went to FRYE's and bought the RAM I needed, along with a $1.99 part called a watch battery that I thought I should probably replace after 9 years of using the original one that came with the computer!)
I installed the new RAM, and the new battery, and VIOLA!!!!

I am now the proud owner of one entire GIG of RAM, and also the proud owner of my own cojones!

Because, believe me, it's pretty scary staring into the dark bowels of my computer innards and trying to figure out which slot I'm supposed to click the new RAM card into! But when it comes right down to it, it's really quite, quite easy!

So, okay, maybe all men are not obsolete, but my need for a computer geek techie guy has expired!

And of course the need for my Main Man Mackie will never become obsolete: Look how cute he looks using the edge of the mirror as a pillow. How does he think these things up?

Nut Magnet Collection Grows

I've added several new editions to my ever growing nut magnet collection. I know my readers are wondering why I don't take a picture of my fridge and show them to you.

It's because my fridge is full of magnetic notepads, the way God Intended, and also, these are not refrigerator nut magnets, these are the people kind.

Your tired, your poor, your unbalanced, unstable and unwashed all are drawn to me like bees to honey. I literally trip over them on my own doorstep.

Today as I headed out for some errands I saw that I had to have the insides of my windows washed. I could barely see out of the windshield in front or the sides.

Since I was on my way to the post office anyway I dug out a couple bucks to give to the guy who washes windows in the parking lot. He's a nice, decent man, obviously down on his luck, but willing to clean windows for change. He never bothers anybody or begs, but he is always there with newspapers and glass cleaner and a little stool he uses to stand on for the SUV's. I always have him clean my windows, he does a really good job.

So as not to make him feel he needed to hurry, I hung out in the lobby of the post office until I could see he was finished. It was here that I acquired my first Nut Magnet Experience of the Day.

A portly senior citizen man with slipping dentures approached me, already well into a conversation with me before I had made eye contact. He told me all about his pernicious anemia, his vitamin B12 shots, his high blood pressure pill, his daily diet of steak and baked potato, and how he would vomit every day; everything he ate he would upchuck. He told me how he liked to chew on women as well as steaks, and he gave me a leer. I almost asked him if he puked when he fed on women but refrained.

I thought I'd introduce him to the benefits of nutritional yeast but he didn't really have an input valve. Just output. He'd talk right over me no matter what I said. All the while I was trying to peer over his shoulder and around his fat gut to see the progress of my window washer.


It started back in the 70's" he said, apropos of nothing, "That was when they first got to our water. "


"Got to it, how, exactly?" I asked.

"You know, got to it. That was when they did it to all our water. Bio-engineered the DNA."

Now, I happen to know a bit about anemia because I was born with it and almost died from it several times, and I also happen to be a big fan of knowing stuff about DNA. After all, I've lost count of the times I've yelled at the back of a retreating boyfriend, "Get out and take your DNA with you!"


So I already knew that B12 shots are the treatment for pernicious anemia--although if he has a functioning terminal ileum, I don't know what all the fuss is about-- but I have not yet been acquainted with bio-engineered altered DNA in my water source. That just seems like a lot of work for Secret Ops to go to, and for what purpose? To make us a Stupider People?

I can hear them now in their secret labs in the underworld, "This dumbing down of America through Reality TV isn't working fast enough. People still show signs of resisting Twitter. Let's doctor up their Water!"


You know it's just not very likely. Wouldn't they doctor up our Starbucks instead?

I extricated myself from his presence by wishing him all the best of luck with his vomiting issues, and made a beeline for my car.

But Nut Magnet Adventure#2 had other plans. This man, bleary-eyed and somewhat shell-shocked in appearance, waylaid me with this stunner, "Ma'am! Please! That lady right there just farted on me!" I half looked at him and half at the retreating back of a well dressed woman whom, to my quick assessment, did not look like the back of a woman who would take deadly aim and let one rip in public.

What was I supposed to do about it? Run after her and demand she give him is clean air back? Confront her with her intentions? Demand repercussions? Ask her if she'd considered Vitamin B12 shots and introduce her to Nut Magnet #1 who might vomit on her and thus complete the cycle of Karma that I just somehow got snagged into?

I did nothing, alas, except express my deep felt sorrow and compassion for his horrific experience, and high-tailed it out of there with my clean windows as fast as my foot could hit the gas pedal. (ha-ha. Get it? Gas pedal?)

My next stop was the 98 cent store, where, as I was rounding the corner into the food aisle. I ran smack dab into a guy who was shoving a bag of chips in his pants.

This was starting to seem like a day for social torture rather than the joyous gad-about that I had intended.

It was a freeze-in-place moment. I really didn't know what to do. I looked around as if I had done the guilty deed, and wondered if store detectives would be descending in droves. I knew I had mere moments to formulate some kind of response. What would it be? Would I scream, "THIEF!" or "Drop that Bag of Chips, you are surrounded!" ? Or would I look the other way and pretend I'd seen nothing? After all, this was the 98 cent store, where everything costs one dollar. What difference did that dollar make to the store if this obviously homeless man was driven by hunger to steal his food?

Without even thinking I said, "I'll buy that for you, and anything else you want to eat."

But he didn't hear me. He was already moving fast and out the door, and I'll never know if my words had time to register before he was gone.

This morning as I left the house, a friend had told me I looked especially nice today, and that in my new pink blouse I was sure to attract an eligible man.

Fear of Commitment Affects My Functionality!

I loathe and detest that non-word 'functionality' by the way! It's so lazy! Is it so hard to say, "This will affect your ability to function!"? MUST it be converted to Kitch English?



Although these eggs were just fantastic and the salsa was the freshest, tastiest I've ever made...I had plating issues this morning. Yes, that's right, I had trouble committing to a piece of china. The Limoges? The Royal Crown Derby? The Belique? What would best showcase this perfect breakfast of eggs and salsa? The Spode? The Bell Hyacinth?

The eggs were starting to get cold, and the morning was growing long and I knew that the jig was up: I had to grab a paper plate and let it be.

These are the occasions when life reminds us not to get too lofty.

This morning Miss Evie told me just such a tale:

Her daughter had been chosen amongst dozens of candidates to be the Camellia Queen. That was a big deal back in the day. The entire family was honored beyond belief and Evie was just convinced, absolutely certain, that this would lead to big things for Greta.

"We thought this would lead to a bank opening, at least!"

As I was stifling my guffaws she went on with her story, "And to be certain, the phone rang the very next morning! They wanted her for a Grand Opening!"

She paused for dramatic affect, continuing on in a scandalized tone, "It was an opening for a SERVICE STATION!"

Bon Aire!

Today was a truly tired, brain-numb type of day. I spilled an entire glass of milk down the inside of the fridge door. Why does milk take longer to mop up and spread further than water?

I was chatting with my lady or rather she was chatting and my mind was far, far away trying to wake itself up, when I heard her say something about 'a very charming, suave man'. To show I was, indeed, hanging upon her lips like a metaphor of bees, I said, "Ah! Debonair!"

And then after a pause I said, "Of course I have no real idea what debonair actually means. One uses it all the time but one has never looked it up."

To which she replied, "It means a man with a small French mustache."

Chickens Counted After Hatched

I'll just be hanging out with my peeps.

Doing My Part

It's good to know that in these trying times of hamdemics, there are those who are out there fighting the good fight and trying not to spread the dreaded Swine Flu.

I like to think I'm doing my part. Keeping my hands washed. Keeping my finger out of my nose. Spraying anyone in the face with hand sanitizer who dares to sneeze in my direction.

Yesterday, however, I did a bad, bad thing. I may have single-handedly created my own disease vector. Here is what happened:

My co-worker had told me that Sheba Cat Food no longer comes in the little square plastic cans that I found so handy as soap molds. She said they are made of tin, now. I could hardly believe her and since getting a few 'cans' of cat food for Mackie (so I can use them as soap molds later after he rejects the contents because he doesn't like wet food) was on my shopping list, I found myself standing in front of the cat food at Safeway on Alhambra yesterday, pondering the display.

My last batch of soap had to be poured into a big plastic tub. And when it came time to cut it into bars, for some reason my mind switched off the mainline and into a derelict sidetrack, and I ended up cutting the soap into brownie sized into larger soap bars. And thus we have the 40,000 wee snack sized bars of soap in this picture:

Hey, you couldn't possibly be taking a photo without ME, could you?

Back at the Safeway, I could clearly see that Sheba had indeed changed it's cans. Instead of flat and square, they now resembled little round one-serving pudding cups. I could see that they appeared to be made of tin now, too, rather than plastic.

But just to make sure, I picked up a can and tapped it with my fingernail. Maybe it was still plastic that had been painted metallic to make it look more expensive.

But it was hard to tell. I tapped again. I know how these merchandisers like to mess with us consumers. It could still be plastic.

If the tap and scratch method doesn't work, there is always the tooth test. You can always tell what something is made of if you bite it. People have done that with gold coins since time immemorial. And the only sure fire way to tell a pearl from a plastic bead is to run it across your teeth to feel if it's grainy or not. So why not chomp down on a can of cat food standing in the middle of the aisle at Safeway in front of God and everybody?

It was then that I realized I was sucking on a can of cat food that had probably been touched by at least a dozen other people. Dirty, germy, disease bearing people. Including the grubby mitts of the entire third world, depending on where the stuff was made, canned and packaged. It's not like they sterilize them right before they put them on the shelves or anything.

Think about it! Manufactured in vats and poured into the cans in China where they regularly poison products just because it's amusing. Tossed into bins with rats and human body parts for storage. Transported to the coast in the back of filthy trucks that double as chicken carriers and not cleaned EVER. Loaded into the bowels of Merchant Ships where they mingle with the bilge water for months as they navigate past pirates. Sent to distribution warehouses, trucking centers, the back room of the local grocery store, the store shelf and finally coming to rest upon my lips.

I yanked that can out of my mouth and put it back on the shelf, looking surreptitiously around to see if anybody saw that. And then I fled the premises in embarrassment and disgust.

I am so much prettier than those old cards you make, admit it!

Yes, that's correct. I didn't buy the one I tasted. I was too traumatized and besides, it IS made of tin and therefore cannot be used as a soap mold.

It was when I was sitting in my car in the parking lot, after having washed my mouth out with hand sanitizer, scrubbed my hands and the steering wheel, my keys and my purse handles with an antibacterial wet wipe, that I realized I had just done a bad, bad thing.

I had possibly started the spread of an even deadlier virus than the Swine Flu.

I have single-mouthedly spawned the new pandemic that will wipe out the entire human world.

Beware the Idiot Flu!

Lusty Month of May

It's May, it's May!
The Lusty Month of May!
The lovely month when everyone goes
Blissfully Astray!

That darling month when ev'ryone throws
Self-control away.
It's time to do
A wretched thing or two,
And try to make each precious day
One you'll always rue!

It's May! It's May! It's May!

Jack Ball Where Are You?

Today I was watching a Jack in the Box commercial and I told my friend that all the Jack balls I've ever had have gotten stolen from my antenna.

He said, "So have mine!"

We pondered this for a moment.

Where do they all go? Is it just one person who is stealing them? Or is there an entire army of Jack in the Box Antenna Ball Thieves? Do they move about in stealth and darkness, harvesting the Jack balls in sweeping phalanxes? Are there secret storage facilities deep within the bowels of some desert mountain range overflowing with holding tanks stuffed with pilfered Jack balls?

I'm probably endangering myself by asking such questions in an open forum like this, so I'll quickly yet subtly change the subject.

I have been learning to see out of my new trifocals. I never knew until now what a bobblehead I must be. Any slight movement and the world spins, my stomach churns with butterflies and I fall over. Alas, I seem to be in motion every moment of the day. Even sitting perfectly still looking into the optometrists eyes as he told me I just had to be patient while I get used to them , I was watching the world swirling and spinning out of focus.

And all I was doing was listening attentively!

Here is a picture of me with my new lenses:

See what I mean? The world is TOTALLY out of focus right now.

Get a Clue

I got stuck this weekend in a rinky dink motel in the middle of cow country due to the fog, with nothing on the television but 3 channels and they were in Spanish.

(Understandable. After all, this isn't America, it's Tax-Free North Mexico.)

I was so bored I made up a new game in my head. Actually it's just a spin on an old favorite: Clue.

I used to love Clue! I loved the names and the game pieces and most especially the game board with the floor plan of a house with secret passages and everything.

I loved it that Mr. Boddy had a Library! And a Conservatory!

I was thinking that to folks nowadays, what with the dumbing down of America and all that, it would be more marketable if the characters, house and weapons were more in keeping with this new generation.

So I came up with some alternatives:

Trailer Trash Clue: Cousin Billy in the Coon Shed with the Meth Pipe.

Or:

Country Clue: Aunt Doraleen in the Grainery with the Pitchfork.

I love that word; Grainery.

Or:

Ghetto Clue: Brotha Darryl in the Alley with the Glock.

And finally:

Illegal Alien Clue: Jose in the Tomato Fields with the Machete.

Oh, wait, here's one more:

Miss Pink in the Morning Room with the Lead Teapot.

Mackie the Map Reader

Mackie is an excellant map reader. He is also quite the navigator. He can find any route that leads to a bowl of Meow Mix!

Great Inventions

Last night I dreamed I was in the audience of the Oprah show, and she was featuring all the new 'green' cars and the latest inventions. One of the cars ran on a type of bi-diesel fuel that was eco-friendly and came with a lifetime supply of this fuel for a mere $125,000. That's just for the fuel. I don't know what the car cost!

For some reason I thought this was a grand idea and acquired the car. The neatest part of this invention was that it came with a sweater that could store all this fuel for you. Yes, a sweater. It had little pockets in the shoulder area that stored the fuel. It was a cute sweater, too.

The only problem was, when you filled up the sweater it looked like GIANT SHOULDER PADS and weighed as much as a gallon weighs, 2 gallons worth hanging off your shoulders.

In the dream I remember thinking only a man would invent such a silly thing and not take fashion and practicality into consideration while doing so.

Needless to say that sweater hung in the back of the closet for the rest of the dream.

In the New year I like to redecorate. Of course I never have the money to completely gut the place and fill it with bio-diesel fuel, so I have to just make do with what I can find at thrift stores.
Yesterday I scored a real find! A whole bunch of very neat pillows that were marked at $1.49 each! so I snagged 3 of them and came home and made new slip-covers for the ones I already had. Now I have a very eco-friendly sofa that looks cool too! And doesn't weigh anything more than it did to begin with!

Notice I made a matching ottoman cover while I was at it.

Earlier this week I made some 'art cards'. Here is a sample. I thought it was screamingly funny because I have no memory whatsoever but, well, at least I can still walk!

Happy Abundant Giant Hungry Toddler Year!

Happy New Year!

I am one of those people who feels that our first dream of the New Year is filled with hidden messages from the universe, meant to guide and direct us and set us firmly on the path of auspicious and proper behavior.

There is nothing worse than a flat, dull dream on New Years Eve, except maybe no dream at all. That would surely betoken a very dreary year ahead!

Imagine my delight when I woke up this morning after having a very, very colorful dream, fraught with imagery, meaning and mayhem!

I dreamed about giant toddler babies, like chubby Godzilla's in flannel footsies, storming the streets and picking up objects to put into their gummy, toothless maws and cover with baby drool.

It all started when a newly released asthma shot went haywire and caused everyone to have multiples of the same exact baby wearing the same exact red striped flannel onesie. The world was filled with these little mutant toddlers, and if that wasn't bad enough, some of them started to morph into GIANT VERSIONS OF THEMSELVES.

Giant Drooling Toddlers roaming the streets!

And they were HUNGRY.

I choose to ignore the obvious interpretation that I am worried about my weight, and instead adopt a hopeful meaning for this dream:

The year ahead will be filled with abundance and unexpected youthful energy! May yours reflect the same meaning!

Happy Abundant Giant Hungry Toddler New Year 2009!