The Good, The Bad, The Worse

Is There Life After Cable?

2012-01-29T17:03:00.000-08:00

"We are paying HOW MUCH for our cable television?"

Somehow, I thought I was hearing Alex wrong when he said $260.00 a month. What? That cannot be right! Okay, he allowed that charge included our internet service. "Fine. Keep the internet service and cancel the cable."

We had started off with a little "promo" deal that gave us basic cable, a couple of movie channels and the "premium channel" of Showtime. (We need Showtime so we can watch "Dexter" and "Weeds" and a couple of other programs we like. I also watched the show "Gigolos" while Alex was traveling, but it really wasn't my favorite no matter what you may think.)

We may have been paying about $50 or $60 dollars a month for a time. Then the charges started creeping upward. A couple of years passed. When I really realized how much we were paying, I started nagging Alex to cancel the service.

This weekend, Alex finally complied. He walked into the Comcast offices and canceled our Cable service. They said fine and told him to bring in the equipment. He came home and boxed it all up (including the remote controls that our dog, Zoe, had eaten). He was told that he could not sign up for Cable under one of the "promotional" pricing schemes for a minimum of one month. Now, we not only do not have Cable, we do not have remotes, chewed on or not. The reality set in on me this morning when I flipped on the tv in the kitchen to catch some news. The local station programming had switched from news to "infomercials" by that time. I think we get a total of 5 television channels.

No longer will I be able to watch VHI for the videos. No longer can I turn on "ANTM" and watch the whole season in one long afternoon. I cannot watch CNN. I cannot watch much of anything. Well, that's fine of course. It gives me so much more time to do worthwhile things. Today I realized that my dogs Harry and Zoe are playing inappropriately. Harry has begun the very impolite practice of trying to mount Zoe's head. Where did he get that idea? Was it from a Cable show I had watched.

I can listen to music instead of watching Cable television. I can eat cookies and make artsy craftsy things and sell them on "Itsy" or whatever that site is. All right, I will probably just eat the cookies and watch my perverted dog because I don't have an artsy / craftsy bone in my entire body.

One channel I may get is the "Home Shopping Network". I can order very special things at very special prices just by picking up my phone with my credit card handy. I can also order the stuff that is advertised on the infomercials I guess.

I really had not planned on feeling deprived, but I do. I think I'm actually suffering from withdrawals. Still, we will not go back to the stupid Cable people and say "Go ahead and charge us whatever you want! Just turn our cable back on!" That's not happening.

At least it's not happening for the next 30 days.

Domestic Violence: The Tale of a Tail and a Leg

2012-01-25T13:00:00.001-08:00

I hate going to the doctor.

I love my doctor; he's a great guy. But I have a feeling he is going to ask me about the excessive bruising on my legs.

Since he's an open-minded man, I could probably intrigue him with tales of kinky sex and whips and chocolate.

The truth is not nearly as exciting. It's all about a dog. Zoe, my little Whippet/Pit Bull mix has a very long tail. She is also a very happy girl who swings that tail like a whip whenever she is glad to see you. I've heard the screams of "ouch" from the vet technicians when they take her back to give her a vaccination.

My darling cleaning woman, Maria, has stopped wearing her nice dresses when she comes to work at my house. Instead, Maria sticks to heavy duty jeans now with leggings under them. She's a smart woman.

When we first got Zoe, she actually hit the wall so hard with her tail that she cracked it and sent up blood spray making the house look like a place that Dexter would feel right at home. I actually hope that nobody ever accuses us of being serial killers because the trace blood from Zoe's tail is everywhere even after a thorough cleaning.

My vet suggested we have the tail amputated. That seemed very harsh to me. And I'm glad we didn't do it. It would be like amputating her smile. And the good news is she has slowed down a bit.

Zoe no longer whips her tail against furniture or walls. She now concentrates on shins. I'm sure that feels a lot better to her than the hard walls.

I really don't mind the bruises that much. It makes me look like I may have played a part in an S&M "art film". Okay, porno. While that's not the look everybody goes for, I am not really opposed to a walk on the wild side from time to time.

And I have the bruise striped legs to prove it.

Why Are All Those Mexicans Marching?

2012-01-23T12:15:00.001-08:00

A woman asked me that question on Saturday afternoon in San Francisco.

I had seen the huge throng of people with signs, but I had no idea what it was about. I thought it might have been an "Occupy" protest. Looking a little closer, I saw the "Pro-Life" signs.

The woman who approached me seemed a little agitated. I told her that I really didn't know. She followed up with a comment that "more white people should be having more children", and I just looked at her.

Of course, by this time I realized she was a little bit of a nut case. We ducked into a chocolate shop to avoid any further discussion with her. Chocolate seems to right the wrongs of the world in most cases.

There may have been a lot of Hispanic people marching that day. I would attribute some of that to the Catholic Church. I'm not sure though.

I sort of take exception with the words "Pro-Life". I mean, is anybody really "Anti-Life"? Even the opposite slogan "Pro-Choice" sort of annoys me. Don't we all want choices? Do we want to have choices made for us? I think not. If I could choose, I might want to live in Paris, drive a new Mercedes, and be 30 years old and married to Steve Jobs, and have Denzel as a lover. Is that an option? Of course not.

If one of my young teen granddaughters got pregnant by her daddy, her brother, her uncle, or a rapist, do I want her to have the choice to end the pregnancy? Yes, I do. Do I want to see the man who impregnated her in prison. Yeah, I do.

If a woman is carrying a child who has severe mental and/or physical disabilities, should she have the choice of terminating her pregnancy? I think she should have that choice. In the alternative, if a woman wants to have a baby that is the product of incest or rape, should she be forced to end a pregnancy? No, she should not.

Does that make me anti-life? I don't think so. It really is about individual rights, and perhaps the rights of a woman placed before the rights of a fetus.

Although I am Mexican, I wasn't marching that day.

Open Marriage

2012-01-19T13:37:00.000-08:00

My friend Mike asked me to lunch.

I said "sure" and waited for him in the company lobby. I assumed our friend John would come too. I was wrong.

It seemed weird to me that Mike wanted to have lunch with me alone, since he, John, and I had been long time friends and something of a "Three Musketeers" act at the company where we all worked. None the less, I accompanied Mike to a very nice local restaurant. (This also seemed weird to me because we generally went to dives that were cheap but had good food.)

I remember ordering a crab salad and Mike encouraged me to also have a glass of white wine. Once our lunch had arrived, and we were chatting comfortably, Mike said "I really would like to go to bed with you." I nearly choked and almost fell off my chair.

I was divorced and in my late 20's at the time, but not at all used to having a friend make such a blunt proclamation. Oddly, it took me a moment to respond. Mike had gotten married just a few months before this lunch. I tried to find the right words that would reject his proposition and yet be polite enough to keep our friendship intact. "Mike, you just got married. It would really be wrong to get involved with someone who was married. It's just not for me. I am flattered though, so thank you."

Mike responded that he and his new wife had an "open marriage". He did not have to explain this concept to me. It was something I had encountered before. Mike was a very attractive and smart man. I had considered him a friend. I guessed he had considered me as a potential bed-mate. Whatever. Even if it was fine with Mike and his wife, it was not fine with me. No harm, no foul. But we were never really friends again after that lunch.

Years earlier, I had dated a man who was also dating another woman at the same time. Out of the blue, the other woman called me and wanted to meet me. She wanted to figure out a way we could all form a 3-way relationship. While friends of mine said they admired her being so forthright over this situation, I didn't feel that way. I thought it sounded tawdry and repulsive to "share" a romantic relationship with a third party.

I have a woman friend who has been involved with a man in an open relationship for over 20 years. It started out with my friend, another woman, and a man. Over the years, the man decided that the two women he lived with were not enough and he is now seeing other people too. My friend bemoans that she is miserable with this situation, but doesn't want to leave the beautiful house she shares with the two other parties. Still, she drinks like a fish and ends up crying every time we are together. She's not in a happy place, no matter how great the architecture is of this wonderful house.

Maybe if Brad and Angelina ask me, I might reconsider, but I doubt it. I'm not really making a judgment on people who think this is a fine arrangement. Maybe for them it is. I'm just a selfish bitch and I don't like to share.

That's one reason why I'll never marry Newt.

Put On The Coffee, Bubbles, I'm Coming Home

2012-01-16T12:22:00.000-08:00

Bubble baths are almost better than a gin and tonic with a twist of lime.

I do some of my most profound thinking immersed in a deep hot bath topped by bubbles. Okay, I usually am listening to CNN on the television playing in the next room and that always gives me food for thought.

I learn tidbits of news this way. Romney has family in Mexico. Uh huh. Huntsman dropped out of the presidential race. Uh huh. Okay, the truth is I really don't care much about what they are saying. But I like the "company" of a television.

When I'm bathing, I actually have company. Harry sits sentry right next to the tub. When he gets bored he takes a nap. Zoe wanders in to nip at his neck and see if he wants to play, but Harry takes his duty as guard seriously.

I bring all my "stuff" in with me. I have my Kindle, my iPhone, my cordless phone, plus a cup of coffee. What more could a woman ask for? Yes, it would be nice to have someone around to wash my back, but then I'd have to talk to them. And that would sort of ruin the whole experience.

An acquaintance sent me an email yesterday. Apparently, he wants to take a seminar that will enable him to improve his knowledge and skills and enhance his earning power. He needs in excess of $5,000 to take this course. And he wants financial help from his friends and acquaintances.

When I saw the email, I thought to myself, "Self, this guy really could use some help." But while in the bath this morning, I thought to myself "Self, I would like some new Prada boots for winter." But it would never occur to me to send out an email to all my friends and acquaintances asking them to donate money to me so I could buy those exquisite boots.

If someone has lost their home because of a fire or some sort of disaster, I always give as much as I can to help. I understand being desperate for money, and having to ask for a loan. But I don't really understand a grown-ass 50 year old man asking for money to take a seminar to enrich his life and his career.

I understand asking a partner, a family member or a close friend for a little financial help, but just to throw it out there and see if it flies? I don't know about that.

See, if there's something I want but cannot afford. I don't get it. Or I figure out a way to get it that may involve saving for it, selling something to pay for it, or stealing it. (Okay, that was just to see if you were awake.)

Maybe I'm just being a cheapskate.

Turning Tricks Is Not the Same As Doing Tricks

2012-01-12T09:13:00.001-08:00

My husband, Alex, phoned at the polite time of 9:00 AM this morning.

As I have explained in the past, people really should not rise before 9. Most people die early in the morning, and wouldn't we all rather be in bed for that?

In any case, the subject of taxes came up in our phone conversation. That is not a soothing topic at anytime, but I believe it's worse before noon. We discussed money briefly and that's when Alex proclaimed, "We could always send Zoe out to turn tricks" to earn more money.

Alex's statement stunned me. Zoe is a young spayed female. She's innocent. What on earth was he referring to? When I expressed my dismay about what he was suggesting, he followed up with "We can teach her to roll over, play dead, you know, tricks!"

There really is one hell of a difference between a dog doing tricks and turning tricks.

(Alex has a way of mixing up his words that can sometimes lead to some confusion. When my mother choked on a sip of coffee, he assured her that he was expert at the "hymen remover" so not to worry.)

I was somewhat relieved that my husband was not suggesting a life of prostitution for our new dog.

Zoe really isn't that kind of girl.

Don't Push Me - Cause I'm Close To The Edge

2012-01-07T18:49:00.000-08:00

Looks can be deceiving.

I look content. I look relaxed. But I'm not. I'm a seething mass of psycho just waiting to explode.

Don't let the new Bruno Magli pumps fool you. This is a woman on the edge. But at least I'm on the edge wearing Bruno Magli shoes. Shoes can make all the difference. Really.

I had a pretty good day. We took the pups and drove to San Francisco and picked up my daughter, Sheila, and my grandson, Cyrus, and my granddaughter, Arianna. We all went to Chrissie Field for a picnic. There were sandwiches, chips, fruit, salads, cheese and a wonderful baguette right out of the oven. We also had root beer, orange crush, and assorted other soft drinks in bottles. My family had just returned from the UK after three weeks of freezing their collective asses off in the cold.

Today was sunny and 70 degrees in San Francisco. It was a perfect picnic and a lovely day. The kids regaled me with their impressions of Brits. My daughter regaled me with her impressions of the crazy Persian family members they stayed with in London and Ireland. We laughed (unkindly sometimes) at the goofy people they encountered in London and on the emerald isle.

We were very close to the Golden Gate Bridge and while I chatted and enjoyed the lovely food and company I thought about the people who had jumped off that bridge in despair. For a crazy moment, I thought that I understood the act.

And then I looked down at my Bruno Magli shoes and realized I would never do such a thing in such exquisite shoes.

Good Karma and Star Power

2012-01-03T14:46:00.000-08:00

Today, I received the strangest thing in the mail slightly after 2 PM.

My late pup, Honey, who died on December 10th of last year, has a star named after her. I have no idea who sent this to me. There is even a map of the galaxy so I can look for her star.

Yes, it made me cry. But it also made me think how wonderful someone was to do this. I have no idea where it came from. It may be associated with the organization who did the cremation of her remains. I just don't know.

A couple of hours earlier, I was communicating by email with a friend who has had a really rough holiday season. On a whim, I sent a little luxury gift to this person after the email conversation. I love to brighten someone's day, just as I love having mine brightened.

I'm not religious. But I do believe that if we spend a thoughtful moment doing something for someone else, we get thoughtful gestures returned to us. It's so much easier to do or say something nice than it is to do or say something hurtful.

Wherever Honey's star came from, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Sometimes Love Hurts

2011-12-29T12:03:00.000-08:00

This is Jake.

He is mine until tomorrow. Then he will go to live with a lovely lady named Cynthia and her husband Jack. They have a really pretty house on a hill in San Francisco.

I have known and been friends with Cynthia since we were 7 years old. As long as I've known Cynthia, she has always had cats. Several years ago, when her last cat passed away, she decided "no more cats".

We brought Jake home Christmas Eve. Harry and Zoe got very upset having him here. I had to put Jake in a crate most of the time to protect him because he is really tiny. My trainer Todd recommended that I take him somewhere "else" for a few days. Since we were going to Cynthia's for dinner on Christmas Day, I asked her if she would babysit Jake until we picked him up on Tuesday evening. (We were having him neutered early Wednesday morning.)

When we picked Jake up on Tuesday evening, he was already Cynthia and Jack's dog. I just couldn't keep Jake here with two snarling big dogs trying to kill him every chance they got. Jake was so happy at his new house that Alex and I decided to give the pup to Cynthia and Jack.

They are thrilled with the new addition to their family. I'll miss him, but I'm so glad he will have a wonderful home as an only child with people who adore him.

He's such a good boy. And he smells like peaches.

A Christmas Letter

2011-12-25T10:33:00.001-08:00

This is where I'm going to brag about how good everything is in my life, in my kids' lives, and in my world.

Uh, no it's not.

I'm sitting there on Christmas eve about midnight in my new cashmere robe. I love cashmere robes, but I wonder if my husband buys them for me because he's trying to kill me.

See, he knows that they are so comfortable to me that I might never go out of the house again. The robe takes away any desire I've ever had to dress. Why dress when you can sit there in a cashmere robe all day?

If I never leave the house, I won't get any exercise at all. None. I will probably get very fat and my arteries will swell or whatever. I will get very sluggish and my skin will get pasty. Even my dogs will get sluggish and pasty from staying inside with me all the time.

My husband may think he's being clever, but I'm on to him.

Merry Christmas to all of you!

Waiting For Santa

2011-12-21T13:56:00.000-08:00

It seems I spend a lot of my time doing just this.

My girlfriend, Erica of Free Fringes, sent me this photo because it reminded her of me. (photo credit).

It reminds me of me too!

I have spent a lot of time in the last year sitting in my Victorian house, with a glass of fine red wine, waiting for Santa (aka Alex) to come home. I sip the wine and the deep red color of it stains my lips. It sometimes makes waiting so much more bearable.

In the last year, Alex has been on the East Coast, in the deep South, in southern California, in far northern California, in Europe, and in several other places. I think he's been gone about half of the year in total.

When Alex returns home, he brings me jewelry, baubles, bangles, and stories of his travels.

While he's gone, I dress most every day in my finery and await his return. Sometimes, I feel like my name should be Penelope. Usually, I know when to expect him, but not always. That uncertainty makes it difficult for me to have any kind of rendezvous when he's away.

Not that I intend to have illicit encounters, because I don't. But if one should occur just out of nowhere (it could happen), I could wind up being "caught" by my husband. And frankly, "caught" is not my favorite position.

Of course, I could go elsewhere for a rendezvous, but then I'd be leaving my dogs alone and I'd rather not do that.

I get into a melancholy state when my husband is away for too long. I begin to feel like someone trapped in a prison of my own making. I stop answering my phone. I stop opening the front door when someone knocks. I peer out the window through the lace curtain and watch people go by. Then I make up stories in my head about who they are and where they are going.

I need to stop "waiting" and start "living".

Got The Flowers On The Wall

2011-12-19T12:48:00.001-08:00

I pride myself on having fairly good taste.

I have what most people think is a lovely home, nice furniture, and some really wonderful art.

You'd think I was somewhat clever at the way I put things together. Actually, I think I've always known what would be nice, but until the last 10 years or so, that would come as a major surprise to a lot of people.

I've always been a touch whimsical about what I like. I might see something charming in a photo and think, "I can do that!". Okay, that's already where things might start to go downhill.

Once when I was a young bride of 22, I saw a lovely photo where someone had arranged some beautiful flowers on a wall for a wedding or something. I thought to myself, "Self! That would look great in my kitchen!". I went to the store and found and purchsed about 100 plastic flowers. I came home and stared on my "amaze and delight" your husband project. One by one, I glued the flowers to a wall in the kitchen. The problem was some of them fell off the wall even with the glue. So, I got some thumb tacks and that worked somewhat better, (until I ran out of thumb tacks. I then improvised and grabbed a handful of nails. I stuck those flowers from top to bottom all over one kitchen wall.

Sweating and swearing, I completed my project. I walked out of the kitchen and walked back in. Somehow, this project had missed its mark. It looked nothing like the photo in the magazine. Still, since I had spent about 8 or 9 hours doing this, (and at least $100 in plastic flowers), I determined I would leave it up for my husband to see.

When John got home from work, he walked in the kitchen and exclaimed "Holy Shit! What happened?". Of course I felt hurt and somewhat betrayed. Couldn't he see the effort that went into this. (Never mind that we would have to repaint and cover holes in the plaster when the mess finally came down after about a month.)

I have a sister. She is an expert decorator and she does amazing things on a strict budget. She has one wall in her kitchen covered with beautiful menus from local restaurants. It's striking and very attractive. What I have to add though is that she is also a meticulous housekeeper. She gets her little feather duster out every morning and goes over every inch of her nice displays.

I don't have a feather duster.

After divorcing John (for other reasons, not the plastic flowers on the wall), I decided to get rid of all of my home furnishings and replace everything with hard surface lucite cubes. (Yeah, lucite is a kind of plastic, are you beginning to see a trend?) My children were all in favor of this change. We had huge pillows on the floor and nothing but Jimi Hendrix posters on the walls. It was "interesting".

After seeing a magazine of a gorgeous "Arabian Nights" bedroom with billowing fabric covering the ceiling and walls, I decided I would do the same thing in my boudoir.

I really didn't know what to do with "fabric" so I improvised and used bedspreads printed in a floral pattern. Let me tell you, they were a bitch to get up on the ceiling. Oh, and the result? Uh, what you might expect. Dear God! What was she thinking?

Lest you think this was just youthful folly, it was not. Alex and I decided to purchase 2 "pretend" black leather recliners for our "family room" at hour old house. We also added a black weight bench, a treadmill, some floral posters and a television to the room. We thought it looked great, that is until the pretend leather started breaking and cracking. Again, what were we thinking? This "family room" was not in a hidden place, but in full view from the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room. It was scary ugly.

Over the past 10 years, I have learned to totally avoid home decorator magazines.

How To Lose 7 pounds In 7 Days

2011-12-15T14:45:00.001-08:00

It really has been very easy.

First, hear devastating news that your dog is very sick, and it looks like the sickness is going to be terminal. That will start to kill your appetite for sure.

Spend a couple of days waiting to see if your dog is getting worse. When you acknowledge that indeed, she is getting worse, you aren't going to want to eat at all.

Make the decision to put her down. There's an other 2 or 3 pounds right there. Take your dog in for the fatal visit at the vet's. Go home and drink wine. When you finish the wine, grab the whiskey. Drink like there's no tomorrow, because really you feel like there won't be.

Wake up the next morning sad, miserable, and hung over. You realize the last time you ate was at noon on Friday and it's now Sunday. Opt for some duck soup. Finish part of it. Sunday night force yourself to eat a slice of pizza.

Monday, have coffee and diet coke. Eat a slice of toast whether you want it or not about noon. Call your doctor for pain pills because you have thrown your back out trying to lift your big dog off the floor when she kept falling.

The pain pills tend to make you nauseous, so continue to eat a piece of toast once in a while. And have lots and lots of Diet Coke.

Almost a week into this miracle diet, step on the scale. You were tired of seeing 137 pounds, weren't you? Well, what do you know! You see 130 pounds register.

Go outside to get the garbage cans and bring them in. Have your next door neighbor say "Linda! You've lost weight! You are so lucky!"

Think seriously about shooting her in the head.

Honey's Bucket List

2011-12-11T16:37:00.001-08:00

She had an interesting life.

Honey gave a man a table dance in New Mexico. She knocked martini glasses and beer bottles all over the floor. Honey was not the shy type.

She ate Navajo fry bread on the Rez. She got wet in the Pacific Ocean. She licked the snow and rolled in it. Honey wandered through the forest and ran for miles in the desert. She took trips from Santa Cruz to Mendocino. Honey also traveled to Utah Bryce Canyon, to Canyon De Chelle, to Carson City, to Colorado. She liked a car ride a whole lot. The window open blowing the wind in her face and the smells of a million different things rushing past her.

Honey was a big girl about of about 70 pounds. She was always trying to diet, but we never enforced it much. She loved food and she and I think it's better to be rounder and happy rather than skinny and hungry.

When I walked Honey, people would cross the street to avoid passing her. Honey looked "fierce". Children always knew better and gathered around her to pet her every chance they got.

Honey loved music and she danced. She also bucked like a pony when she got excited. She laid down the law to other dogs to teach them manners.

Honey got to run free and roll in the grass at her own private park at Coast Guard Island. Every Christmas, she got a steak for her dinner and a little vanilla ice cream for dessert.

Honey seemed to "run down" about two weeks ago. The vet found that she had a large mass in her stomach as well as very painful arthritis that was all down her spine. She stopped wanting to take a walk and lost interest in having fun.

Although it was not really Christmas, Honey had a big New York steak for her breakfast yesterday. She also got ice cream for dessert.

She's gone now, but I don't think she missed a thing on her bucket list.

Romancing Ramon

2011-12-07T16:58:00.000-08:00

Meet Ramon.

He's from either Paraguay or someplace equally exotic. Ramon is my Christmas lights man.

I met Ramon last year when he was turning my next door neighbor's house into a winter wonderland. Actually, there are so many lights on her house, in her trees and shrubs, that it looks a little like a house of ill repute to me, but that's just me being catty. Besides what do I know about houses of ill repute? (I'll answer that. I know enough. I've been to Amsterdam after all.)

All right, I've gotten off my topic and for that I apologize. Ramon is about 7 foot 19 inches tall and perfect in every conceivable way. He may be perfect in ways I have yet to conceive as well. Ramon's impressive stature, beautiful smile, and soft Spanish accent just make me swoon.

When I saw him working on my neighbor's house this time last year, I hurried over to introduce myself and ask/beg him to put lights on the exterior of my house. At first, Ramon apologized and said that he would not have time to do my house too. I went all limpid and sweet and let him know that I would do very interesting things for him if he would light my house.

Needless to say, Ramon succumbed to my feminine wiles and my pleas. I received a very private message from Ramon about 2 weeks ago reminding me that it was again time to schedule an appointment for Christmas lights. His phone number and Company name and email address (Ramon's Services) was on the printed sheet.

I waited a couple of days and then I called him. When I told him my name, he said "Oh! I remember you!" My heart skipped a beat. (Of course, he said it in Spanish.) I asked Ramon to put me on his schedule and we set yesterday as a date.

Ramon and his crew arrived about 8:30 AM. Now this was not my favorite time for an interlude, but with Ramon, I will take what he is willing to give. I heard his truck pull up, and I threw on my robe over my Minny Mouse pajamas and ran out onto the front porch. "Hola Ramon! Buenos Dias!" I called out. Never mind that I had not yet gotten myself "vamped" for viewing.

Ramon answered me politely and inquired about my health, my husband, and if I wanted the white lights like last year or colored lights. I responded that the multi-colored lights were the most appealing. (I was actually telling him that I find men of color quite appealing too and I'm sure he knew that.)

I hurried in to perform some rapid ablutions. I needed lipstick, mascara, perfume and my high heels along with my Ralph Lauren cashmere sweats. (Remember this is all before 9 AM and I don't even get up most days till 9 or 9:30.)

The men put up their ladders and Ramon supervised and I went out to show him where the electrical outlet for the lights was located. We talked about the cold morning. We talked about how agile his men are and that they toss things back and forth while on the high rise ladders and about how nice this time of year is! Oh mucho gusto to the max!

Anyway, they finished with my lights and they moved on to my neighbor's whorehouse (I mean really!) and I walked next door to find Ramon and ask how much I owed him. He said he wasn't sure, but he would call home to see if there was a record of what I had paid last year. (My neighbor's house is about 5 times the size of mine and the lights are adequate to illuminate a city like Reno. I'm sure she pays about $500 or so.)

Ramon came to the door amid howls of protest from Honey, Harry and Zoe. I had his check ready for him in the $150 amount I had paid last year. I apologized for the ruckus and he said "it's nothing" (but in Spanish - "de nada", you know). We shook hands and wished each other a happy holiday.

I can't wait for next Christmas!

Things I Won't Do In 2012

2011-12-04T14:14:00.001-08:00

I promise I will not walk around with a chicken leg hanging out of my mouth. I've seen this done twice in the last year, and it's not a good look for anybody.

I'm not going to wear translucent leggings with floral panties. If I forget and wear that, I just won't lean over for any reason no matter what.

I'm not going to flash my bosoms before 2 PM from now on. I do that now and I know it's tacky but I'm going to stop because it's in poor taste.

I'm not going to drink Diet Coke and eat chocolate and say it's lunch any more.

I'm going to stop drinking Bombay Sapphire Martini's with a green olive and Makers Mark Manhattans with a cherry because they look so drop dead sexy in those glasses.

I'm not going to safety pin stuff anymore because I am too lazy or too stupid to mend a piece of clothing. It just isn't good for my image.

I'm not going to flirt with the mailman, the mail woman, the UPS guys and girls, the fish man or the garbage man any more. I may still flirt with the Fed Ex people though, because I'm not perfect.

I'm going to stop telling people my husband is only 4 foot 11 inches tall. That might hurt his feelings and it's not true. I'm going to stop calling Alex "the little injun who could" also because that doesn't respect his culture.

I'm going to stop calling religious people "Holy Rollers" and "Whack a Doodles". I'm also going to stop referring to small children as "no-necks".

I'm going to stop calling that lovely woman named "Fatima" "Fattie" for short. She doesn't like it, and since she is my daughter, I should do what she likes.

I'm going to stop criticizing people just because I hate them, or even worse, because I am jealous of them. (This doesn't happen often, but I'm going to be sure not to do it.)

I'm really glad I have almost a month before I have to put these resolutions into practice.

Why Do Camels Hide Their Toes?

2011-12-01T12:52:00.000-08:00

I cannot begin to tell you what turned up when I searched images for "Camel Toes".

It was really not what I expected. You are going to have to settle for a camel hiding it's toes. I have to admit I have only been hearing this phrase the last few years. And, yes, I know what it is supposedly referencing. But I was curious as to why. Thus began my search for the illusive photo of a camel's toes.

Finally, I realized I would have to change my wording and I put in a search for "camel's foot". Ah! Better! Well, it's better than the other alternatives anyway. The problem is, if that is a "camel toe" then there may be something seriously amiss with my anatomy. I have nothing on my person that even looks vaguely like that. Not one thing.

No doctor has ever mentioned that I am somehow deformed in my private parts. And, in fact, most people that I have exposed myself to act like my parts are perfectly normal (even charming, but that depends on who you talk to).

I guess I was fully expecting a camel's toe to look like human female sex organs. Sadly, I just don't see the resemblance at all.

It kind of makes me wonder if camels look at humans and say "Dang, her shoulder looks just like a camel's pudenda."

Raiders Win! (Or You Just Can't Keep A Good Man Down)

2011-11-28T18:21:00.000-08:00

Alex spent the last day of the holiday weekend in a less than lovely place.

A hospital is never my idea of a good time, and my husband feels even more strongly about that than I do. He did his first ever overnight stint in a hospital on Sunday.

I, on the other hand, have had children in hospitals, have had surgeries in hospitals, and gone into the hospital for days at a time because of pesky pneumonia or this or that. I've had romances with doctors and spent nights in the "on call" rooms of hospitals, (of course, that was well before I was married - to my present husband, anyway).

Alex had a crushing pressure on his chest midday on Sunday. Needless to say, we didn't fool around. We drove immediately to the hospital that is about 3 blocks away from our house. Alex was immediately put in a room and they started his treatment and testing while I waited in the lobby.

Finally, someone came out to get me and bring me into his treatment room. Alex was hooked up to monitors, had oxygen leads in his nose, and an iv hook up already inserted by the time I saw him.

The preliminary blood work showed that no heart attack enzymes had been secreted so that was good. What was not so good is that his blood pressure had gone up alarmingly. The doctor determined that it would be best to admit Alex and do some testing "just to be on the safe side".

Alex's face fell at this announcement. He wanted to go home. No, he was in the best place to take care of him right there in the Alameda Hospital. So the doctor and I convinced him that an overnight hospital stay was in everyone's best interest. Alex was bummed. At least he was bummed until he got to his "overnight" room. Things started looking up immediately.

The Raiders were ahead and then, miracle of miracles, this appeared! Dinner! Now keep in mind, Alex had been feasting on crusty baguettes and home-made turkey soup along with a fine Cabernet, but with the combo of a Raider win and food, life was good once more!

Alex is fine. All of his tests turned out okay. He will "follow up" with his internist on Wednesday and they will take another look at his blood pressure.

I did not spend the night at the hospital. I'm too old for that spending the night with a full sized man in a single bed.

Or, perhaps I've gotten too fat. Either / or.

I'm Thankful For Good Looking Men

2011-11-25T09:55:00.000-08:00

I spent Thanksgiving afternoon, cooking, sipping a lovely Chardonnay, and feasting my eyes on Alex and Todd.

There's just nothing like having cute men around. And these two are a study in contrasts. Alex is so brown and sturdy. Todd is so blond and rangy! For those of you who don't know, Alex is my husband, and Todd is my dog trainer (and friend).

The crusty sweet potato casserole turned out wonderful. So did the stuffing and mashed potatoes. The turkey (12-pound, Kosher and fresh), was maybe the best I've ever had. We had Brussels sprouts cooked with bacon and chicken broth, and cranberries with cherry chutney. Pumpkin cheesecake was for dessert. We also had a lovely dessert wine served in tiny (edible) chocolate cups.

I only screwed up one thing. I didn't make the pear and Gorgonzola salad with the walnuts as I had planned. It simply got away from me and I forgot. Never mind. We'll have that today.

One other tiny mishap was that I put the turkey "innards" in a pan of water, the neck, the heart and the other things called gizzards. I meant to cook those down to use for the gravy, but I forgot. So those nasty tidbits were sitting in a small saucepan in water on the counter.

We packed up "leftovers" for our guests and they took them home. Alex and I decided to watch a "Godfather" marathon upstairs and make it an early night. We were both tired and more than a little tipsy from all the wine.

Alex went into the kitchen as I was heading upstairs. I heard him yelling. We had placed the left over pumpkin cheesecake on a paper plate covered in Saran wrap on top of the kitchen island. Alex apparently walked in on Zoe as she was finishing off over half of a pumpkin cheesecake. She did this by standing up on her hind legs.

Early this morning, almost before dawn, I remembered that we had not taken our garbage cans out to the street. (We really needed to get them emptied because they were all quite full so I shook Alex awake and told him to get his butt up and take out the garbage.) Alex took quite a while so I rolled over and went back to sleep.

When Alex came back to bed, he asked me if I had put a clean and empty saucepan on the floor of the hallway. What a peculiar question! Why would I do such a thing?

The answer came to me a second later. Zoe! The turkey bits were gone. Zoe certainly knows how to have a feast. A pumpkin cheesecake and raw turkey innards. Well, turkey necks are probably delicious! I've never tried them myself.

Apparently Zoe went on to rearrange the furniture in Harry's apartment last night. All that sugar probably gave her amazing energy.

Alex is still cleaning up the recycled pumpkin cheesecake out in the backyard.

The Year I Made Turducken

2011-11-21T14:05:00.000-08:00

In retrospect, it looks kind of obscene.

I had read something about "turducken" either in a magazine or a book. It captured my imagination. Stuffing a chicken inside a duck, then sticking the duck inside a turkey just sounded like good fun to me.

In a fit of curious "social frenzy", I invited about 40 people for Thanksgiving that year. Most of them accepted and were very excited about the promise of the Cajun treat I would be preparing. Now, frankly, I'm not sure what I was thinking.

My husband was actively deployed with his unit to guard the airport in the dark days following 9/11 and he would be going on duty at midnight on Thanksgiving. My kids were all here with their kids and everybody was staying for the night.

All of the work that went into that poultry was enough to make me swear off of fowl for years. I'm not even that crazy about eggs to this day. It was disgusting to touch that naked bird flesh hour after hour. It was a terrible amount of work, but I got it done. I also prepared dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, candied yams, and a green bean casserole to go with what I was now calling "Turd Uck Icken", sometimes prefaced with a "fricken".

I also belatedly realized that I really did not want to have 40 people or so come to my house to eat, but it was too late to cancel without the excuse of being hospitalized.

Family and friends were asked to bring wine and / or a pie. I really didn't care which. I set the table and it looked magical. Of course, the service was all "buffet" because I really can't seat 40 guests at a table.

I did not eat one bite that evening. People came and went and everyone seemed to enjoy the feast. I have no idea if it was good or not. People said it was, but they could have just been being polite.

Nobody died.

Delirious, Demented, Or Daffy

2011-11-16T19:30:00.000-08:00

Have you ever started telling somebody something and had them look at you in that way that says they have no idea what you are talking about?

I've been sick. I'm taking Cipro (an antibiotic), Sudafed (an antihistamine) , Aspirin, cough syrup, and a nasal spray. (My preference is really for other more user-friendly drugs, maybe even the kind that can be smoked or made into brownies.) My temperature rose to 103 degrees yesterday. I felt really bad with a sinus headache, aches and pains all over, and a head full of cobwebs and worse. It felt like I had fractured almost every rib I have with the violence of the hacking cough that had developed. Most of my day was in and out of a conscious state.

Something really fascinating happened. I closed my eyes and realized I could open my eyes keeping my eyelids shut and see through my eyelids. That really was not the interesting part though. The interesting part was that I could watch television this way without even turning on a television. In fact, I was in a room without a television.

I watched a martial arts movie, a shoot 'em up, and then a soap opera that sort of bored me. At the time, it seemed a little strange but I learned I could switch channels by merely opening my eyelids alone with my eyes. I did not recognize any of the actors or shows that I was watching. Another strange thing is that some of the shows were in color, and others were in black and white.

Now, I may have been asleep, but I really don't think so because I was very aware that this was strange. I was also really sort of excited that this might be a result of drug interaction or the actual malady that had laid me low. Think of the advantages. No more hardware.

When I told my husband, he said I needed to go to the doctor. I said my doctor has ordered me antibiotics. What else can he do?

Alex responded, "Not that kind of doctor, Sweet Pea."

Oh.

Looking All Cute And Sh*t

2011-11-14T12:21:00.000-08:00

Of course, it serves me right.

My dog trainer, Todd, is coming over to see me and the pups today. Todd is really really really cute. In fact, he's downright adorable. He's tall, blonde, muscular, and has a gorgeous smile. What is not to like?

Yeah, since Todd is coming over, I made sure to put on something cute. I mean, I have no real designs on Todd since I am a married woman. Okay, he hasn't asked me one thing about my designs either. But that doesn't mean I don't want to look all cute and shit when he comes over.

That "all cute and shit" comes from my girl, Totsy. If you are not acquainted with Totsy Mae, please go check her out. I purely love her to pieces.

See, earlier today, I was looking all cute. I did wonder why I was having this little cough thing that was starting to drive me crazy though. By 11 AM, I'm not only coughing, my nose is running like a damn faucet, and so are my eyes. Every bit of my eyeliner is gone. My nose is all red from using the tissues every two seconds and I'm having chills and hot flashes almost at the same time.

I've changed out of my cute "outfit" into a pair of fleece lined sweats and I've taken some Sudafed. Now I feel like I've dried up like an old prune. No more tears or saliva either. And I feel like I'm underwater.

I guess Todd will have to deal with me when I'm not all cute and shit.

A Pit Bull Took My Baby

2011-11-09T14:27:00.001-08:00

Over 200 mothers in the United States kill their children every year.

Now that is a sobering statistic. I really don't understand killing your kids, at least not until they reach puberty.

I think it's just easier to leave them with family or neighbors and not come back. Sure, the grandparents, aunts and uncles, or neighbors are going to be pissed over it, but hey! It's better than killing them in the long run.

You can also drop your kids off at an emergency room or a fire station or police station and it's perfectly legal in a lot of states. In California, I think the upper age limit to drop kids off and relinquish custody is 27.

If you feel obliged to go through the old "somebody must have come in and grabbed that baby in the night while I was sleeping/drunk/watching a movie/having sex with my gay lover", then I think it would be better to take a page from the old "A Dingo Took My Baby" scenario.

The "dingo" substitute in the photo is my pit bull, Zoe. She has run off with a teddy bear actually, not a real baby. It really doesn't matter. When I go back outside in a few minutes the "baby" will be completely gone. There will not be a trace of it left.

Zoe ate almost an entire cactus. She also ate a remote control and a computer mouse. I think she also ate my husband Alex's "doo doo". Okay, that came out wrong. His "doo doo" is the plastic thing he used to shove into a slot on his laptop to activate the secure line on it. The "doo doo" is missing in action. Gone!

I still think leaving the kids off with the neighbors is a better idea.

She Has Arisen!

2011-11-07T07:56:00.000-08:00

I came very close to killing Honey, my favorite dog.

We got Honey from the shelter about 6 years ago. She was about 5 at the time we got her. Unfortunately, we soon learned that Honey had severe problems related to arthritis of the back and hips and that she would require medication for pain management. We took Honey to an orthopedic specialist who told us that surgical solutions were out of the question. We also hired an acupuncture vet to work on her.

She's stoic. Honey doesn't really let you know she's in pain, but you can see it in her movements. She is now about 11 years old and she's had a comfortable life, or as comfortable as we can make it for her. Honey takes quite a bit of medication. She takes Osteo3 for her joints, Rimadyl for pain, and something called Tramadol also for pain. The Tramadol is a tiny white pill and we give that to her in a pill pocket. The other two pills are chewables.

One afternoon, I told Alex to get Honey a Tramadol because she was having a hard time getting up and walking. He brought her a pill in a pill pocket and Honey took it and settled down for a nap. Several hours later, I saw that she was still in her bed and seemed not to even be breathing.

Panicked, I shook her and she opened her eyes. The only thing is, her eyes were rolled back in her head. We immediately loaded her into the car and called the vet office saying we were coming and to have a stretcher for her when we got there.

Honey's vet looked very concerned. She said that Honey's symptoms looked like she might have been poisoned. I asked about a stroke, and she said it was possible, but that poisoning was more likely. (Privately, I thought that was ridiculous. Who would have given poison to Honey!)

The vet said we could leave her overnight, or just monitor her at home. We opted to bring her home. I also asked for the card for a vet who would come to our house and "put her down" if need be. Both Alex and I were in tears as we drove home with Honey semi-comatose in the back seat.

We placed her in her bed and I made a pile of blankets for myself to sleep on the floor next to her. During the night, her bowels evacuated several time and I carefully cleaned her up with warm towels. Alex kept coming in to check on us and was upset when I told him, "we need to call the house-call vet in the morning".

At 6 AM, we made coffee and decided that we would call the euthanasia doctor at 9 AM. We went back to Honey's side and watched her sleep. About 8:30 AM, Honey opened her eyes, got up, and walked into the kitchen. She drank some water and then started licking her food bowl.

What the hell?

As the morning progressed, she ate breakfast, drank water, went out into the backyard to do her business and seemed pretty much normal. I called the vet and reported the progress. Again, I asked "Could it be that she had a mild stroke and she's recovering?". Again the vet said "Unlikely. She must have ingested something." Hmm.

A few days later, I was cleaning up in the kitchen and saw a bottle of pills from the vet on the counter. I looked at the bottle and saw they were for Harry. These were tranquilizers that were given to us for Harry because he dislikes travel in a car. We had never used them. There were 10 pills ordered. I opened the bottle and saw they were tiny white pills, looking exactly like the Tramadol that Honey takes.

A horrible realization hit me all at once. I poured the pills out in my hand and counted them. There were 9 pills, not 10.

Alex had given Honey the wrong pill. It had put her almost completely under for over 12 hours. I was getting ready to have her put to sleep. I had practically called my vet a quack because she insisted that Honey had "ingested something". And I hate to be wrong!

I telephoned my vet and told her. She was very relieved to find out what had happened, because she really could not imagine what could be causing Honey's rapid demise unless it was poison.

I tossed the damn tranquilizers.

"Just Like Your Father"

2011-11-03T15:20:00.000-07:00

If I had a dollar for every time I heard my mother say those words to me, I'd be a 1% 'er.

My Mother was not implying that I was 6 foot tall and 200 pounds because I wasn't.

She was not saying this phrase with the intent of complimenting me either. My dad was a cop, a womanizer, and a gambler. I have done a little gambling but not to excess like he did. Dad could never resist a pretty woman or a horse race or a card game.

I like pretty women myself but that's the only similarity I can find.

Oh wait. There is one other thing. Nobody ever heard my Dad say "I don't know." I doubt anyone has ever heard me say that either. I just make something up if I don't know and present it with authority. I'm sure my Dad did the same thing.

I also was (in Mom's opinion anyway) promiscuous. Well, looking at it from her viewpoint, I guess I was. I never worried too much about sex and it seemed pretty normal to experience different people. It was fun. I never felt bad over it because I didn't see it as wrong.

I did bet the rent money on that one horse called "Another Color", but I won so I don't have to count that, do I?

Maybe I am my Father's daughter.

Oakland, California, West Coast Life

2011-10-31T09:03:00.000-07:00

I worked in Oakland for several years.

Basically, it's a scrappy city. There's a lot of crime. It's dangerous after dark in the wrong neighborhoods. And it may have the highest number of "drive by shooting" incidents in the country. I have a lot of friends who still work and live in Oakland. I like the place, myself. There is a "flavor" to Oakland that's hard to miss. Upscale restaurants and clubs, pretty ladies with gardenias in their hair, men dressed up in suits with fedoras and shiny shoes. There is charm and character to the place. Oakland is across a drawbridge from where I live in Alameda.

The black population is larger than the white population and if you add hispanic people into the mix, black and hispanic people make up well over 50% of the residents. There is a very diverse but largely African American power structure.

On June 9th,2010, a major protest was held in Oakland over the shooting of an unarmed black man, Oscar Grant, by a white transit cop. The jury had just convicted the cop of "involuntary manslaughter". By nightfall, the scene turned violent and ugly. Downtown store and business windows were shattered, graffiti marred every available surface, and looting and violence were everywhere.

This night of violence came after a late afternoon of peaceful protest and prayer. Most of the legitimate protesters went on home when the sun went down. That's when the self-proclaimed "anarchists" stepped up their game.

Oddly, the hoodlums had come from other areas to cause mayhem. Many of them were white. Of the 80 people arrested, only 19 of them were Oakland residents. The Oakland police department exercised a lot of restraint in the entire situation. As a result, most of the culprits were not arrested at all. The millions of dollars in property damage and stolen goods were left to the insurance companies and business owners to handle. It was a costly evening.

Currently, we have the "Occupy Oakland" fiasco to contend with. People and their tents simply moved in to the Plaza outside of City Hall and put up their tents making an instant tent city. When ordered to disperse, the protesters refused. The police were receiving numerous complaints because of a sexual assault, violent attacks, threatening behavior by the protesters to passersby, and a fire in the encampment. Also, although there were portable toilets provided, human waste was saturating the areas around the tents.

The police staged a pre-dawn raid and took the tents down. The police were pelted with bottles, paint balls, rocks and utensils from the camp's rat infested kitchen area.

After numerous warnings that this was an "unlawful assembly", the police started using rubber bullets and tear gas to disperse the crowd. It is estimated there were about 1,000 protesters and approximately 500 police officers in the stand off. A couple of people on both sides sustained injuries, most notably, an Iraq War vet and protester who suffered a skull fracture.

One thing I did notice from watching the footage of the riot is that the majority of the protesters involved were white, and most of the people arrested were not from Oakland. The black people were few and far between in this mess.

In other cities, the "Occupy" movement has been handed with dignity and lawful behavior by the protesters. Why was this not the case in Oakland?

I'm tired of people coming into Oakland to make it their personal garbage can. And I support the police action for dispersing the unruly crowd. Go back to your suburbs and trash your own backyard. Get out of mine.

Heart Shaped Red Sunglasses

2011-10-26T15:31:00.000-07:00

I like whimsical things.

This dog looks very much like my late dog, Mitch. Mitch was a girl, a cocker spaniel, and I bought this clock because it reminded me of her.

I get bluesy during this time of year. There's a watery quality to the sunshine and the light starts to fade too early. Waking at 7 AM, it's still dark outside with just a hint of dawn on the horizon. Never mind. I don't get up until 9 AM anyway.

I took the sunglasses off the dog clock and put them on myself. For some reason, those goofy sunglasses made me feel happy. I saw a woman going to work one morning wearing a hat with cat ears sticking up on top of it. I think this is kind of the same thing.

I wore my red heart shaped sunglasses to the store this afternoon. Everybody smiled at me. That made me feel happy too.

I guess I'm old enough now to wear heart shaped red sunglasses. People may think I'm a bit "touched" and they might be right.

Still, it's better than dressing up like Cat Woman. I used to do that when my grandson Cyrus was about four and wanted to be Batman and I tied pillowcases across his shoulders to make a cape.

My daughter was embarrassed about both of us in those days. I put on my black catsuit and boots, and put on a headband with cat ears and off we went! Cyrus was proud of his paisley cape. Sometimes he wore a black chiffon cape. Then his mother was really disturbed.

We didn't care one bit! Cyrus is 18 now. He still remembers going to the shopping center as Batman and me dressing up as cat woman.

He thinks I rock.

Spelling It Out For Men

2011-10-24T09:52:00.000-07:00

This post is not male bashing.

I like men as well as the next girl. I think they are cute, smart, sexy, funny and all the good stuff. But they do have a weird characteristic. They have to be told exactly what you want them to do.

When Alex leaves his socks on the floor next to the hamper in the bathroom along with a pair of underwear, and I tell him to put his socks in the hamper, he will comply. That's fine as far as it goes. Does he also pick up the underwear and toss them in the hamper? He does not. I didn't tell him to put the underwear in the hamper.

If I ask Alex to feed the dogs, he does so. After feeding the dogs, as we are walking to the car to go out for an evening, I ask "Did you check the water bowls?" Of course, he did not. "The water bowls are right next to the food bowls, Alex."

When Alex was traveling, I had my friend Nelson carry home a 25 pound of kibble for my dogs. I further imposed on Nelson to open the kibble and pour it into the bin for me. He complied. What Nelson did not do is take out the plastic measuring cup that was in the bottom of the bin. When I asked, where is the measuring cup, Nelson said it was in the bin. "At the bottom of the bin?". "Yes," he responded.

My darling professional dog trainer, Todd, was here yesterday. We were taking Zoe on a walk to help me understand what needs to be done when walking her. Todd is emphasizing that we need to stay two steps ahead of Zoe mentally and watching our surroundings at all times. He had Zoe on the leash, and a young man walked up. Todd and Zoe were completely blocking the sidewalk. Zoe jumped up on the young man to say hello. Todd got so caught up in the mechanics of training that he completely missed what was going on around him.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

I think sending a man to the supermarket really makes my point. If you ask the man you live with to go to the store and bring home four things, he is going to have a difficult time. Let's say you ask him to pick up coffee, bread, a green vegetable and some olive oil.

Although he lives with you and knows what kind of coffee he drinks and bread he eats day after day, year after year, you'd never know it when he comes home. The coffee will be "Sumatra Roast" when you drink French Roast. The bread may be pumpernickel. A green vegetable may be a package of frozen peas. Or it could be grapes or a kumquat. And the olive oil will be a can of Crisco. And that's on a good day. If you don't make him write the list on his hand, you can forget getting anything you ask for at all.

Oh he'll pick up beer. And maybe a big bag of tortilla chips, plus some salsa. A couple of packages of cookies and maybe some ice cream. There may also be a package of frozen chicken wings. Great!

When asked about the coffee, bread, vegetables and olive oil, he will respond that he couldn't find them, or that the supermarket was out of those things.

Or he will hit his forehead with his palm and say "Damn! I knew I forgot something!"

What's Love Got To Do With It?

2011-10-20T09:44:00.000-07:00

I'm just saying...

Most polygamous families are not like what is shown on "Big Love". First of all, they are almost always very poor. They don't live in nice houses in nice neighborhoods with nice cars and nice clothing for their families. They frequently go hungry. They go without medical and dental care.

Females are treated as brood mares. They keep having babies until they are finally used up. It's not unusual for them to have 10 kids or more. This is not because they love having babies. It's because having multiple wives and scores of children will give their husband an elevated position in heaven.

Could any of this sound even faintly reasonable to any thinking person? You whelp a bunch of brats who you have no intention of educating or even feeding properly or taking them to the dentist for that matter, and for what? So he can be a king after he dies?

Never mind that you only get to sleep with this "husband" once a week or so, if that often. Never mind that you resent him bringing the pretty 14 year-old in as a "sister wife". Never mind that you are supposed to defer to the husband in all matters. I mean, who would actually choose to wear those dumb prairie dresses and have those "whoop-dee-doo" hairstyles?

I understand the concept of a harem. Shoot, if you are a big time Sheik and you have 400 wives, fine. These babes are guarded by Eunuchs, live in palaces except when they are taken by caravan into the desert so they can roll around on Oriental rugs, have servants, get to eat and drink all they want, and only have to "service" the old Sheik once in a blue moon.

Now, admittedly, that's not great if you are a female astro-physics scientist, or a tax lawyer, but if you are a clerk at the local WalMart, it might be considered an upwardly mobile move.

I think some people would enjoy lollygagging with their girlfriends, watching cable television and polishing their nails all day while wearing those little "I dream of Jeanie" outfits.

I guess what I'm wondering is what is the "up" side for polygamous women? You get to continue being your husband's servant in heaven. Oh great!

What a concept, huh? I'd rather call old Sheik Abdul and take my chance in the harem.

In Praise of Boyish Women

2011-10-16T17:47:00.001-07:00

I love boyish women.

The first one I actually got to know was a girl I met when I was about 12 and at a CYO Summer Camp. I probably fell in love with her at least a bit. She was a counselor and a little older, maybe 18. I really wanted to be just like her.

Of course, at that age, I didn't know she was a gay woman. I just thought she had a certain swagger and a certain confidence that made me want to follow her anywhere.

I met Lynne when I was working at Chevron and in my 20's. She was the first woman I had ever known who was "out" as a gay woman. I seriously liked her and took her for drinks and dinner several times.

Lynne liked me but told me she was hesitant to get involved with a straight woman. (I had been married and had children at this point.) I don't know if I was attracted to Lynne sexually or not, but she was very "boyish" and I found that appealing on several levels. Again, it was a thing with "confidence" that she exuded.

My best friend is CT. She's a gay woman and very boyish. I adore her. The thing is, when you find a great gay woman, she's really the best of all worlds. You hear the word "butch" thrown around and while it can be descriptive in a way, in a way it really isn't. Gay women can be ultra feminine, or very boyish, or anything in between. "Butch", to me, is a word used generally to put somebody down. So I really don't use it.

I do have a preference for the more "boyish" looking and acting gay women though. Just on a personal level, a woman with a silver crew cut, and bright blue eyes, wearing her police uniform with a little swagger, Wow! And yes, this woman cop works in my town.

Well let's just say, I'd let her frisk me anytime.

We're Just Like Ashton and Demi (But Different)

2011-10-13T13:26:00.001-07:00

Alex does not have bangs.

Ashton has been married to Demi for 6 years. Alex and I have been married for 22 years. Ashton has acted in movies. Alex has taken acting classes and he was actually quite good at it. Ashton is taller than Demi. Alex is shorter than me (but he says he isn't).

Demi Moore has kids. I have kids. When I was Demi's age, I was as skinny as she is, but I'm not now. Demi has two ex-husbands. I have at least that many. Demi has appeared on film topless. I have too. Demi shaved her head for her role in "GI Jane". I wear my hair very short.

The age difference between Ashton and Demi is about the same as the age difference between me and Alex. Is it any surprise that I wake up some days thinking I'm her?

When that happened this morning, I immediately started to hyperventilate because I was missing my husband in my bed. I felt sure that he was off frolicking in a hot tub with some bimbo named Sara. I was pretty sure too that he and Sara would probably have unsafe sex after the soak. I was pissed. How could he do this to me?

Wait, I'm not Demi. Alex is not Ashton. He just went to work.

Whew!

My Deformity - My Secret Shame

2011-10-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

There I was about four years old.

Adorable, if I do say so myself. Still, that long hair hid a dreadful secret. My mom told me that my ears stuck out and I must never show them NO MATTER WHAT.

Of course, because I was told that I had this dreadful problem, I immediately began looking around me and seeing all the girls with ponytails. I wanted a ponytail more than anything!

My mom actually told my dad that she was going to try and find a surgeon who could make my ears not stick out so much. My dad scoffed at the idea of such a thing and told her she was being ridiculous. I wasn't so sure. I mean, what kid wants to be nicknamed "Dumbo"?

My mother was a very enterprising woman. She found an ad in a movie magazine for an adhesive that would correct this problem. I think I was about eight years old the day she finally pulled my hair into a ponytail and then she glued my ears down and sent me to school. Man! I shook that ponytail for all I was worth and I was thrilled.

Unfortunately, while I was sitting in the classroom shaking my ponytail from side to side, "boing!" one of my ears came unglued.

I was mortified. I was the girl with the one ear glued back and one ear sticking way far out! I tried to push the ear back into the adhesive but like so many things in my "technical" efforts, it was to no avail. I even tried using a piece of chewing gum to get the ear to lay back down, but it didn't work either.

I decided the best thing might be just to un-stick the other ear, but that was not possible without paint thinner or a surgeon. It held fast. Nobody said anything and I think it's because they felt sorry for me.

By the time I was 14, I realized my ears were not deformed at all and that my mother was goofy as bat-shit. I pushed my hair behind my ears or pulled it into a ponytail anytime I wanted.

I just never looked back at the days when I had to hide my ears NO MATTER WHAT.

I'm Not That Kind Of Girl

2011-10-06T17:24:00.001-07:00

"What local clubs do you belong to?" asked the nice looking lady at the museum this afternoon.

Oh, my! Clubs? What kind of clubs? They closed the local pot club I think. I didn't belong to it, but that's the only club I can imagine might be of interest to me.

She laughed and said "Would you be interested in joining a club? It's really a fun bunch of women!" She introduced herself as an Alameda widow named Joanne. Lovely person, really. I had to explain to her that I am just not that kind of a girl.

Joanne was behind the counter at the museum with two older ladies. She was well-dressed and very charming really. I told her that I was pretty sure if I went to one of these "club" meetings, she would pray that nobody ever learned it was at her suggestion. In other words, she would rue the day.

I have a lot of friends who are "club women". They belong to the "friends of the opera", the local "friends of the SPCA", the "Daughters of San Francisco", the "Garden Club", the charity gigs, etc. They volunteer at the hospitals and sit on the boards.

I'm not that kind of a girl. Now, don't get me wrong, I give to charities until it hurts. I adopt homeless animals. I take care of local old people who need help.

But I'm still more "club bimbo" than "club lady".

And that's the way I like it.

Protective Custody With A Lazy Guard

2011-10-03T09:54:00.000-07:00

We got a new dog named Zoe.

She's a puppy and probably a pit bull, but she doesn't know what a pit bull is. Zoe just likes everybody. She may change later, but Zoe is really sweet right now.

She is so sweet in fact that she wants to be friends with Honey. Zoe wiggles and runs to her every chance she gets! Zoe play bows and shows Honey her belly. Honey shows Zoe her teeth but she's not smiling.

Honey hates Zoe's guts.

It's nothing personal. Honey isn't even that crazy about Harry and she's lived with him for about 4 years now. Honey is old and cranky and has arthritis in her hips. She's in a bad mood a lot of times. I can relate.

This will all work out. It's just stressful until it does. It helps that I'm having Todd, (the poor woman's Cesar Milan), come and work with us this week. Todd is a canine behaviorist and a trainer. He's funny and I like him a lot from our emails and telephone conversations. He has a website where I found him at "Your K9 Guy" Cool, huh?

In the meantime, I'm keeping Honey and Zoe away from each other. Zoe is spending time in the backyard and in Harry's closed off apartment. Honey is plotting her demise.

Anyway, until it is worked out, Zoe has to spend a little time in protective custody with Harry on guard duty.

Working Girls

2011-09-29T15:59:00.001-07:00

I did it for 40 years of my life.

I got up at an ungodly hour, drank coffee, and got ready for work. When I wasn't working, I was thinking about work.

What on earth was the point of that? Oh, wait! The same thing that I think they will put on my tombstone: She Needed The Money.

I went to work two weeks following my high school graduation. (I had worked part-time gigs in high school, but it was now time for the big leagues.) I was hired by an insurance company and it was an amazing job. I got to sort mail and push a cart down long dark hallways and deliver the mail to different offices. The office was located in San Francisco's financial district. It was really fun, challenging and great for the first week, then I got the cart and my hand stuck somehow in an elevator door. I went home early because of my bruised hand.

I never went back. I decided I would rather face death by firing squad. Bad enough, I had to tell my mother. My decision didn't please her at all. (In our family, you graduated from high school and you were on your own. Oh, you could live at home, but, you worked and you paid rent too.) I was 17, but by today's standards, I might as well have been 27. I was grown with responsibilities. I quickly got another job and this one was more to my liking.

I worked for the Emporium Capwell Department store and I sold first fine china and then housewares. This was a fun place to work. There was a really cute store detective named Ed and he was pretty old but I sort of liked him. Ed was probably 25 or so and when he asked me out, I was thrilled. He took me to dinner and bought me two martinis. When Ed took me home after a couple of hours at his place to look at his etchings, (I mean examine his gun), he nearly had a heart attack when I told him I wouldn't be 18 for another 4 months. Sheesh!

Ed more or less avoided me for the next 3 months. Right before I turned 18, I got another job at different insurance company office. This time I was a file clerk. (I know, it really pays to aim high.) We worked on Worker's Comp stuff and it was actually pretty interesting. Plus, unlike the first insurance firm where the average age for employees was about 60, everyone at this place was young! I met and moved in with some girls from the office who were looking for another housemate.

I celebrated my 18th birthday living in a downtown apartment with 3 other girls. We worked hard all week and went to parties on weekends. The only challenging part was not starving to death. Life was good!

I met my first husband at my next job. We married right after I turned 19. We got a really nice apartment and I found a job at Sears selling linoleum flooring. Uh, yeah, that was a problem for me because I can't do math, plus, I didn't know the first thing about flooring. I worked there for two months and didn't make a sale at all. I was bored and found another exciting job as an instructor in a health club. I also took in ironing for extra money. I probably would have gotten a paper route too if I had thought of it.

I've walked dogs, arranged major events, written proposals, designed presentations, and groomed the presenters. I've prepared press releases, wined and dined clients, and taught English. I've also ghost written term papers, prepared resumes, and helped people get their US citizenship.

Frequently, I've done these things concurrently while going to college at night and working full time while raising my two children as a mostly single parent.

I think it was probably all very hard, but it was also very good. I've seen most of the US on various business trips and met a lot of really fascinating people.

If push comes to shove, I am very adept at supporting myself and that's a good thing.

Sitting Around Looking Cute

2011-09-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed?

When you sit around looking cute, good things happen. You get out of the bubble bath and go and put on something cute. You are inspired to put on a touch of make up, maybe some beefed up eyebrows, a little shadow, a touch of concealer for those pesky shadows under your eyes, mascara (of course) and a touch of lipstick! You also put on just a touch of perfume, and lotion your legs and arms. You also fluff up your curls, or in my case, I fluff up my semi-crew cut with a little goop.

Sure as shooting a friend will call, a stranger will knock at the door, or the house will suddenly smell like smoke so you will have to call those cute firemen. (Yes, you grab your pretty robe first if someone is going to see you.)

Maybe it's the old girl scout (or boy scout) motto of "Be Prepared" that's at work here. Since I was never a girl scout, or a boy scout either for that matter, I'm not sure.

There's another side to this post. Somedays you just don't care one way or the other. You wake up and think about taking a bath and getting dressed and then you think "Naw." You turn on the television and you sit around looking totally dorky all day.

You don't bother even washing the night goo off of yourself. You sit in front of the television with your ashy legs and arms and don't care. There won't be any calls unless the are from the IRS or Franchise Tax Board.

If someone comes to the front door, it'll be somebody political looking for money for their "cause", and they will even look worse than you do. If the house smells like smoke you will trudge from room to room with your extinguisher in hand because you would rather burn to death than let those cute firemen see you in that ratty dog hair covered black tee and your husband's shrunken and probably none too clean boxers, with night goo all over you.

I'm just not an "either / or" kind of girl.

Drunken Encounter With A Cat

2011-09-22T14:49:00.001-07:00

My cousin, Kelly, is a whimsical girl.

I love her with all my heart, but I also know she's a little goofy. (It adds to her charm.) My husband was on a trip (when isn't he?) and she and I were on the phone. Kelly lives in Oklahoma.

I was bored and sick of being home alone and I started begging Kelly to fly out for the weekend. She replied "Oh, I wish I could." Well, hells bells, what's keeping you from doing it? "Money." Oh yeah, that. Never mind, I'll pay for the ticket. Just get the flight you want and I'll book it and put in on my card. Kelly hemmed and hawed over it until I threatened to catch my house on fire just to get firemen to come over and entertain me.

She finally agreed. I arranged for a limo to pick Kelly up at the airport and rather than go straight home, we had the driver take us up to the Napa Valley for wine tasting. This was about noon so we stopped first and had lunch at a beautiful bistro and shared a wonderful buttery oak infused Chardonnay with our lunch.

We visited a couple of wineries after that and had the limo take us home. Both of us were having a little trouble walking at this point. Naps were in order. We slept for a couple of hours and then got ready to go out for dinner.

Kelly is very meticulous about her dress and she asked me for an iron to press something. While searching for the iron (that I do not use), I decided to open us a lovely bottle of wine. Probably not my best idea ever after drinking the afternoon away.

We had a lovely dinner with, yes, more wine. When we got home and opened the door, our new cat, Smokey, slipped past us as we were walking in and ran out. He was not really an outdoor cat so I was concerned. Kelly said, "Oh, he'll be back when he gets hungry," but that really didn't satisfy me. I told her I was going to change clothes and go out looking for him and she said that she would come with me.

It had to be close to midnight at this point since we had taken a long time at dinner, oh yeah, and then we stopped in the Biker Bar and had a drink or two with some motley guys.

If you are keeping score, we had quite a lot of booze in one day. This did not deter me at all from my quest to find Smokey. We walked the streets calling his name. After about a 1/2 hour, we were ready to give up when we called his name one last time. A pretty white cat (Smoke is black) came running to us out of the shadows making a jingle sound when she ran from a bell on her collar.

We sat down on the sidewalk and Kelly started talking to the cat. The cat vocalized right back at her. Kelly said "That cat knows right where Smokey is and she wants us to follow her." So we got back to our feet and followed the cat as she kept looking back at us.

About 3 houses from my own, the cat took a turn down a driveway and under a fence into a back yard. Quietly, we opened the fence and whispering "Smokey" we started to go into the yard. (This was a house where a single man lived, but I did not know him and had only seen him once or twice before.)

"Hold it right there!" a loud voice came. "What are you two doing in my yard?". Kelly and I grabbed each other in terror. A man with a flashlight came out the back door. At first I thought he had a gun. We froze. Kelly started explaining that we were looking for my cat. I tried to interject that I was actually his neighbor from 3 houses down, but Kelly kept talking and telling him that this pretty white cat had told her to follow her and that Smoke was in this back yard.

The guy sort of chuckled and said "Have you girls been drinking?" Well, of course he already knew the answer to that question.

He flashed his light around the backyard and Smokey gave a little "meow" and ran out from behind a bush. I grabbed him in my arms.

We apologized to the man, David, we learned by then and after offering him a drink that he wisely refused, we went back home.

Kelly still swears that white cat talked to her.

Are They Going To A Prom?

2011-09-19T21:30:00.000-07:00

The blonde is my daughter, Sheila. The brunette is my granddaughter, Ari Yasmin.

18 year old David was sure they were sisters and going to a senior prom. David is my neighbor boy. Well, neighbor man, since he's almost 21 now. I have secured David's services now because my husband is away and a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do.

Okay, the kind of services I'm hiring David for are dog walking services. Harry is a big orange dog and while he has great manners and understands commands, the sight of a squirrel sends him airborne. This could be a problem for me walking him. Harry knocked Honey (my older and smaller female dog) down the stairs this afternoon ass over tea kettle, trying to get to a squirrel on the fence in our back yard.

Harry is what Double O refers to as a "potcake". Potcakes are dogs of dubious heritage where she lives on an island in the Bahamas. She says they are the color of burnt rice. Harry is orange, and that is close enough.

David agreed to walk Harry for me. Since I have known David since he was an 8 year old boy scout selling me magazines I didn't want, I expected him to be fairly reasonable about his price. Also, I know from his dad, that David's currently working at a part time job making $10 per hour. I figured walking the dog would have the same approximate price tag.

I figured wrong. I mentioned 20 minute to half hour walks every afternoon and suggested $5 per 20 minute walk. David looked slightly offended, but quickly recovered and said "Well, whatever you want." I asked if he had another amount in mind, and he allowed as to how a friend of his walked a dog for $25. That seemed a touch high to me for 20 minutes to 1/2 an hour.

I inquired how long his friend walked the dog for, and David said "Oh for an hour or so." Uh huh. Well, we compromised and agreed on $10 for 1/2 an hour. He took Harry out and came back in about 10 or 15 minutes. David took the $20 for his 10 or 15 minute walk that would include walking Harry tomorrow as well.

Somehow I feel this is not going to be a great business arrangement for me.

Maybe my daughter or granddaughter will date him and I'll get a better price.

Alex In Amsterdam

2011-09-16T15:31:00.001-07:00

This is where I hope Alex goes tomorrow.

Alex and his friend Brian are driving to Amsterdam. This is the interior of Coster Diamonds, a very famous place in Amsterdam to buy jewelry. I'm sure he could find something really spectacular for me in this shop for our Anniversary on September 29th. Of course, he won't be home for the occasion, but he just might have something special he's bringing home as a late gift. That would be nice, right?

This is where I don't hope Alex goes to spend his time in Amsterdam. Oh I don't care if he walks past the windows because we all know there is nothing wrong with window shopping. The real problem is that if he goes to the Red Light District, he may end up buying me smaller diamonds because he's used his money unwisely. All right, the truth is I don't think celebrating your anniversary month with a prostitute is the least bit kosher either.

I do concede that spending a period of time with a lady of the evening might be cheaper than going to Coster Diamonds for a gift for your wife. But you have to think about the long term with these issues. You spend a half hour or so with Brunhilda, and that's fine. It might cost you $100 or so if you don't ask for anything "fancy". Let's face it, that's not a huge sum compared to $10,000 for a carat of superior diamond. But there's an old adage, you get what you pay for.

Now keep in mind that I am currently crotch sprung. Or maybe it's crotch sprained. No, I think they call it "I've sprained my groin", but then isn't your crotch and your groin sort of the same thing?

Now this sprain has me sort of lying low for a bit of time. I'm hopeful it will be gone by the time my husband comes home with my diamonds.

He knows with me it's always "fancy".

When Harry Met Zoe

2011-09-13T12:59:00.001-07:00

Zoe - Pronounced Zoh- eee.

Call the men in the white coats.

I wasn't looking for love, or a new family member but there she was.

Traci, a friend and waitperson at a bistro I frequent in town, was telling me about Zoe, a rescue dog she was fostering. She and her partner would have to surrender the pup to the SPCA next weekend, and Tracy was sick about it. They were under contract with their landlord to not have a Pit Bull in their apartment. They could not keep Zoe.

Traci and her partner had taken Zoe with the idea that they would be giving her to friends of theirs within a couple of weeks, a couple who wanted her. The couple apparently has decided to get a divorce and they no longer wanted a dog.

As I listened to Tracy, I felt like crying. Here is this maybe 9-month old dog who would be put into the "system" and lose her sweetness and her innocence. Shelters are stressful places and Pit Bulls are a dime a dozen in the Bay Area.

Some punk might want to use her as a fighting dog, or as bait for a fighting dog. Or, she could be recruited by a big-bellied biker to guard his meth lab. This just wouldn't do at all.

I told Traci I wanted to meet Zoe. I was totally charmed when I met her. Zoe is very small (about 45 pounds), and very young. She is a loving and sweet girl who is already house-broken and crate trained.

Traci and I decided to introduce Zoe to Harry last evening. (Harry has been down in the dumps since Alex left on his month long trip.) We took both dogs on a walk to let them get acquainted and they did fine after some initial posturing.

We came back to the house and repaired to the garden where the dogs would be able to interact off-leash and they had a marvelous time. Zoe let Harry dominate her and she loved it when he chased her. They ran constantly for about 2 hours.

Although Harry is neutered (and Zoe is fixed too), he was very romantic toward her. Zoe seemed no worse off from his clumsy attentions. In return, he bathed her with drool and love nips until she was soaking wet from head to toe. Harry for sure thought this was a love connection, even if Zoe did play a little hard to get.

I need another dog like I need a hole in my head. But, good sense has never been high on my list of worthwhile qualities. I sent Zoe's story and her photos to Alex and he agreed that we might want to take her. (But then Alex has no more good sense than I do, and perhaps even less.)

This is not going to be easy, but we can do it. Honey will not like Zoe, but Honey doesn't even like Harry for that matter. Harry badly needs a playmate. Honey is more "prison warden" than "playmate". We'll adjust.

Zoe is just too young, sweet, and pretty to be turned into a gang banger's Pit Bull.

Well Clutch My Pearls

2011-09-10T16:29:00.000-07:00

It happens every time.

I may write something that is a little racy, but I seldom use four letter words. I hardly ever discuss bodily functions. In fact, I don't even show private parts in my photos. Now, I guess my posts might be rated PG, but I hope you would never think of them as crude or offensive.

I write about a wide variety of subjects, my relationships, my husband, my pets, my grandchildren, my children on occasion. I also write about ancient history, or maybe that time better known as the 70's and the 80's.

I also write about lust once in a while. I don't think having a yen for the handsome Ramon is terribly naughty. I don't actually pursue Ramon, but I do think about the beautiful music we could make together, and perhaps it gets more graphic in my head, but I never would bring that to a post.

On rare occasions, I may discuss naughty bits, but it's rare. I am not sure I've ever included the word vagina or for that matter penis in a post. I actually don't consider those terribly racy words in the first place.

In my last post, I did write something that was somewhat unusual for me. I wrote about an event that occurred over 20 years ago and that I thought was funny. The punchline of the entire post was at the end and included the words "black bush". Shocking, I know.

Sure as shooting, I lost one of my dear followers over this post. I should have expected it, but I didn't. Too bad. Each and every person who takes the time to read something I have written is very special to me.

But those words, "black bush" just made someone clutch their pearls and move on.

Bye bye.

What Color Is My Parachute?

2011-09-07T19:46:00.000-07:00

He was my ex-husband.

He had been my ex-husband 18 years ago. We were held together by the threads of our children. When we divorced, we had a 3 month old daughter and a 3 year old son.

He and I had spent time growing up together and then growing apart as well. Our son turned 21 in August the year I turned 42. My husband John was about 5 years older than me at this time. John had been diagnosed with brain cancer a couple of years earlier. Over the 18 years we had been divorced, we became friends on a totally different level.

On August 31st, we celebrated our son's 21st birthday together, with his wife and my new husband Alex. This is the true story of what transpired.

John had given me a gift certificate for Elizabeth Arden's Red Door for Mother's Day. (No, his wife was perfectly okay with this expensive and extravagant gift.) After all, he was not my most recent husband at all. And she understood that John and I loved each other from "way back".

We took my son to the Tonga Room at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco the night after I had gone in for my day at the Red Door. I decided that if I only had one life to live, let me live it as a blond.

I emerged from the day of beauty that included a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, a massage, a professional make over and as a blond after 40 years of being a brunette.

Oddly as a natural brunette, I made a good blond. Light hair throws more light on your face than dark. My former husband looked at me across the table with his wife and my husband and my son sitting there and said the following words. He would die within a year without knowing the answer.

"So what did you do about your black bush?"

Rocky Starts

2011-09-05T19:27:00.001-07:00

I think I'm off to a rocky start with Alex being gone doing whatever it is he does for a whole month.

Yesterday, I found that one of the dogs had thrown up all over the 90 year old Persian rug in the dining room. This was in the early morning when I am least likely to appreciate dog vomit.

I looked at both dogs closely. Harry looked to be in good spirits and seemed to be okay. Honey was a little "under the weather" but then she is old and sometimes has trouble getting up and around much before noon. I can relate.

I grabbed a dustbin and cleaned up the mess from about 3 separate locations all the while trying to tell my gag reflex to calm down. Then it happened. I twisted and threw out my back a bit with that all too familiar painful "boing". (Now mind you, a "boing" is much different than a "boink" and I have a much worse reaction to the boing.)

I cleaned up the mess as well as I could while swearing under my breathe (mutha fugger! mutha fugger! mutha fugger!) and tried to get up. Nothing to hold on to close enough to grab and the back spasm went into full attack mode while I wondered how I would manage.

I figured out that if I crawled, I could get to the kitchen and grab the pet poo cleaner-upper solution. No it was not poo, but none the less, I wanted to clean up the rug as well as I could.

I returned to the dining room as Honey was again in the process of throwing up on the rug. I gently moved her head to the hardwood floor and she puked up the rocks that you see in the above photo. Apparently, one of the rocks is actually a piece of charcoal from the bbq pit out in the yard. Oh, why ask why! I'm sure at first it tasted delish coated with meat juice and fat.

I telephoned my vet to ask if I needed to be concerned and they told me that this was not uncommon but to watch her closely to make sure she didn't have a "blockage". Uh huh. Usually I would have insisted that I bring her in to the doctor, but in this case, I figured I'd just watch her for another day. She seems fine today and has eaten and pooed with no problem.

My children have always wondered why I set such a store on healthy poo with my dogs (and with my kids). I've always firmly believed that good looking healthy poo is an important indicator of overall health. If the poo is well formed and "normal" then I can sort of assume all is right with the world. Okay, maybe I have a hang up.

Still, with Alex gone, taking Honey to the vet is a problem. She is a big girl, and at about 80 pounds, she is difficult for me to lift, particularly when I can't even walk. My back at this point is allowing me to walk but I walk with great effort and I doubt lifting Honey's fat ass (or as we lovingly call it "her 40 pounder rounder" into the car would do me much good at all.

Now, on the bright side, I took a nude photo of myself right out of the bath and sent it to my husband in Europe. Oh, and an upskirt too.

He said he likes the photos.

The Red Light Districts of Europe

2011-09-01T14:43:00.000-07:00

There are numerous red light districts in Germany as well as in the Czech Republic.

Guess where my husband Alex is! Well, I'm not saying. Still, I felt obliged to tell him that he was in the middle of hubs of prostitution in the countries he's working in at present. Of course, he played dumb and said "Oh really?". Yeah, like he doesn't know.

Alex is gone for a month. Actually, it's over a month. Harry is miserable. He waited at the back gate for the last two evenings for his dad to come home. During the day, he's moped around the house and not even wagged his tale once. Believe it or not, a squirrel ran across the front lawn right in front of him and he didn't even bark. This is Harry the Squirrel Killer I'm talking about.

Honey isn't feeling any happier about Alex being gone either. She's been lying in Harry's bed all day, forcing Harry to lie on the rug. (He would be too afraid to climb into her bed.) She is depressed and not interested in playing either. Of course, Honey wasn't playful to begin with. She's been in a bad mood for a few years now, sort of like me. Being depressed does not affect her appetite though. That's sort of like me too come to think of it.

And speaking of me, I'm not real happy about this trip either. I know I called him Turtle Man in my last post, but I really didn't mean it. Alex does not look like a turtle. When he's not here, I miss him. So I am sad too. Here is a photo of me looking terribly sad. Makes you feel bad doesn't it? Well, the truth is, I'm not sure I was sad so much as ready to spray Diet Coke across the table trying not to laugh at some lame joke. But it looks like a sad picture so I thought I'd use it.

The truth is I wouldn't put on my Tahitian pearls and lace blouse and put out china, silver and crystal if Alex isn't home. I barely get out of my robe.

So if Alex decides to leave his little family for an Eastern European prostitute, I will certainly let all of you know. And we will show you the "mad" photos which are much different from the "sad" photos.

Turtle Man

2011-08-30T13:58:00.001-07:00

Alex got his passport renewed a while ago.

We all know that passport photos are just awesome. They use the best photographers at Walgreens! In fact, I may go to the guys there for some glamor shots.

I thought his photo was fairly good, compared to other photos I've seen. The DMV does sometimes take wonderful shots for us too, but they usually tend to make a normal person look like a deranged serial killer, baby rapist, and total degenerate.

When Alex grabbed his passport before he left, he looked at his image upside down and said "Jesus! I look like a turtle!" I protested that he looked nothing like a turtle but then I began to see what he was talking about. My husband does look like a turtle in this photo. I can admit this because in real life, my husband looks nothing like a turtle.

After laughing until my sides hurt, I tried to tell him that he really didn't look like a turtle. (I would never hurt my darling husband's feelings if I could avoid doing so.) The problem is that in this picture Alex looks exactly like a turtle with his head poked out of his green shell.

If I took a passport picture that made me look like a turtle, I'd never leave the country.

Have a nice trip, Turtle Man!

The Lady With The Crack Ho Hair

2011-08-25T15:34:00.001-07:00

First of all, I'm not wearing pajamas.

My husband is leaving me for more than a month. Because I'm not going to get dressed or comb my hair, or even leave the house the entire time he's gone, I thought I'd get started with the hair right now.

Alex will be on the other side of the world. I don't want him to get homesick and be missing me too much. So I thought I'd give him reason to be glad he's looking at nicely turned out foreign women rather than his wife with the crack ho hair.

I'm also wearing sort of an ugly "outfit" on purpose. I have cute outfits, but I'm not going to wear them before he leaves. See this way, he can go to my blog and not feel very sorry that he's away from his pitiful wife in the tacky polyester clothes with the crack ho hair.

He will probably go to nudie bars in foreign countries and drink beer. I don't care. Alex may even join good looking foreign women for drinks or even meals. See I'm not the jealous type. I don't care.

I'm not cooking another meal before he leaves either. I don't want him missing my home cooking. This will undoubtedly piss Alex off a little but I don't care. It's for his own good. He won't be thinking of that wonderful Marsala with the noodles. He won't be missing my Vietnamese pork chops with the jasmine rice and shredded carrot and apple salad. He won't be missing the homemade raviolis. He'll be very happy with the meals he gets at the 5 star restaurants he frequents. I don't care.

I'm always thinking of Alex's well being. Now is that a good wife or what!

The Chicken Car

2011-08-22T14:08:00.000-07:00

My husband Alex loves a bargain.

Well, I do too for that matter. When I find some Coach pumps at 35% off, I jump on them.

Where Alex and I differ is in our determination of what constitutes a bargain.

A number of years ago, Alex had a friend who was moving out of the area. He wanted to sell his 1978 Datsun for the ridiculously low price of $500. I asked Alex how many miles it had on it and he said about 200,000. Wow! That's a lot of miles.

Yeah, it is, Alex agreed. But his "friend" had assured him that the car "ran great". I asked what color it was and Alex replied, "Pale yellow. It needs a little body work though." Uh huh. So I remarked "Alex, it sounds like a hooptie."

Alex scoffed and told me I was just being stuck up. At the time, he had a new Mazda Miata and he needed a bigger car for some things. Arguing with my husband after he's made up his mind about something is fruitless, so I went and poured myself a morning Bloody Mary.

Alex called his friend and said, "I'll buy it!" and his friend drove the car over to our house. When I looked outside, I could hardly believe my eyes. This was the ugliest, most foul, and stupidest looking car I had ever seen. Alex paid his friend for the car, got the pink slip and drove his friend back home, asking me if I wanted to "test it out" with him. I shook my head no and waved him goodbye and poured another Bloody Mary. (Don't be so judgmental. It was close to noon by then.)

When Alex got back, he mentioned that the car had a couple of little things he would have to fix but assured me it's really a great little car! I asked if the rust would be easy to fix and he grinned and said "Not a problem!". I said I'd rather be caught dead than to be caught riding in that piece of shit car. Alex started pouting and saying that I'd change my mind after I took a ride in it.

Since I hate it when he pouts, I said fine. Let's go. Getting into the car, I noticed something really funny. The car smelled like chickens. Now don't get me wrong, the smell of fried chicken is lovely. This was the smell of dirty live chickens or maybe dirty dead chickens, or even dirty dead chicken feet. It reeked of chickens. I nearly gagged.

Alex still grinning got in the car and took a look at my face and said "What?" I asked him if he had noticed that the car smelled. Alex assured me that he would wash it and "clean it up" when we got home.

No matter what he did, he could never get rid of the chicken smell. The bad thing is, when the car smells like that, people who ride in the car smell like that too. One ride in the chicken car was enough for me.

Alex gave the chicken car to charity about 3 weeks later. Some bargain!

An Eye Job, A Nose Job, And A Toe Job

2011-08-18T19:43:00.000-07:00

It's been an expensive week.

Alex, my husband, the same hard-looking dude who is in the photo, had something wrong with his eye.

He went on a business trip and silly me told him to go to "urgent care" when he arrived at his destination. He said he was fine. When Alex got home from his trip, his eye was still red. I said "You've got to get that looked at," and he replied "Oh it's a lot better now." Alex left on business trip number two a couple of days later.

By the time Alex got home, his eye was looking bad. He said it was fine, but actually came home a little early from work because it was hurting. This was worrying me. I don't want him fooling around with anything he has two of. That includes eyes, testicles and kidneys, arms, legs and such. Alex is more inclined to think that the only things worth worrying about are the things you only have one of.

I convinced him to go to the doctor the next day. The only problem was, Alex wanted to go to an optician. I was really thinking an ophthalmologist was more in order at this point because he had quite severe pain around his eye. The optician said he had an infection and gave him antibiotic eye drops. One day later, he was still at home and even looking and feeling worse. Again, I said "Call an ophthalmologist." Alex said "Naw. I'll just call the optician." He went back to the optician, a very nice guy, who said "Uh oh. This is not an infection. There is something inflamed in the iris of your eye. You need to see an ophthalmologist." Uh huh. Just like I figured two weeks ago.

Alex went to the MD. He was diagnosed as having "acute Iritis" (pronouced earitis) which can be very serious, in fact, you can lose an eye from it. Never mind, with steroids, other drugs and emergency treatment, he should be fine.

Frankly, for a smart man, my husband can be something of an idiot.

Harry had a little place on his nose. It looked like a mole, but it appeared out of nowhere. We took him to the vet for his regular check up and the vet said "This could be a cancer growth." We decided to have the little growth removed when he got his teeth cleaned last week.

Alex had told the vet that Honey (our other dog) had bitten Harry on the nose, but this looked nothing like a bite. Harry had his teeth cleaned and his little growth removed last week. It is not a cancerous growth. Harry is fine. We take him in tomorrow to get his sutures out. Harry won't like it, but hey! It only costs about $1000 to have peace of mind. Right?

Fortunately, I only get pedicures. If you look closely in the photo, you'll see how pretty my red toenails look and they only cost $25 dollars to look this good.

I Got A Present From Fred

2011-08-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

Fred is a funny guy.

If you don't know him, I would suggest that you go over and check out his blog at The Fred Effect.

Fred lives in Kansas with Tessa and Sean and about 10 assorted dogs and cats at any given time.

He is a generous and kind person, but he's also just a little quirky. He recently asked for comments to a post of his and said he would send something special to the person who left the comment he liked best. Fred selected me as the winner. I was thrilled of course.

The prize was to be a braid of Fred's hair, clipped right from his head if you can imagine. I honestly couldn't imagine. It sounded beyond romantic to me and just a little kinky, much like Fred himself. I am reminded of 19th century poets who sent such things to their lady friends. But see that's how my mind works.

Alex my husband said "That's creepy." When I asked why he responded with something like "yeah, it's like a serial killer asking to be sent something wet." That's how Alex's mind works.

Yesterday I got my locks of love in the mail. The braid is beautiful and the color of gold or a very expensive bourbon whiskey. I tied it around my wrist as a bracelet for a while, but my husband kept pestering me to take it off. I also tried it on the cat as a collar and I thought it looked stunning on him.

The cat was not impressed and rather than risk losing the braid, I took it off the cat.

I put Fred's golden braid in my jewelry box along with some other treasured items. Since my husband will be leaving for a month in Europe pretty soon, I will be pulling it out and wearing it as a bracelet while he's gone.

In other words, Alex is not the boss of me.

Heck! I may be buried wearing it. It's that cool.

Thanks Fred!

Gigolo's - Or How I Spend Time When Husband Travels

2011-08-11T17:33:00.000-07:00

This guy is Jimmy.

Jimmy works as a professional "escort" in Las Vegas. He is one of the lead characters in a Showtime reality television series. The series follows five men who work as "gigolos" in Sin City.

Since I'm home alone, I started watching the show last night. (Well, of course I did. Don't judge.) I guess I was trying to see what other women were doing if they had husbands who traveled all the time. No, that's a lie. I just wanted to watch and see if these "escorts" were worth the money.

The men all looked a little "sleazy" to me. But then I think Las Vegas is sleazy too. It's not my favorite place. I'd rather go to Coalinga, California, for two weeks than to Las Vegas for two days.

There is something about these gigolo guys' hair that looks weird to me. (Too much gel-type product maybe.) I think they also all have fake tans. Now that's just wrong on so many levels.

I was channel surfing and when I ran into this show, I was fascinated. These guys are all attractive enough, if you like the type. That's part of the problem. I really don't like the type. I prefer men who aren't prettier than me when we wake up in the morning. And I don't prefer waxed men. I like them better as nature made them, even if that is hairy, lumpy and without hair gel.

Every one of these guys seemed a little pitiful. They all had failed relationships and they were quite good at "pretending" affection for their clients. That's not particularly appealing, in fact, it is sort of sad. Also, there is something sad about anyone who exchanges affection for money. (And it usually is more because they need to than because they want to.)

One good thing about the show is that the sex was pretty graphic. But then that was one bad thing about the show too. The "clients" were mainly just normal average women looking for a "boink" from a pretty boy in Las Vegas. But there were some clients who were a little bizarre.

There was one lady who paid quite a bit more to fulfill her S&M fantasy. She put her gigolo's penis in a wire mesh cage for a couple of days. The dude went along with it because I guess the price was right. It just made me shudder.

Now, actually, that could be just because my fantasies have nothing to do with penises in wire mesh cages.

You can do it for love - you can do it for money. I'd rather do it cause I want to, Honey.

The Girl In A Cage

2011-08-08T14:05:00.001-07:00

I'm very responsible with children.

If someone entrusts their child to me, they can be certain that the child will be returned to them no worse for the wear.

I had a friend tell me once that walking with me and Alex and one of the grandkids, is like being with a secret service detail watching the President's kid. Kids are always close enough to be snatched back by one of us.

Abbey Rose is 7 years old. She is my son's third daughter and quite a lovely girl. My son and his wife took the three other children and left Abbey Rose with us yesterday morning for a few hours.

Both Alex and I needed to perform our ablutions and get ready for the day. I won't leave a small child alone or unattended at all so this presented a slight problem. Oh wait! Solution! The crate that we used for Harry!

We told Abbey Rose to get in the crate and stay there while we got ready. So Abbey wouldn't get lonely, Harry joined her. (Plus, if a robber, serial killer, kidnapper, or arsonist tried to break in the house they couldn't get Abbey Rose with Harry in there with her.) Both of my dogs, Harry and Honey adore Abbey Rose. They have known her since she was a baby.

When I came downstairs about 20 minutes later, both Abbey Rose and Harry were lying down in the crate watching "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" and eating waffles.

I told you I'm responsible.

The Art Of Jizz On the Recycle Bin Handle

2011-08-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

Garbage Eve!

We put out our green container for our yard trimmings and "green" waste. We put out our blue container for our paper, plastic and metal waste. And we put out our gray container for our "garbage" that includes pet waste.

I sometimes get up early on Garbage Day just to watch out the window in my office. The tiny Asian women come with their plastic sacks looking for coke cans, empty bottles, and such to take to the recycle place in town. They make numerous trips from the street to take their cans to their Mercedes parked around the corner. I sometimes tell them to stop, but usually not. Once it's on the street, it no longer is my property. Now it could be argued that it should belong to the recycle people, but frankly, maybe the Asian ladies need it. In fact, the police can come and search your garbage without a warrant after you put it on the curb for pick up.

I have a neighbor. He comes out early in the morning in his underpants and a tee shirt and opens all of my garbage cans. He then throws whatever excess "green waste" he has into our garbage can. I don't really care about that either, particularly since he has lost a few pounds. The only thing is, he also peers into our other two garbage cans which seems weird to me. It's not a big deal, but it seems a little nosy or something. I mean the dildo is technically plastic but what business is it of his?

What I am not too crazy about is that he then proceeds to move the 3 trash containers into a position right in front of our driveway. This means that in order to get in or out of our driveway, we have to get out of the car and move the cans. This pattern has been going on for 10 years or so now, so I really should be used to it.

Tonight Alex took out the trash containers to the curb. He was chortling when he came in the house and I asked "what's so funny?". Alex replied "I put jizz on the green recycle bin handle". Excuse me, "jizz?". I was a little dumbstruck wondering what the hell he was talking about. Was he out getting amorous on the trashcan handle in the backyard? Gadzooks, I hoped it had not come (no pun intended) to that.

Then Alex told me he had put Honey and Harry's cream rinse on the handles. When my neighbor moves our cans tomorrow, he's in for a slightly white sticky surprise. Oh this is disgusting.

But I love it!

The Trouble With Charity

2011-08-02T16:19:00.000-07:00

This is a photo of Charity Hodges.

I really can imagine that this girl could be trouble. But that's not what this post is about at all. Actually, I have no idea who Charity Hodges is, but she certainly is pretty and rather perky too.

The kind of charity I am referring to is more of the lower case type. We have several charities that we contribute to on a monthly basis. Now, don't get me wrong, it's not part of the Christian Children's Fund. I strongly believe a contribution to "Planned Parenthood" would do more good than many other gifts.

We contribute to the Red Cross. We also contribute to the United Fund. Then there's the ASPCA and the East Bay SPCA.

Then there are the "causes" that show up at your front door. "Save the Whales", or "Help me get rid of my crack ho hairdo" and such. I may hand them a $5.00 bill just hoping they will go away. Sometimes they do.

Sometimes I have to get the dogs to get rid of them. Seems the young people with a clipboard actually want me to solve the problem of world hunger by ordering a bunch of magazines from them. This is where snarling beasts come in handy. Both Honey and Harry know a hand command to show their teeth. And they do it on cue! Smart dogs.

We also get missionaries who come to the door from time to time. I like those guys. Mormons come in a well dressed and smiling set. They are nice and don't ask me for money. If it's hot, I give them ice water. Jehovah's Witness sometimes come in a crowd of people. They are nice too and want to give me their magazine. Nobody asks for money. These people just want to save me. I don't get saved but I don't give them money either.

I got a little off track here. We were discussing charities. Every charity I give a monthly gift to contacts me at least four times a year asking for additional help. Excuse me? We give away a good amount of money to you guys year in and year out. Now you want more? That annoys me. Be grateful and leave me alone.

John McCain wanted money from me when he ran for President. I gave money to Obama instead. Then Obama kept emailing me asking for more money. Since I am a registered Republican, all the Republican candidates ask me for money. Now, the Democrats ask me for money too.

I think I'd rather just give some money to Charity Hodges.

Cali Style

2011-07-31T18:47:00.000-07:00

This is Giselle.

She lives here in Alameda. We encountered Giselle and her owner today at the Park Street Art and Wine Festival. When I first saw Giselle, I thought the glass of wine I had was giving me a vivid hallucination.

I think I said "Oh Wow! Alex look at this pup!" I was not really praising the little critter, but it was kind of like the lady we saw today with the purple hair, tattoos on her arms and legs, daisy dukes shorts, and high, high heels with the untethered 50 inch breasts. You do have to say "Goodness me! Would you look at that!" But that's not to say that I would dress like her. (And it's not to say I have any 50 inch breasts either.)

There is something that bothers me about dogs wearing sunglasses. It just looks wrong. Giselle was also wearing an Oakland Raiders jersey. She is a little black dog and it was a hot day (maybe 68 degrees). She did not need a jersey. (Conversely, the purple haired lady with the 50 inch jugs did need a bra.)

I suppose taking your dog to a fair in a baby carriage makes sense on some level. There are a lot of dogs there and a tiny one like Giselle could be devoured in one gulp by any average sized dog since she weights maybe 3 pounds dripping wet.

My dogs are big. Harry and Honey do not attend fairs or festivals. They are inclined to be obnoxious toward little "slipper-shoe" dogs. Also, I don't like crowds and I think it's too much stimulation for the dogs. People walk up to Harry and want to pet him. People cross the street to avoid Honey. And it's difficult to get through crowds with big dogs who are trying to grab ears of corn out of kids' hands.

Honey and Harry are not big on wine or art either for that matter. They are better off staying in their home, taking a nap, and warning off potential thieves and troublemakers with their size, ferocious growls and barks. Neither of them wears sunglasses.

Little Giselle doesn't make a sound. She looks like a toy. I doubt she would ever frighten any critter.

But she is pretty and isn't that what California is all about?

Making Do and Making Out

2011-07-27T13:47:00.001-07:00

Making do is what happens after you are married.

Making out is what you do when you are not married.

The first time I made out I think I was 14 and I certainly liked it. In fact, I liked it enough that I primarily thought about making out during all my waking hours for the next few years. (Okay, yeah, it was longer than that.)

When I was 15, I made the terrible mistake of "going all the way" with my boyfriend who assured me he would love me forever. I was somewhat upset when the next day he not only broke up with me, but told all his friends I had put out for him. The bad news was my reputation was shot. The good news is I always had a prom date. Of course, I continued to "make out" with a lot of boys, but I didn't climb back on the horse if you get my drift.

After my semi-revirgination, I met my future husband. He and I made out in cars, in swimming pools, in churches, in hallways, in my mother's house, in his mother's house and I thought I had found the perfect mate for me, particularly after he told me he wanted to marry me. I was 19 and surely ready for marriage.

We married. Guess what? The make out thing was over. Now it was sex. Just sex. None of the really fun stuff. Sex and more sex and more sex. What happened to all that make out stuff? It was over. Duh!

We got divorced in due time, (well, after two adorable and perfectly formed offspring), and I happily went back to my old ways of making out with guys. Everything was hunky dory for a while, until I got married again. Okay, I don't need to tell you what happened (or didn't happen) because you already know.

Men / boys / whatever all love to make out when they aren't married to you. Once they are married, that changes immediately. I just don't really understand why.

So I guess we just make do, huh?

After Winning the $61 Million Dollar Lottery

2011-07-24T17:24:00.000-07:00

I had Alex take this photo before we checked our numbers.

See how slightly smug I look? I know I would be a little overcome with emotion after finding out we won, so I wanted to go ahead and do the pose first.

We spent a little time yesterday talking about how we would use our lottery money. First things first, I want to get the wall to wall carpet taken out of one of the spare bedrooms and have the hardwood floors refinished.

Secondly, we really need to have a new lawn planted because although our lawn is green, it's mainly green crabgrass and green weeds.

We also need to get the bathrooms painted. Oh, and probably the kitchen. Plus, the exterior could use new paint too.

Alex wants a new Z-4 BMW Coupe. Whatever.

The Alameda Animal Shelter is closing. We might build a new Shelter and hire really good people to staff it. I would want animals taken care of to the highest standards possible. Maybe we can even fly in Cesar Milan to help with the training. Wouldn't that be wonderful. Maybe have a place for 50 or so animals and train and groom them, while feeding and exercising them so they would be in demand as pets. This might not sound like it, but it would probably cost a lot of money if you do it right.

The other big thing I want to do is to gather up about 100 Nigerians and take them to a Giants ballgame with us. We have a Nigerian Ship in port at Coast Guard Island right now, and I think it's only here for the next week. I have seen numerous Nigerian sailors all over town for the last month. I love Nigerians. I always smile and wave and yell "Hello' at them. They always grin and wave and say "Hello" back to me. (Yes, it embarrasses my husband, but so what.) I love Nigerians. I have two gorgeous Nigerian daughters, Ginger and Lily. I want to help find them husbands. Nigerians are beautiful and friendly people. That's why I love them.

Alex said I should just start loving Chinese people because we have a lot of them around. I do like Chinese people too, but I'm sorry, they aren't Nigerians. Plus, I have no interest in marrying Ginger or Lily off to some Chinese guy when there are handsome Nigerian men around for them to marry.

Time to check the lotto numbers. Wish us luck!

Oh Hells Bells! We didn't win! I'm so sorry, Lily and Ginger! And I'm really am sorry I can't take the Nigerian Sailors to a ballgame. And I'm sorry I can't build a pet shelter.

The floors and paint, eh!

Napping In Tehran

2011-07-21T15:14:00.001-07:00

When my daughter told me she and her husband were taking the kids to Iran for a month, I think I screamed!

My daughter's husband is Persian and he has family in Iran. This was a few years ago, but the tensions between Iran and the US were at a boiling point.

I seriously questioned their sanity in taking children there. I was assured they would all be "fine". I rented a copy of the old Sally Field movie "Not Without My Daughter" and watched it over and over with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Fine?" This looks "fine" to my daughter?

I was somewhat surprised that my daughter didn't mind wearing the prescribed head covering and long tunic type jacket whenever they went outside. Fortunately, my little granddaughter was too young to be required to cover up.

My daughter converted to Islam when she got married. She is fluent in Farsi, (and Arabic, and French, and Korean for that matter), but she is a blue eyed blond.

I was sure she and/or the kids would be kidnapped at the very least and held for ransom. Worst case scenario, they would be killed by people saying they were "infidels".

I also worried that my son in law would be put in the Iranian Army. I worried too that they would all get very ill from the water and food in Iran.

Oddly, none of those dire things I worried about happened. In fact, they all had a wonderful trip and came home giving the place rave reviews. Apparently, it's a beautiful country with lovely people. Who knew?

The most dangerous part of the trip was on the highways since Persians are crazy drivers.

I've ridden in the car with my son in law so this comes as no big surprise to me.

The Wild Somethings Of Telegraph Hill

2011-07-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

A mind is a terrible thing to lose.

Alex and I watched a documentary last year that completely charmed both of us. It was about a man who was sort of down on his luck, but didn't see it that way. This guy had very modest needs and he squatted in a cottage behind a home for a number of years and nobody ever complained.

I think he was a musician, but if so, he made very little money. He lived in the Telegraph Hill area of San Francisco and got his coffee free at a local dive where he read his newspaper every morning. If memory serves, he got basic supplies from a food bank but rather than seeing him as deprived, he seemed to be living a very rich life. This was some amazing storytelling.

The guy developed a relationship with wild birds who lived near him and several of them trusted him enough to move into his cottage with him. He watched them form relationships, have offspring, lose mates, and documented most of what he was seeing. It was amazing to see the affection these birds and this man had for each other.

In a rather lovely turn of events, the man in the film actually married the woman film maker who did the documentary on him.

I went to lunch with my friend Nelson shortly after seeing the film. I was explaining how delightful the man was and how simply and frugally he lived. (Nelson is all about the simple life, but I think he has stock portfolio and a trust fund that make his simple life a little less simple than the guy in the film.)

In any case, Nelson asked me, "What was the name of the film?" and I drew a total blank. It was "The wild somethings of telegraph hill" I responded to him. "Wild Somethings?" he asked. Well, wait, it was the "Wild Pirates", no, that's wrong. I started flapping my arms like a bird at him and said "Wild Pilots". At this point, I was snorting with laughter and nearly falling on the floor. I then offered "Wild Parents of Telegraph Hill", which of course was wrong as well. I choked out "Nelson they are green and some are red! And look at me!" as I flapped my arms even harder to get him to understand.

Nelson looked at me and I know he was embarrassed by my behavior because we were in a restaurant. I kept saying "Wild Pirates!" and then "No! Wild Pilots!" "Wild Parents!" and flapping my arms in frustration and hysteria.

The word "Parrots" would not come no matter how hard I tried. I finally quit trying much to Nelson relief. I had Pilots, Pirates and Parents in my brain and they would not allow Parrots in at that point no matter how hard I tried. I was sort of annoyed that Nelson had been so embarrassed at my theatrics, but I thought he would have guessed what I was trying to say. It should have been obvious enough.

As soon as I got home from lunch, I went in the house and the word "Parrots" came to me immediately. I never told Nelson.

Screw him!

Sleeping With Girls...

2011-07-13T19:09:00.001-07:00

I guess you aren't surprised.

As one of four girls in a family, I spent a lot of time in bed with girls, whether I liked it or not.

By the time I was 12, I had a good friend named Linda and she and I always slept together when we had sleep overs. By the time we were 15 or so, we had discovered her parents diet pills, and we would pop a couple of those at bedtime, enabling us to stay up talking and listening to Top 40 radio almost all night. A side effect of those pills was that we were very skinny. Oh hell, we were skinny before the pills too. It really didn't matter to us. It was just fun to lie in bed and have "one more cigarette and one more song" until 4 AM or so.

We finally took so many of Linda's parents pills that they were looking at us funny, so we quit. We quickly gained back the weight we had lost and still had "sleep overs" but they were now curtailed before midnight when we crashed.

Years later, after I was a married woman of 19, Linda would still come and spend the night. When she did, we banished my husband to the couch so we could re-live our youth together in bed.

It was several years before I slept with another girl. This girl was named Sandy and her dad was an Army General. We spent the night at the Army post and always slept together because the place was scary and seemed a little haunted. I was divorced and had two kids at this point, and Sandy was also a divorcee. We talked but not with the intimacy that existed between my teenage girlfriend, Linda.

Several years later, I spent a drunken New Years Eve at my house where I had a soiree for several of my closest friends, including Cogie and Evan. These girls were from Ireland and I loved them both. I awoke early on New Years Day in bed between two lovely naked Irish lassies. We pulled on clothing, (actually, I just threw on a full length mink coat) and went to the corner store for some "hair of the dog". We came back home and drank beer till about noon when we all decided they should just go home and we should all deal with the upcoming hangover and stop trying to put it off.

When I was almost 40, Natalie (a gorgeous Persian girl) and I drove to Lake Tahoe for weekend. We got a room at one of the hotels that had a round bed, a round over-sized bath in the center of the room, and a mirrored ceiling. The bellboy was more interested in us than most of the hotel clientele. I guess I see his point.

Natalie and I were good friends and it seemed very normal for us to share a bed and even a bath, but if truth be told, we took turns playing "maid" to the person bathing. We would bring the "bather" a glass of juice or champagne, or whatever was desired. Natalie and I went to the spa at the hotel and were astounded at all the naked ladies walking around. She and I both modestly wore bathing suits for the hot tub.

The last girl I slept with was CT, my gay girlfriend. She got very sick at our house after a dinner out. I needed to keep an eye on her so I got in bed with her.

Now, lest you think these are the only girls I have been to bed with, I assure you they are not. But the ones you probably want to hear about, well, you won't hear it from me.

The Antique Opium Pipe And Me

2011-07-11T14:41:00.000-07:00

I know a Chinese man named Fred. He is a good friend.

When Fred goes to China, he brings me back some really interesting gifts. A couple of years ago, he brought me an antique opium pipe.

Now I've never had the occasion to use this pipe, but if you happen to have some opium laying around, I would smoke it.

Years ago, I saw a movie called "Indochine" with Catherine Deneuve and I loved it. She smoked opium in the film and it looked like something I would like a lot. I told my doctor I wanted to smoke opium before I died and he laughed. He said he had tried it when he was very young and it made him very sick. I don't think it would make me sick, and I'd take the risk.

Fred also brought me a 100 year Chinese calendar. It's the round piece on the table with the pipe. The other object is a lamp and it's not Chinese or old either. I think we got it from Lamps Plus.

I love getting gifts that are really unique. Still, people give me a lot of things and I feel obligated to keep them even when they are a little on the squirrely side. I finally told Alex yesterday I was going to clear out some of the "clutter" because you can get carried away with clutter.

My mother was a great collector of "pretty things". She at one point had about 30 little objects on top of her toilet tank. Now lest you think she had the "pretties" sitting on the porcelain tank she did not. They were on the toilet tank cover which matched the fluffy blue toilet seat cover.

Mom was never a fastidious housekeeper. These little objects were never dusted or even noticed by her year after year. I think people gave her pretty little things and she couldn't figure out what to do with them so she stuck them on the toilet tank. Bless her heart.

I used to shudder when I would do a little housework for her after she was older and in poor health. I would suggest from time to time that we "ix-nay" (pig-latin for "nix") some of the arty little objects but she wouldn't hear of it.

Several years ago, a friend gave me a little statue of Mary with a lamb. I mean the holy Mary, not the "Mary had a little lamb", Mary. Well, my friend didn't realize that I am not religious in the slightest and that a statue of Mary with a lamb might not be the perfect thing for me. Since I could not throw it away, I put it in the bathroom.

I woke up after about 5 years and really noticed that religious statue sitting on my toilet tank (not with a fluffy tank cover either) and I was horrified. I took the holy Mary and tossed her. Yeah, I felt guilty, but it had to be done.

Today I went through several rooms in the house and tossed some things that I had received as gifts. They are simply not my taste. And they were pretty much butt ugly things.

Oh, I'm keeping my opium pipe though. You never know.

Doing It Right

2011-07-06T20:27:00.001-07:00

Alex wanted to "get away" for a couple of days.

I am a stay-at-home woman. I live in paradise. Why do I want to go anywhere? I don't really, but being a sometimes compliant wife, I tried to figure out a plan for a few days away.

We have two big dogs, Harry and Honey. Neither of them like to travel any more than I do. Harry cannot lie down or even sit on a road trip and that means hours on his feet in the cargo area of the station wagon. Harry does not like to "poo" anyplace but home either.

He also requires bottled water any place we go. His preference is Fiji Water which is quite expensive. (But I like it too.)

Honey sleeps in the car on any ride, but she gets sore and cranky after hours of inactivity. I think she takes after me.

I made us a reservation in Santa Cruz, California, on the Coast. The person who answered the phone took my reservation, but he also sounded totally bored by the whole thing. "Yeah, we take dogs" and "Yeah, we have a room". The place was equally lackluster. The hotel was my idea of a "hot pillow" joint, except it cost $200 a night, but was lacking in the presence of crack "ho's". (Now come to think of it, I did see a couple and even had a conversation with one.) I'm broad minded like that!

The room was poorly arranged and we all fell all over each other trying to get from one end to the other. Overall Rating: Fail. It was a depressing and weird place even if it was two blocks away from the piers.

Santa Cruz may be good for young families with very little money to waste except on cotton candy and roller coaster rides. I don't really understand why anyone would go there. There are no "good" places to eat. It's dirty and crowded and the population makes you wish you had brought your 357 magnum for protection.

The following morning, we drove up to Half Moon Bay, also on the coast where I had made a reservation for one night. It was about a two hour drive from Santa Cruz. When I called for the reservation, the person I talked to was helpful, made every effort to accommodate us and even convinced me to change our original travel schedule. We actually were so disheartened from our Santa Cruz adventure that we considered just driving on home and forfeit the deposit. I convinced Alex that we needed to get a suite if one was available after our dismal trip to Santa Cruz.

The entire get-away turned around dramatically when we arrived at the Best Western Half Moon Bay Lodge. It was a gorgeous facility set directly on a golf course right next to the crashing waves. The suite had a bedroom with a king sized bed, wonderful linens, robes, and a color scheme that made everything restful, aesthetically pleasing, as well as a large living room with a lovely fireplace.

The people at the front desk were friendly and helpful. We watched the golfers out on our patio while the dogs frolicked on the lawn behind our suite. (Yes, Harry was able to "poo" in these surroundings and that's a good thing.)

We spend an invigorating and restful night there before returning home. There are wonderful restaurants in the area. The bed was like sleeping on a cloud. Heavenly! Alex, Harry and I were very content. Honey is a little harder to impress, or she just reserves her judgment in these things.

From the moment I made the reservation at this place, I had a feeling it was going to be "special". It's amazing that a person who answers a phone can give you that sense of luxury. The man, Kurt, told me he wanted us to consider this Lodge our get away place on the coast from now on. He was on the money!

The whole experience taught me something. When people actually "care" if you enjoy a visit, it's going to be special.

And it certainly was.

My Name is Honey - Redux

2011-07-02T22:10:00.000-07:00

I knew when I was born that I was one of those dangerous females. I took no shit from anybody from the time I was 4 months old. I spent a lot of time on the streets and that changes you. Dad was a no-count Pit Bull from Oakland. He only stuck around long enough to get mom pregnant. Mom was a German Shepherd from the Oakland Hills and very nurturing. She did right by me and my brother. I think we were her first litter.

One day, we woke up and there was a man chasing mom down the street. He had a truck with him and grabbed her and stuck her in a cage-like place. My brother and I were left alone at that point. We never saw our mother again. We stuck together for a while. We found the Oakland restaurants that put out garbage and we looked through every evening to see what we could find. Chicken bones, pork, beef, even chicken feet all were on the menu if we went to Chinatown. It was great. We slept under the overpass when it was raining. There were a lot of people sleeping out there. Some of them were really nice and let us get close. It helped on cold nights.

This young guy in an SUV pulled up to the curb when he saw me. He held out something that smelled delicious and I went up close to see what it was. He grabbed me and put me in the back of his SUV. We drove for a while and I got completely confused. I was in an area I had never seen before. He took me through an alley and into a place that had a bunch of wired cages. He put a collar on me and shoved me into one of them. I was worried about my brother, but there was nothing I could do about that. There was water in my cage but no food. I was hungry and wondered where and when my next meal would show up. I found it out would be a couple of days before I would eat again.

There were a lot of other dogs out in this yard. Some looked torn up with scars and bloody faces. I realized to survive, I had to grow up and get hard fast. The first day someone brought a bowl of kibble to my cage, I snarled at the guy and gave him my hardest look. He backed away respectfully. I was learning a survival skill. Some fool left my cage unlocked and I ran off as fast as I could. I spent another couple of years as a homeless dog. I was picked up as a stray (or vagrant) and taken to a shelter. This was bad and good. I was used to cages but that was the bad part. But I did get regular food and water; that was the good part. People wandered through and looked at me and said, "Damn! That's a scary looking dog!" and walked on to the cages with the little fluffy guys. Who gives a shit? I was getting fed. It was okay.

A couple came and said, "We'll take that one" about me after a couple of months. The shelter people did an operation on me before I went home with these people so I couldn't have puppies. It's just as well. I didn't want puppies. We got into the car and we drove to a place called Hercules. I was put out in the backyard and I was fine. I stayed outside all of the time. I was "security" the man said. They fed me once a day and gave me water. Still, I felt like something was missing in my life. These people never even gave me a name. They called me "the dog". Still, it was okay.

After some time had passed, I noticed that I had waited a long time for some food. Nobody came. The people had moved. A guy in a uniform came to the back gate and whistled. I went over to see him. He put a leash on me and took me to a waiting truck taking me to the Oakland SPCA. Here we go with the cages again. But things were a little different this time. I had a warm place to sleep, plenty of food, and a person came almost every day to take me for a walk. I stayed at this place for almost 5 months.

One day a lady walked up to my "kennel". She looked at me and I looked at her and something happened. We just knew each other immediately. She called a man over and said, "Oh my God! This is the one we want! She's beautiful and I must have her!" The man said, "Uh, that's a pit bull" and the woman said "Don't be ridiculous; she's a German Shepherd". They got someone who worked there to take us into the "get acquainted" room. They both seemed just fine, but who really knows! I let them pet me and showed them that I had a few manners and that seemed just fine.

Two days later, they came back with a new collar and leash for me and told me I was going "home". They put me in the back seat of a car and we drove for a few minutes. When we got to their house, the lady said "This is your house, Honey". Okay, my name was "Honey" now. Not dog, not Fern (as I was called at the shelter" but Honey!) I liked it. We took a long walk and I marked every place I could so I could always find my way "home".

I was given a bath (not so great) and given flea medication, and taken to a "vet". The vet told these people that I had bad arthritis problems that was causing me to limp and move with some pain. My people said, "What can we do to fix it?". I was given medicine and taken to a specialist for something called an MRI. My people were told that there really wasn't much that could be done except to keep me "comfortable". The pills helped a lot. Also, the lady (who I now call Mom) hired an acupuncturist to stick needles in me to try and make me better. It was okay. The needles didn't hurt. (But I did look funny with about 100 needles sticking out of me.)

Six years have passed. I have changed in so many ways. I am well fed, I am well groomed, and I am well loved. I only eat organic food that Mom cooks for me. If I can't walk, they carry me. I live indoors and only go outside when I want to. I have a brother named Harry and I can bite and growl at him any time I want. Life is better than before. Mom worries about losing me. I worry more about losing her.

Shady

2011-06-30T19:15:00.001-07:00

You thought this was going to be about some whackadoodle shady business, didn't you?

Maybe something about porn, or misbehaving, or turtles in love. But it's not. The word shady here refers to just that. Shady places.

As summer has come upon us with a bang, I have to find shady places to hang out. I don't do well in hot weather. I like it cool. I used to broil myself in the sun, smeared with baby oil and a little iodine (to hurry the tan along) for hours. I'm fortunate that so far, my skin has not rebelled because of the sins of my youth. I think being Mexican helps. I used to think of the sun as a lover and give in to him on every possible occasion.

For the last 20 years, I've been more careful in the sun. I slather on the sunscreen and stay in the shade. In fact, I sometimes put on the abaya mi esposo brought me home from Saudi Arabia when I go in the yard. I keep it covered in other words. In the old days, people asked me if I was Egyptian because of how dark I was. Egyptian? Okay.

These days, my dogs and I prefer the shade. There is a 100 year old big Oak Tree in my front yard. It's interesting to note that it is always a good 10 degrees cooler under that tree than it is in the sun. That makes it the perfect place for a siesta or a good place to read. Our street is usually not very busy, so I am not concerned that someone will walk by and grab my earrings even if I fall asleep.

My husband Alex doesn't like being in the sun either. As a 100% Navajo Indian, he already has a permanent tan. In fact, years ago, my sister asked me if he was "that color" all over. I assured her that he was. Frankly, very white men just don't do it for me, usually. I love a little color on a man. (Or in some cases, a lot of color, but that's another post.)

The heat makes me drowsy, lazy and incompetent. I hate it. But I do like sitting in a shady place and knowing that because of my aversion to heat, there's nothing else I am expected to do. You have to relax in the heat. No silly jogging or walking. No crazy riding a bike.

The heat was made for quiet contemplation. And ice cold beer.

Christal Shanda Leer - Porn Queen

2011-06-27T16:09:00.001-07:00

If I was a porn star, Christal Shanda Leer would be my name.

I think it has a touch of class and it's not all hoochie mama or anything. Actually, porn star names are sometimes pretty clever, but a lot of times, they are just too obvious.

I really don't see much porn these days. Gone are the days when Candy Barr starred in her first and only porn movie. I saw the film (which was made when Candy was only 16) after I was married and had my first child.

We were at a friend's house and they had a porn film they they showed from a projector. I remember the man in the film was wearing black socks through out the movie.

The movie was called "Smart Alec" and it was much more humorous than erotic. Still, I was very uncomfortable watching it in "mixed company".

Oh, and Candy Barr was not her real name. Her real name was Juanita Slusher and she was from Edna, Texas. I think I like the name Juanita Slusher just as well as Candy Barr. She was born in 1935 so the movie was made about 1951. I think Candy Barr was considered one of the first porn queens. I saw the movie in 1970 or so.

The next porn film I saw was at a theater in San Francisco. The movie was "Behind the Green Door" and I think the year was 1972. Marilyn Chambers was the star and she was formerly the "Ivory Soap Girl". Pretty woman. Again, it wasn't a great film, and it wasn't as funny as "Smart Alec" either.

The problem with porn to me is that there isn't really any plot. Plus, there's usually not a lot of dialog. I end up wishing the people would stop fooling around and have a conversation.

I'm glad that porn is available at the video store and on the internet. Even though I haven't seen a porn film in ages, I am pretty sure it's much better not to go to the theater to see it. There are always a lot more men at the theater than women. Plus, who can eat popcorn and watch porn? Not me.

I think I'd be good at making up porn star names. Plus I have some good titles in mind too. "Teenage Enema Nurses In Bondage" is one I thought of. That's good, isn't it?

And you have too admit, Christal Shanda Leer is sort of brilliant.

The Truth About Turtle Sex

2011-06-23T20:11:00.000-07:00

I never really thought about turtle sex too much.

That changed a couple of weeks ago when Alex called me from the car on his way home and told me he had picked up a very large turtle who was walking down the street.

Because I can be a touch dimwitted, I said great. (I thought he was kidding.) Alex showed up a few minutes later with Albert, a big green turtle with sharp claws and a kind of funny looking head.

The second photo to the left is an actual picture of Albert. After seeing him up close and personal, I told Alex to put him in the fish pond. (I'm assuming he could swim, or at least I hoped so.) Realizing we actually knew absolutely nothing about turtles I thought I'd better get on the internet and look for some information. That's where I found the top photo of turtles mating.

I figured Albert got out of his habitat and was looking for a girlfriend to mate with when Alex found him. I also determined that he could have any number of weird turtle diseases and that we really were not equipped to take care of him.

Living in California, the first thing I thought of was "Turtle Rescue". (Well, in Racine, WI, they may not have anything like that, but I was betting that in the shadows of San Francisco, we did.) I was quite right! There was a "Turtle Rescue" place about 20 minutes from our home. I called the number and waited impatiently for a call back to my rather urgent request for help.

Within ten minutes, the phone rang and it was the lady from the turtle rescue. She listened to me saying that this was a very nice turtle but I really knew nothing about turtles and wanted to do what was best for him. (I also told her we had named him Albert, but she made no comment at all saying if she thought that was a good turtle name or not.)

She gave me her address and said if there was no answer to just leave it in the box outside on the porch. I hung up and thought, here is this nice woman who cares so much about turtles that she rescues them. Isn't that wonderful? I had images of a slightly plump sweet older lady with gray hair and glasses who just loved her some turtles.

Alex fished Albert out of the pond. We put him in a large tupperware container with holes in the top and a little water in the bottom. I thought he looked a little intimidated over all the handling, in fact he might have made a bit of a funny noise, but I wasn't sure. I was a little relieved to have him out of our fish pond because of those potentially deadly turtle diseases.

We drove him to the nice lady's house. The screen door was closed but the front door was open so I called in "hello" and a woman came to the door. She was about 40 and had a chicken bone hanging out of her mouth. The lady was not what I expected. She looked more like a biker woman than a turtle rescue woman.

She kept chewing on the chicken bone and said "Jerry! Get out here. The Alameda people are here with the turtle" and walked away. Jerry (her partner in turtle love?) came to the the front door with a smile that showed off his 2 or 3 remaining teeth. Hey! Jerry! Hi!

I said, "This is really interesting! You guys save turtles?" He gave me a look that said I was really dumb as in stupid, not speechless, and said "Uh, yeah." He told us what kind of a turtle Albert was and we asked him a few questions. Okay, mainly, he wanted to go back and chew on chicken bones with the turtle lady so he looked at us like we were stupid and boring.

Before we said our last goodbye to Jerry and Albert, I asked Jerry if he liked him. He said "Sure", but I'm not positive he meant it. As we drove away, Alex said "I'll bet they will just make him into some turtle soup."

Sometimes I hate Alex.

Bubble Baths and Guard Duty

2011-06-21T13:40:00.001-07:00

Taking a bubble bath is never a private affair for me.

Harry has decided that I need protection whilst I am performing my ablutions. He parks his rather formidable self right next to the tub and watches the doorway for intruders while he looks at me with curiosity.

I do make my bath sort of an occasion. I bring my iced tea (or Diet Coke), my telephones, my husband's iPad, my Kindle, my potions, and spend the time lollygagging. Harry watches me and tries to discern why I seem so content just sitting in a tub full of bubbles and water.

Even the most circumspect of guards can only do this kind of duty for so long. Harry gets a little bored and a little tired after a half hour or so.

As a result, he stretches out on the 6 foot long bathmat for a little "catnap". Being as protective as he is can be quite exhausting as I'm sure you can imagine.

Sometimes Harry's nap determines how long I spend in my bubble bath. He is not inclined to wake up and move just because I want to get out.

We have all heard that most accidents happen in the home. And the bathroom is the most hazardous place of all. Trying to get out of a tub and step over Harry might be tricky so I usually just wait. Eventually, he wakes up and resumes his post.
With his renewed energy, it's easy for me to step on to the mat and get dried. Harry waits until he's sure I'm finished before he leaves the bathroom.

I seldom feel anxious when I bathe even though for many years after seeing the Alfred Hitchcock film "Psycho" I was unable to shower alone in house. I kept envisioning crazed killers with knives wearing mama's flowered dress.

Today I have no such anxiety.

Outgunned and Outnumbered

2011-06-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

Can you pick out the non-Navajo in this photo?

I take the occasional trip with Alex to see the family in Arizona. We sometimes stay with Alex's mom when we go. I love my husband's family and there are a lot of them to love.

Sometimes it's hard to tell who is who because they all look a lot alike. Add to this, the Rez Navajos that sometimes come down to Phoenix from the Navajo Nation. These guys are perfectly happy camping in the backyard for a few months. When we visit, I sometimes feel like I stick out like a sore thumb.

I catch people looking at me with a kind of fascination and it's not just because of the blond hair. Sometimes I'm glad I'm not fluent in Navajo because I might get my feelings hurt if I was. If they find me "interesting", I have similar reactions to them.

Alex's mom will give me a sanitized version of things, but then takes her son off to tell him "the real deal". The two stories are usually not particularly compatible. Alex's sisters are warm and friendly to me, but I'm treated with a "protective" attitude. Girls! I can handle the truth! Really I can! Distant relatives sometimes are "squished" by machinery, and I'm told they had a little accident. (Yes, I hate the idea of anyone being "squished" but I could be told that too.)

If I answer the phone when Alex's family members call, I'm told everything is "fine". Then Alex gets on the phone and his side of the conversation consists of "Oh no!" "Oh my God!" "Is he all right?' "Oh no!" "Did the police come?" "Oh no!" "You're kidding! Oh my God!" After 20 minutes or so of this, the phone call ends.

I ask Alex, "What's going on?" He tells me, "Nothing. Everybody's fine."

Go figure!

Knocked Up and Prickly

2011-06-16T15:01:00.001-07:00

This is something of a miracle.

For the last 10 years, my ugly cactus has gotten pregnant once a year and had one gorgeous but short-lived bloom.

The cactus usually gets one large pink flower that lasts for 24 hours per year. The rest of the time, it's a hateful looking plant with all its sharp thorns and weeds that somehow manage to grow in there with the thorns. I've thought about throwing it in the green recycle bin more than once.

I don't even know where the cactus came from since I am not a fan. It was probably here when we moved in ten years ago. I think there is something alien-like about cactus plants. I try to carefully pluck the weeds out of it once in a while, and I have bled profusely every time I attempt the pruning. I swear these pricks are purely evil.

This year, a miracle birth occurred. The plant developed nine long phallic looking protrusions with red tips. About two days later, we had a multiple birth. This was the first time I've ever seen more than one flower appear on it.

I'm wondering if this has to do with global warming. It could also be the result of California's extreme rainfall this year. Of course, it could also be related to hyperactive sexuality in the planter. (I'm just glad that my own occasional hyperactive sexuality never resulted in anything remotely similar.)

Whatever it was, the showy display is over now for another year. I guess I can't toss the plant now, can I?

"You Could Go Work With Blind Kids Or Something"

2011-06-13T16:42:00.001-07:00

My husband, Alex, left on a trip today.

Before he left, he asked me "What are you going to do while I'm gone, Honey?" I looked at him and said "I'm going to put on my robe." He sort of laughed and said, "Other people think you're kidding when you say that, but I know better." Uh huh. He does. I just looked at him.

Then Alex says "You could go work with blind kids or something." I nearly fell on the floor laughing. Where does he get this stuff?

Don't get me wrong. Working with blind kids would be a noble thing to do, I guess. But why blind kids? I have never expressed a desire to go work with blind kids.

Finally, Alex clued me in. That was a line that Al Pacino used to his wife in the movie "Scarface". Pacino's wife sat around all day doing coke and he said she should go work with blind kids or something.

Very funny, Alex!

The Bad Decision Queen

2011-06-07T16:23:00.000-07:00

Congressman Anthony Weiner has nothing on me.

I sort of feel for the guy. Yeah, he did something stupid and impulsive. I've done stupid and impulsive things all my life.

Keeping explicit "love notes" from my boyfriend at the home I shared with my husband is one good example. (No, no, not this husband, another one.)

Making out with my Pakistani English Professor three days before I got married was another little judgment lapse. (But I wasn't married yet, and no, not this husband either.)

Getting a boyfriend drunk and taking all of his money when he passed out was probably not the nicest thing I ever did either. All I can say is that it was stupid and impulsive and I was bad. It was nobody's fault that I did bad things except my own.

Inappropriate emails! Oh Good Golly, Miss Molly! I've sent my share. And I've received my share too. I can't claim to have sent photos of my crotch, unless you count the occasional upskirt.

Now on the other side of the coin, I help people who need help. I am good to little kids and old people. And I love my dogs.

Anthony Weiner has been a shining star in his efforts to help the downtrodden and he has done a lot for the people who put him in office. I saw the famous photo of him in his jockey shorts, and honestly, I don't think it was that big a deal. Was it being stupid? Yeah, probably. But give me someone stupid about naughty photos who tries to do the right thing about the important stuff any day of the week. Weiner's career may be over because of this mess, but I hope it isn't.

He's a good guy.

Nigerian Sailors!

2011-06-05T16:29:00.001-07:00

My cleaning lady Maria has a daughter.

Marina is 20 years old and a Jennifer Lopez look-alike. She's a shy, charming and lovely person.

Marina works at the Exchange at Coast Guard Island in Alameda. We saw her last weekend and she told us about being "harassed" by Nigerian sailors currently posted at Coast Guard Island. Apparently, these sailors are on a ship given to the Nigerian Navy by the U.S. Coast Guard.

We were concerned about Marina. She seemed to really feel that the sailors had been overly aggressive in trying to talk to her and wanting to take her photo. Marina is a very protected young woman and not used to obvious attention from men despite her beauty.

Today, Alex and I went to Coast Guard Island to run the dogs and pick up some supplies at the Exchange. While we were there, we saw dozens of young Nigerian sailors walking around. I am not sure I've ever seen better looking men! They are very attractive people.

While I can appreciate Marina feeling intimidated by them, all I can say is that I'm not sure why. These guys may get a little close to you when they talk to you, but so what! They may ask to take your photo and tell you that you are pretty, but so what! They are normal and healthy young men.

Two of the Nigerian guys were coming on base as we were leaving today. They were talking and laughing with each other as they walked. I grinned and waved at them and they grinned and waved back at me as we passed! Oh, no. I have no problem with Nigerian sailors at all! Actually, I'm kind of delighted to have them here in Alameda for a while. They certainly brighten up the landscape!

I've always been a sucker for a uniform.

The Road To Hell

2011-06-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

It started with a good idea.

The 3-day holiday weekend! Total bliss! Well, except for the fact that I was home alone gazing out the window at heavy fog with no plans whatsoever.

This was during one of my infrequent "dry spells". Or maybe I should say I was "between engagements". Whatever the case, I had just ended a relationship with Mr. Wrong and the next Mr. Wrong had not yet appeared.

The call from Cassie came early on Saturday morning. "What are you doing for the weekend?" Cassie lived in Sacramento, a couple of hours away from San Francisco. I responded with my plan to sleep late, watch television, and read books. Cassie said, "Why don't you come up here? We can sit by the pool, work on our tans, drink wine, gossip, and generally just relax." I told her that sounded great, but without a car, I really didn't think I could do it.

"Don't be silly!", Cassie said. "Take the Greyhound!" If she had told me to take the space shuttle, I wouldn't have been more surprised. Although I was in my early 30's at the time, I had never taken a Greyhound bus. I had seen those buses on the road, but I'd never actually even thought about going anywhere on one. It just seemed slightly seedy to me.

Cassie went on to describe the 80 degree weather, the cute guys that just moved into her apartment complex, and all the joys I would not be experiencing in cold and foggy San Francisco. "Oh, come on, Linda! Don't be so prissy!"

I told her I would call and see about schedules and get back to her. I called Greyhound and I was told the price and the schedule. I decided to make this an adventure and just do it. (I could have written the Nike slogan at that point in my life.)

Rather than getting "packed" for a trip, I decided I would just take a Macy's paper shopping bag and throw my things in there. I didn't need much. I packed a bikini, underwear, shorts and a tank top along with a big handful of tampons (because you just never know, or at least I never really knew) and my cosmetics and toothbrush! I also brought a couple of books to read on the trip. I think I was out the door within a half an hour.

The Greyhound station in San Francisco is in an area called "The Tenderloin". It is a very blighted neighborhood. Hookers and pimps all over the street outside of the terminal. There were several flat-eyed cops who looked at everyone funny, even me. Inside the terminal, I quickly found the ticket window and got my round-trip ticket for Sacramento. The bored clerk pointed me in the direction of my bus and I walked through some pretty shady looking characters to get there.

There was already a line formed and I got in line right behind a couple of young sailors. The sailors were a little intoxicated, but not really rude. The bus arrived and we got on. I was in the next to last row with the sailors in the seats behind me. I put my bag on the floor and opened my book.

Since I was at the back of the bus, a lot of people came past me when they wanted to use the restrooms. (It's a two hour trip, people. Pee before you leave home!) Of course, I think some of them went into the bathroom to shoot their heroin. This was sort of a scary cast of characters.

The sailors were having a bitch session behind me and they were also drinking beer. I could hear the "pop tops" being snapped every few minutes.

It was only a two hour trip but it seemed a lot longer. We finally arrived in Sacramento and I stood up and grabbed my bag and got in the aisle to depart the bus.

I was shocked when the bottom of my bag opened up and all of my "stuff" rolled up the aisle in front of me. Tampons spewed everywhere, little items of clothing landing in the muck on the floor, my pitiful toothbrush laying there. I guess the sailors had been drinking their beer and leaving the cans on the floor under my seat where the spillage caused the shopping bag to fail.

A very kind gentleman gave me a plastic bag and I grabbed my panties and swimsuit and cosmetics bag and toss them in. I ignored the tampons all over the floor.

A young man's voice, one of the sailor's, said "Miss, here's your toothbrush!" I said "Oh thank you." (Yeah, sailor boy, I'm really going to use an toothbrush that came off a Greyhound bus floor.)

I wasn't even at the swimming pool or in the sun and I was already having an adventure! Lucky me!

That is the first, last, and only time I ever rode on a Greyhound bus.

Elephants On A Bridge

2011-05-30T16:35:00.000-07:00

An elephant never forgets.

I think I've heard that all my life. My elephants have seen so many things. They were around for my first marriage, the birth of my first child, and all the events that followed in my life.

These elephants cost me an entire paycheck when I was 17 and right out of high school. I found them at an antique shop and fell in love with them. They are carved onyx and have ivory tusks and I was told that they were very old when I bought them.

The children that came into my life, my own and others, broke some of the ivory tusks off while playing with the elephants. I was sorry that happened, but if something must remain untouched, I see no reason to have it. The elephants have a small post on their feet and they can be taken off of the bridge. I see the appeal of touching them.

When I was younger, I didn't realize that elephants must always face the main entry door in a home. If you make sure that you position them that way, the wrong people won't come in. My ignorance cost me dearly.

There was the husband that was a disaster. Then there was the next wrong choice in a partner. Then there was the thief. Then there was the policeman and his handcuff games. I could go on, but I won't.

When I finally realized how the elephants should be placed, my whole life got a lot better. I stopped having the wrong people come into my home.

The man that looked good and had game still called me with his evil but appealing suggestions, but I didn't invite him to come and visit. The neighbor woman who wanted to gossip about other neighbors was kept on the porch. The out-and-out goofballs just stopped knocking at the door.

That's not saying I gave up all of my wicked companions, but I just went to their place instead.

It's My Nature

2011-05-25T14:05:00.001-07:00

Yes, I know it's 2:00 PM.

My husband is flying home today and I should be dressed for his arrival. Why am I still laying around in pajamas and a bathrobe? Because it's my nature.

I have been on the phone with my favorite cousin in Oklahoma for the last three hours. Her name is Kelly and her mother is my late mother's sister. They had bad tornadoes near where Kelly lives last night but that wasn't what we talked about. We talked about our restless natures. She and I are very restless women. There's this weird dichotomy of boredom and anxiety that messes us up. Both of our mother's had the same affliction.

We both are very moody and very flighty as well, sometimes literally. We have gotten on airplanes to meet up numerous times, with no particular plan at all. When we run away from home, we run to each other.

Now I'm feeling stressed because my husband is on his way home and I'm not dressed or made up. (Not that I really need the war paint since I am so naturally cute and all.) I have pulled nothing out of the freezer for dinner because I don't want to. When my husband travels, I get mad about it. I know he has to work, but the anger is just there anyway.

If I ever get reincarnated, I hope I can come back as a cow. I would love to have a cow's nature. I would love to be placid. I would love to move slowly and just wait to be milked. And I could be nice and fat and everyone would think I looked great. (Wait, I am not skinny now. Never mind.)

I feel like a fat female tiger who has been put in a cage and I don't like this feeling. I'm angry, nervous, tired, sloth-like, depressed, anxious, unhappy and fat.

It's my nature.

Abandoned By The Rapture?

2011-05-21T16:12:00.000-07:00

These two dogs have been at this gate all day long.

The dogs belong to my next door neighbor, Mary, and her new husband, Chris. My neighbors are very religious people.

Now most of you know I am not religious. I answer to "agnostic" or "atheist" or "lapsed Catholic". I was brought up Catholic, but we all know that Catholics don't really read the bible, so I never really gave a lot of credence to this "Rapture" business in the first place.

(In fact, I thought the word "rapture" was used exclusively to describe something about one's sex life until very recently.)

But now I'm a little concerned. I have not seen hide nor hair of Mary or Chris all day. Their cars are in the driveway. The dogs have been standing at the gate forlornly since we got up this morning.

I realize that the predicted earthquakes and such have not occurred, at least not as of now. There was a blip on the screen today about a volcano getting ready to erupt in Iceland and that could be related, but I'm not sure. There were also exploding watermelons in China last week if memory serves and that also could be a sign that things are getting ready to pop, so to speak.

Mary has spoken to me about the Rapture in the past. I did have to tell her that I really wasn't religious so it wasn't a concern to me. Sweetly, she offered to pray for me and for Alex too. (He may even be more of a heathen than I am, by the way.)

I have seen all of my other neighbors around today, but most of them are relatively sinful people as far as I can tell. Actually, I have no way of knowing how sinful they are or aren't, but I'm just projecting my own failings on to them. I'm not proud of myself for wondering if I could help myself to Mary's gorgeous sterling tea service if she's gone. I mean, it would be a sin to have it just sit there in an empty house, wouldn't it?

I wonder if I should go next door and feed those dogs.

Hair

2011-05-18T18:36:00.001-07:00

There is nothing scarier than a trip to the Beauty Shop.

You are putting your head literally and figuratively in someone's hands. Now believe me when I say that naturally beige platinum hair can be hard to come by, particularly if you want it cut to perfection. Perfection is a funny word. To me, it means, short, but not too short. Styled but not too styled. And sassy, but not too sassy.

My hairdresser, Sandra, a young Mexican woman, is good. I really like her and consider her to be an interesting and talented woman. Sandra married a guy from Mexico recently. She met him on-line.

When Sandra is happy with her bridegroom, I get the perfect color and the perfect cut. When Sandra and her new husband are having issues, there's no telling.

I have ended up with hair that had a purplish tint, a greenish tint, and a bluish tint from time to time. (Oh not to worry, it washed out after 7 or so shampoos.) I have had the perfect hair cut, I have had the Marine Corps boot camp coiffure, and I have had the country western, whoop de doo! It all depends on what is going on in Sandra's life.

Lest you think she is a flash in the pan hairdresser, I've been faithful to her for 10 years or so. (Longer than my faithfulness to some husbands I might add.)

In any case, Sandra did right by me today. And that always make it a good day, considering the alternative.

Remember the 8th Commandment

2011-05-13T19:27:00.001-07:00

My husband Alex has been on a business trip.

As a matter of course, some of his trips, including this one, involve time at military bases. I'm not always sure where Alex is, and I frequently don't have any idea what he's doing.

Alex came home this evening. He was telling me about going to an honor bar at the base and picking up a bunch of candy, nuts, chips and such for the troops he works with. There was a sign over the honor bar that said "Remember the 8th Commander" and Alex was cool with that. He wasn't sure who the 8th Commander was, but that's not the point.

He put his money in the cash box and took the stuff into the guys and ladies and said "Here you go!" Everybody appreciates some free snacks when they are working hard.

Alex is Navajo Indian, a veteran of 25 years military service, and a very hard working guy! He understands all too well what the military people are up against.

Today, Alex went in and got a candy bar for himself, and picked up a handful of snacks for the troops and took another look at the sign. All at once he realized it said "Remember the 8th Commandment!"

His reaction was "Mutha Fucker! What do you mean? You stole my country and my land! Fuck you, Mutha Fucka!" Alex grabbed up big handfuls of candy bars, chips and nuts and took them into the troops. Did he leave money in the box? Oh hell no!

Not a dime!

One Clarification:

Alex was at a "defense contractor" location inside a military base. No troop will be responsible for the loss of candy, but an in the workplace, Ten Commandment quoting defense contractor might.

The Bride And The Prejudice

2011-05-10T23:00:00.000-07:00

I am totally and thoroughly disgusted with myself.

Alex and I went to my neighbor's wedding on Saturday. I had prejudiced opinions over this wedding well ahead of the actual event.

My neighbor Mary's husband died about a year and a half ago. Mary is in her mid-60's, quite attractive, and she was left in a very comfortable financial position when her husband passed away.

I understand not wanting to be alone, I really do. When she came and told me she had met a man and they were getting married, I said "Good for you!" but I really didn't mean it. I was lying through my teeth. I didn't want her to throw herself into the funeral pyre, but after only a year and a half, I thought she was rushing into something. (Right, like that is any of my business!) I asked Mary how she had met the new man, and she told me "on the internet" which set up loud alarms ringing inside my head.

I had really liked Mary's husband. He was a great guy. Mary introduced me to her future husband, Chris, a few days later. He seemed like a nice enough man. He was recently divorced from his first wife. Mary mentioned that Chris was living with his parents for the time being (which set off more alarms in my head). There was also Chris's disapproving 19 year old daughter in the mix.

(Of course, I was comparing Chris to her late husband and the new guy came up a little short, literally and figuratively.)

When Mary came to see me and talked about her plans for the wedding I was frankly taken aback. She was planning a formal wedding, with bridesmaids, a matron of honor, and a long bejeweled white dress and veil. There were about 150 people invited to attend the wedding and reception which would be held at a very exclusive hotel in the Bay Area.

I "oohed and aahhed" appropriately, all the time thinking to myself that this was the tackiest thing I had ever even heard of. (This was Mary's third marriage. You don't do the dewy eyed 21-year-old type wedding bit when you are in your 60's and it's your third trip down the aisle!)

I sent in our RSVP note accepting the invitation to the wedding but I had a little trepidation over it. Since I was being critical in my head, I questioned that I should attend at all. Finally, I determined that as long as I kept my mouth shut and my negative opinions to myself, we should be fine. After all, she is my next door neighbor, and not to go would be insulting.

The wedding ceremony was to be at 4 PM, with the reception and dinner to follow. We arrived on time and admired the 5-tiered elaborate wedding cake before the religious service. I whispered to Alex that a family of four could eat for a month on what that cake must have cost. So much for my open mind.

When Mary walked down the aisle escorted by her brother, she looked lovely. The service was brief, but rather charming and not nearly as religion-heavy as I had feared. The reception and dinner were both great.

A couple of people I know made somewhat catty comments to me about the appropriateness of a formal wedding at Mary's age, but I immediately cut them off because the comments actually offended me.

Here they were at Mary's wedding being wined and dined on her dime and being critical! How rude is that? I felt that anyone who was critical of Mary or her wedding was a total jackass.

Okay, what does that make me? I'll answer that. I was a jerk, a hypocrite, a snark, and a jackass too. I've always considered myself to be open minded. Hah! Self-delusion is the worst kind of delusion!

When I watched Mary walk down the aisle with her pretty face glowing happiness and hope, I realized how very wrong I had been.

I had to ask myself, was I jealous for some reason? I really don't think that's the case. I've had weddings too. I always chose to have much more private marriage ceremonies because that is what I preferred for myself.

I felt ashamed of myself because in truth, I was just being a bitch.

He Called Me Blondie

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

My husband Alex's Dad was a Marine.

I first met Fred at Alex's sister's wedding. I had heard a lot about him, but I didn't know what to expect. Fred was short like most Navajos, brown as a walnut, and nicely dressed in a suit and tie. When we were introduced, he grinned at me and immediately christened me "Blondie"!

Right after the wedding ceremony, Fred went inside to change into his jeans and a long sleeved flannel shirt, despite the heat. He came out with a smile announcing "I'm Fred again!"

Fred was already sick with cancer when I met him, but he was a tough bird. Fred walked everywhere in the 100 plus degree Arizona heat because he didn't have a car. If there was a cold beer waiting for him, he could and did walk 20 miles for it.

I'm not sure that Fred ever knew my first name was Linda. From the time he met me, he always called me "Blondie". Fred had an innocence and a sweetness about him, but he was very smart too. I see a lot of him in Alex.

Fred and his brothers (there were 5 of them) all joined the Marines at the same time. Alex was born at a Military Hospital in San Diego. A few years later, the military deployments were too getting too difficult for a man with a growing family, (by this time, Alex had 2 younger sisters), and Fred decided to get out of the service.

He went to work for the Police Department in Phoenix for a time, working in the animal control division, and in later years, Fred worked as a security guard.

Fred was quiet and usually reserved, but had a great subtle sense of humor. When he liked something, he would smile and say "horses", but nobody ever knew exactly what that meant. Fred was also a self-described "red apple", (red on the outside, white on the inside), and his wife drove him crazy because she clung to Navajo culture and "magic". She had a bag of "fetish shit" (Fred called it), and he would periodically try and throw it in the trash. Alex's mom always caught him though and recovered her "treasures".

Fred was undergoing chemo treatments for stomach cancer. We invited him to visit us in San Francisco. Between chemo sessions he overcame his aversion to flying and came up to see us for a long weekend.

We took Fred sightseeing and took the ferry across the Bay to Sausalito. He seemed to really enjoy it, but Fred tired easily. When we got back to the house, he and I sat on the front steps and shared a beer and a cigarette and talked while Alex did some homework.

Fred talked to me at length about being a Marine and what it had meant to him. He really loved the Corps. Fred also shared his feelings of great pride in his son because Alex was in college and getting close to earning his degree.

Fred was not formally educated, but he was an avid reader and had a very sharp intellect and a wealth of life experience.

That night after dinner, Fred was tired. He had a few beers before and during dinner. The beer with the lethal chemo cocktail in his system wiped him out.

My mom was at our house that evening. She and I waited until Fred was settled in bed, and we went in and sat with him.

Mom had a great voice and she sang to him for about an hour and Fred loved every moment of having both of our attention. We talked and laughed, my mom on one side holding his hand, me on the other, until he was ready to sleep.

I went to see Fred in the hospital during the last week of his life. Although he was drugged, he was the same funny, smart and serious man! Fred said to me "Blondie, if I had met you first, things might have been very different!" I kissed his lips and left the room as he fell asleep.

That was the last time I ever saw Fred. I still dream about him though. I still see him sometimes too when I look at my husband's face.

I Have A Theory

2011-05-03T01:04:00.000-07:00

I have a theory.

When my bathroom looks like this at 1:00 AM on a Tuesday morning, something has gone terribly amiss.

It all started on Sunday. I told Alex the upstairs toilet wasn't flushing completely. He looked up from his computer and said "really!" so I realized this was a job that I would have to do myself. I grabbed the plunger and went upstairs.

I plunged with all my might and flushed about 10 times while I continued to try and get the toilet cleared. Finally, it seemed to be all right. (Now I might mention that although our home has 4 bathrooms, only one is located upstairs where our bedroom is. Because I am a woman "of a certain age", it is likely I will get up in the night at least once to use the facilities.)

I spent the evening engrossed in CNN and forgot all about the earlier problem with the toilet. Osama bin Laden being killed was strongly on my mind. I didn't feel jubilant, I just felt sad, (or maybe sadder than usual), as I am always sad when my husband is leaving on a mission.

This morning I noticed the toilet bowl was overly full of water. I ignored it and came downstairs to perform my ablutions, figuring I would deal with it later. While having my morning coffee and watching CNN for updates, I learned that Osama had not only been killed, but he had also been buried at sea in less than 24 hours after his death. This is apparently in conformance with Islamic religious law. It made sense because while the US was not honoring the man, the country was showing admirable respect for the Muslim faith under the circumstances.

I went upstairs about 8 PM and remembered that the toilet had been hinky so I grabbed the plunger and tried again. This time, I miscalculated and water poured on to the floor at an alarming rate. I tried to pull the thingy up to stop the flow but to no avail. It finally subsided but not until the entire bathroom floor was flooded. There is a faucet under the toilet and I turned it off.

The clean up took about 3 hours and 25 towels. I brought up the mop and the Lysol to finish the job. I turned on "Nurse Jackie" and settled in my favorite chair to watch a couple of episodes although I was very tired. Hauling the wet towels downstairs was a lot like hard labor since they weighed a ton, and I really am not a fan of carrying heavy things.

Perhaps and hour later, I heard water. At first I thought it was the cat using the litter box and didn't pay too much attention to it. Then I realized if that was the cat using the litter box, I'd better get him to the vet right away. I cautiously approached the bathroom only to see a tsunami coming toward me.

The bathroom floor was covered in about a half an inch of water. Oh shit oh dear! I grabbed the remaining 20 or so towels, two terrycloth robes, and the contents of the laundry hamper and tried to soak up the water, but it was flowing out as fast as I could sop it up. I finally threw caution to the wind and yanked every tube in the tank out. What do you know! It stopped! Just like that!

I got a pail and started bailing water out of the bowl and the tank. I hauled the water out to the sink in the family room, making about 100 trips. I was still not confident it would not rise up again but so far it hasn't.

The law of political thermodynamics says that for every action, there is an opposite and inequal reaction (or something like that). I think tossing Osama in the drink is what caused the toilet to flood my house.

I can only hope nobody else is buried at sea in the near future.

Spring Lingerie

2011-04-30T15:18:00.000-07:00

I love gorgeous lingerie.

Ever since I was old enough to put girly bits into some, I've loved pretty bras, panties, garter belts, corsets, camisoles, seamed stockings and such. I don't really like Victoria's Secret. I think they use too much polyester and a lot of the merchandise is not really my taste.

I love finding a good lingerie shop where I can find high-quality well made lingerie. "La Perla" is fine, but frankly out of my budget. Still, there are some exquisite small lingerie shops in San Francisco where you can buy beautiful items and get real "help" from the staff.

For many years, I have replenished my unmentionables in the Spring. There's something about the season that makes me crave lacy, silky, and beautiful "stuff" in pretty colors.

The only problem with gorgeous lingerie is that I want to show it to somebody. I have an overwhelming urge to open the door to the UPS guy and let my robe fall open so he can catch a glimpse of my finery. (Okay, I don't do it, but I do think about it. Okay, yeah, I have done it but it was a long time ago. Okay, it was last Spring actually!)

Don't get me wrong. My husband Alex does smile and say "Uhm, pretty, Honey!" and then goes back to the baseball game. Yeah, it's like that after 20 years of wedded bliss.

Men are funny about their own under-garments. I have to go through Alex's underwear and toss the stuff with holes, torn elastic, and so on. I want to make sure that if he does fool around with a chippie, she will know that he already has a wife who takes care of him.

Left to his own devices, the chippie would probably think "Oh you poor man with no woman to look after you!" and make a real effort to alienate his affections.

I wonder what time UPS will be here on Monday!

Harry Thompson's Day Off

2011-04-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

We left Harry and Honey home on Easter Sunday while we traveled up to the Sacramento area to see my son and his family.

Harry is Jewish, and he doesn't really care about missing out on Easter since it doesn't include matzo balls. He also takes his guard dog responsibilities fairly seriously and patrols constantly from the time we leave until we return home, only taking short breaks for naps once in a while.

Honey is agnostic and doesn't ever worry about things above her pay grade. She is perfectly content napping in one of her favorite spots, barking at dogs that pass by the window, and just being "chill" until we come back.

We left at noon and didn't arrive home again until after 8 PM. That was a fairly long time to leave them home alone, but I was pretty sure they were fine. I start getting anxiety feelings about the time we need to return home. I always worry that something has gone wrong. (I start to obsess over things like: what if they knocked over the water bowls? What if they got out of the yard? What if a prowler came and Harry ate him? What if they bark constantly the whole time we are gone?)

People tell me I worry too much about things that never happen. I do worry that something might go wrong because it's my nature. I don't like leaving my dogs home alone. Sometimes we will take Harry and Honey with us, but since there were going to be 20+ people for Easter dinner, including 7 children and two resident dogs, I felt it would be a bit much to show up with our dogs.

When we got home, everything looked normal. Harry was a little more hyper than usual, but I figured that was because he missed us. I saw that we had several phone messages and I checked them. One call had come from my next-door neighbor, Mary, and she asked that I call her as soon as we got home.

When I called her, Mary told me that Harry had spent all afternoon outside by himself in the neighborhood. He came to her gate and barked for Dutch and Sansom, her two dogs, to come out and play. Mary let her dogs out and the three of them ran wild in the front yard for a while, then Harry moved on to the next house down the street where there was a barbecue in full swing. The people having the party are Dean and Rene. They greeted Harry like an old friend and he hobnobbed with them and their guests for the rest of the afternoon. Harry was delighted to entertain the children and keep the area clean if food fell on the ground. He's good like that.

Dean said that Harry "zapped" a squirrel in the yard to the amazement of all of the party attendees. It was over in a second and the squirrel party crasher never had a chance.

Harry went back to Mary's and again tried to get Dutch and Sansom to come out and play, but it was getting late so Mary brought Harry home and put him in the back in our yard.

I apologized profusely but Mary said it was no problem at all. Harry had a great day visiting with friends, and keeping down the rodent population. (When I have seen Mary's dogs outside of their yard without an owner, I have always returned them home immediately. I think Mary is more liberal than I am.)

I still have no idea how Harry got out of the backyard. We have a 7 foot iron fence and he didn't jump over it. When I tried to talk to him about danger and responsibility, he just yawned.

He had a great day, but all the barbecue gave him the runs. Serves him right.

People Like Weird Shit

2011-04-25T17:05:00.000-07:00

I know some people would think this was a weird oil painting.

I think it's a little eccentric, but very cool. I know the guy who painted it, and I bought it from him directly. Why do I like it? Well, it's not because of the cat.

I like it because it's a self-portrait of a man who sells books in my town. His cat was a fixture for many years at his sort of creepy used book store. The man himself is a little "odd", but I doubt that he's a serial killer or anything. He's just a little off-kilter. Oh, and I like the "Orphan Annie" eyes.

This painting is in my kitchen. It doesn't creep me out at all, but I do think it's funny.

We have fine art too. But whether it's a Marc Chagall signed lithograph or the famous New Orleans "blue dog", it has to speak to me.

Yesterday was Easter and we went to my son's for dinner. His wife Kate put together a lovely meal with bbq leg of lamb along with a lot of other wonderful things to eat. She had small white boxes with tiny chicks on top of them at all the place settings. When people asked her what was inside, she said "It's a secret". She let Alex take home some of the chicks because he really liked them. Kate also gave me a book by a guy from my town. I took a photo of these things because I love what they look like. (Oh, what was in the boxes? It's a secret.)

I have a neighbor lady who collects hand painted antique dolls. She has them piled up on an antique chase in her parlor. Those dolls creep me out so much that I can barely even walk in her house. Those flat eyes scare the hell out of me. There are probably 40 dolls or even more all lined up together. Ugh! That is horror movie shit to me.

I know another woman who had her cat stuffed after he died. She kept him in the bathroom on the toilet tank. This woman worked with me and dressed like a hooker from the 70's. She was not a hooker, but she was probably in her late 30's in the 70's. When I worked with her she was 60 and still dressed like a hooker every day. I thought she was actually pretty cool. Her taste in cat art, not so much though.

It's funny because if I like it, I think it's normal. It's other people who seem to like the weird shit.

Michael Lived Fast And Died Young

2011-04-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

Michael was my brother.

He was my father's 2nd son with his new wife. (My dad had 4 girls with my mother.)

I met Michael and got to know him right before my son John was born. Michael was only a year older than my own son.

Michael had a sparkle to him even as a baby. He was an easy, happy little boy and his parents pride and joy. I watched Michael grow from a beautiful baby to a gorgeous young man. By the time he was 15, he had more experience with girls than most men do at 40.

Michael excelled at sports and guys liked him too, but he was always a little wild. I think he got in trouble for smoking pot and snorting cocaine the first time when he was about 16. My father had died a couple of years earlier and Michael had moved away from San Francisco with his mother and older brother, Joaquin.

Michael's mother hoped getting him away from "bad influences" in the City would be good for him. It didn't really matter because Michael was the party! My own kids were thoroughly delighted with their devilishly fun only slightly older uncle.

As a young man, Michael drank too much, loved too intensely, drove too fast and took a lot of risks. He was a successful male model for a while. Later he sold stocks for a brokerage house in San Francisco and made enough money to buy a sailboat and take up racing. He was good at everything he did and I adored him.

People who met him were charmed and enchanted. It was easy to overlook his wildness because of his sweetness and winning personality. When Michael talked to you, he let you know that nobody in the world was more important to him than you. That's a pretty seductive quality.

Two months before his 42nd birthday, Michael crashed his car into a tree on his way home after an evening out with friends. They think he died instantly and it seems alcohol may have been involved. He died early in the morning hours of February 17, 2008. The world has seemed a little dimmer to me after his passing.

Mary Had A Little Lamb (But All I've Got Is Harry)

2011-04-18T14:22:00.001-07:00

Harry is a very hinky dog, and he gets "spooked" by a lot of things.

When Harry gets nervous, he wants to clamor on to my lap for shelter. Never mind that he is 90 pounds of shuddering muscle, he wants to be protected.

When I awakened this morning and came downstairs, Harry was waiting for me panting. I walked to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and Harry climbed under my robe for safety. Harry moved with me almost in unison as I tried to cross the kitchen floor. Unfortunately for me, the "almost" part of this 6-legged walk nearly knocked me off my feet. After one cup of spilled coffee, I tried to make Harry get out from under my robe, but he would not be budged.

After a few minutes, I telephoned Alex to ask him, "What's wrong with your boy?" and he claimed not to have a clue. Harry ate breakfast while I straddled him with my robe covering part of him including his head. It's the only way he would eat.

Trying to get into the rather small pantry with a 90 pound appendage affixed to me was somewhat difficult, as was walking and not falling. I came into the office to check emails and look at the internet but Harry put his front paws on my lap and his head right under my chin as he shivered and panted. Reaching the keyboard was difficult and not worth the effort.

Meanwhile, Honey, my other dog, was giving Harry the "stank eye". She is the alpha, and is extremely jealous of any perceived attention Harry may be receiving. Honey even bared her teeth at Harry which usually is enough to send him into hiding for at least 2 hours. Not this morning.

Finally, Alex called to see if Harry had calmed down. I assured him that he had not. At this point, Alex remembered installing mosquito zapper equipment outside in the yard yesterday. We concluded that the "zap" noise was the culprit causing Harry's dismay.

I went outside, nearly falling down the flight of stairs because Harry was walking between my legs and I got the "zapper" unplugged.

Harry's a very sensitive guy. Since the noise is no longer bothering him, he has returned to being a manly man dog again.

I'm glad of that.

Size Matters

2011-04-13T16:51:00.001-07:00

Would you look at the size of my lemons!

Now, don't be jealous. We all can't have huge mutant lemons. Each one of these lemons weights well over a pound. That's a lot of lemonade! I think it's safe to say that I will never have a lemon juice shortage at my house.

I have another photo that shows my hand near the lemons so you can get a better idea of how big they are.

Now you may also notice that I am wearing a good-sized diamond ring on my finger. This is an area where size matters.

There are other areas where size really does not matter. A lot of men claim to be very attracted to women with large breasts, in fact, it's sort of a fixation in America. In actuality, a lot of men prefer smaller breasted women. I saw a fantastically gorgeous woman at the Gay Freedom Parade in San Francisco last year who had one breast. She wore a black leather contraption that exposed her one breast but covered the area of the missing breast.

There was not a straight man in the crowd who didn't look at her with interest. The woman looked like a warrior princess who had perhaps lopped off her own breast to improve her archery skills. She was gorgeous.

Another area that people talk and joke about is penis size. More is considered better, but I really don't think most women actually care one way or the other.

Having a big penis does not make a man good in bed. As long as he has enough to get the job done, it's just fine. In fact, I've turned down a club or two in my life and I have never regretted doing so. There was really no reason to stretch the boundaries.

I do like big lemons and big diamonds though.

Bad Hair Days

2011-04-11T14:33:00.001-07:00

I don't know of much that disgusts as much as a bad hair day.

I can put on the cutest clothing in the whole wide world, step into the most fantastic stilettos anyone has ever seen, and spray on the Coco. I'm still going to look like shit.

Now people who see this photo are maybe going to say, "...just comb it and it'll be fine." Uh, no, it won't be fine. I have combed it. I have brushed it. I have put goop on it. I have put a hat over it. There is nothing fine about it.

The hair itself has it's moods and today is surly. It doesn't matter what I do to it, I will not be able to open the front door even to get that check from Publisher's Clearing House. My hair is not too clean or too dirty either. It just woke up this way.

On this day, my husband will come through the door after work and say "Hi Honey! You look pretty!" Is it any wonder that women stab their husbands? Is there any wonder that women sometimes hate their husbands? I think not.

Even my dogs are looking at me with a "What the F is wrong with your hair?" expression. Unconditional love? Not really, the little bastards.

I had every intention of going to the store today. I need a couple of important things and the store is one block away from my house. I took a look in the mirror and decided nothing is important enough to show off this hair to the public at large.

I hope this gets better sometime this week.

Affairs of the Heart

2011-04-07T18:18:00.000-07:00

The first time I fell in love, I was 12.

I was at summer camp and we had a counselor named Jan. She was a blond girl about 20 years old. Jan could swim like a fish, use a bow and arrow and hit a target, and had sort of protruding teeth that looked very sexy to me. I loved her and her funny teeth and boy haircut and slim tanned legs.

The second time I fell in love was when I saw my son for the first time. He was funny looking and had a long pointed head. He was pulled out of me with forceps and one had caught his eye and left it swollen shut. I had prayed for a son, and for just a moment I thought this child was god's way of punishing me for screaming in labor "if it's not a boy, you fucking keep the kid" to the nurses. If I had a girl, at least I could use cosmetics to make her look better. Fortunately, by the time we went home, he was pretty close to perfect. Even funny looking, I knew this child had changed me forever because I finally really understood what love was.

The next time I fell in love, it was when I first saw my daughter. She was perfect to begin with, and she's stayed that way.

It was about a year after my daughter's birth that I fell in love for the 4th time. I was in the hospital the day before surgery to remove my thyroid gland. A long-haired hippie doctor walked into the room and introduced himself to me with the most wonderful southern accent I had ever heard. He was 6'6" and the most amazing man I had ever met. He had long golden curls pushed into a pony tail. The good doctor and I became lovers and remained such for several years. He left me for a nurse. C'est la vie!

I loved all of my husbands at least for a time anyway. I still do love my current husband most of the time. (Yes, I hate him on occasion.)

The last time I fell in love was at the Oakland SPCA. I was looking at the dogs and saw a beautiful German Shepard mix named "Fern". She was the calmest dog in the whole place and she smiled at me when I walked up to her cage. I called my husband over and said "This is the one for me." Alex was unconvinced and thought that the dog looked like a pit bull. I was undeterred by his opinion. Whatever she was, she was mine for life.

We brought her home two days later. Since "Fern" is a goofy name, I renamed her "Honey" and that suits her much better. She's still not demonstrative in the slightest. She is not a tail wagger type of dog. To show affection, Honey pushes her body up against a person and leans her shoulder into them. It's enough.

Honey smells of warm musk. She has the most wonderful scent I have ever encountered from any man, woman, or child. She lays on the bathmat next to the tub when I am bathing and the smell that rises from her intoxicates me.

I am pretty certain I will fall in love again, and it's always such a wonderful surprise when it happens.

I may have even already done it.

Photos Lie

2011-04-05T20:19:00.001-07:00

Two weeks before the birth of Sheila, my second child, my husband and I were in Palm Springs.

I looked pretty radiant in my pregnancy and my husband looked like a proud papa to be. I doubt anyone looking at us knew that we were actually on the verge of divorce.

This photo was taken about the 1st of September and I gave birth to my daughter days later on September 12th. By December 12th, my husband and I had called it quits and he had moved out of our house.

It seems funny that we looked so normal, happy even. We were far from happy and probably further from normal than most couples. Why can't I see that in this photo?

We fought about everything after the first year of marriage, maybe even before that. The second baby had been an accident of sorts. Even if you fight, when you are young, you still have sex.

Neither of us was pleased when we found out I was pregnant with this 2nd child because we both knew we were not going to be a couple much longer. Still, ending a pregnancy was not really ever an option.

I'm amazed we looked so calm and so damned happy. I'm amazed that I looked calm and happy in photos with my 3 year old son and my 3 month old daughter.

Smiling for the camera covers so much and lets you show what you want to show. I've always been good at that.

Lucky me.

The Problem With Marriage Is Sex

2011-04-03T18:27:00.001-07:00

Marriage is a time-
honored institution in many countries including America.

For a lot of years, men and women have been getting married. Why? Well, because they love each other, of course. They want to share their lives with each other. That's a sweet notion, isn't it? In most cases, there's even an element of passion that goes along with this sharing. Having that loved person in one's bed every night sounds like a good deal to a lot of people.

What a crock!

Okay, there are tax advantages to filing as "married" rather than "single". There are frequently even other less obvious advantages for the married. People tend to "trust" married people more than single people. Bosses seem to feel married people are more worthy of promotions. Yeah, society smiles on the married folks.

Now, there is one subject that many married people do not talk about because it may not be the most attractive part of being married. That subject is sex.

Single people think nothing of having 3:00 PM sex if they feel like it or 11:00 AM or 4:00 AM sex. Single people have sex in the laundry room if the urge strikes.

(I've even known single people who might have had sex at the laundromat and even in phone booths, but that was at night, of course.)

Many single people have sex in cars. This is not because they have no place to live, but because they don't want to wait until they get home.

Single people are not usually "too tired" to have sex. Or if they are, it's because they stayed up all night having sex and didn't get any sleep at all the night before. Married people are frequently too tired. And it's even worse once a married children complete the pact with (eek!) children.

Sex itself is frequently more entertaining when one is single. People try harder to impress their partner in bed. Single people are more inclined to be adventurous than married people are. Many married people would either laugh or gasp if their spouse pulled out a dildo, a paddle, or other entertaining "equipment". Single people are more likely to roll with it.

Of course, married people don't have to risk nasty diseases or blackmail photos or videos just to get some, and there's an element of "comfort". That's an advantage. I guess the "Saturday Night Special" has its quiet charm too.

But I still think there's a lot to be said for the way the single people do it. Maybe it's risky and maybe it's morally "bad" but damn! It certainly is fun.

(Okay, I'm admittedly over-sexed.)

Parisian Perfection

2011-04-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

The women of Paris are the most chic women I have ever seen.

One of their style secrets seems to be "the art of understatement". If you look closely at the photo, you'll notice that this woman is wearing one item of jewelry, a plain gold wedding band.

Although the woman is wearing is a slightly short skirt, (undoubtedly to showcase those perfect legs), everything else is quietly tasteful and even modest.

The women in Paris wear a lot of black and they sometimes add a colorful scarf. Done right, those bits of silk that add a flash of color help to create a look that is stunning. Parisian women also give meticulous attention to grooming; their manicures are perfect, their hairstyles and makeup are flawless, but generally as subtle as their fragrance.

While dining in a bistro in Paris one night, we were able to pick out a table of foreign women very easily. They had bigger hair, longer fingernails, bigger jewels, and louder voices than the Parisian women. These ladies also wore brighter colors and their clothing was more eye-catching than any of the local women. Even from across the room, it was obvious they were tourists.

During dinner, I saw a woman on the street outside the cafe and she looked slightly "off" to me. She was well turned out, but her heels were a little too high, her skirt was just a little too short (showing a snake tattoo winding up her thigh) and her lipstick a little too red. She seemed to be waiting for someone. I watched her as a group of men walked by and she said something to them. They smiled and kept walking, but then turned around after they had passed her to take another look. I pointed out to my husband that she was a prostitute and he told me I was crazy.

We watched her speak to every man who walked by her and finally my husband recognized that she was soliciting business and probably not selling telephone systems.

That would complicate things where I come from. A well dressed woman on the street, with perfect make up and hair, saying "hello, do you want to party?" would be a strange sight indeed. I think most prospective customers would think she was a cop or feel pretty sure they had misunderstood what she was saying in the first place.

I did feel a jolt of "happy" and "smug" when the hostess and the waitress both addressed me in French. Of course, my pleasure was short-lived once they realized I was not "one of them". Still, I had 'em fooled for a moment and took pride in it.

The last time I was in Paris, it was in February and extremely cold. My basic wardrobe for two weeks consisted of a pair of black leather boots with a two inch heel, two pairs of identical tailored black wool trousers, a mid-calf length black wool coat, two almost identical cream colored silk blouses, and two Hermes scarves, one with a bright yellow background, the other in a deep green. In other words, I fit right in! I left the jewelry at home except the wedding ring, the Cartier watch and the modest diamond stud earrings. I settled for one subtle spray of "Coco" by Chanel. No more, no less.

But I have to admit, it's not the real me to be understated. My real taste runs to almost gypsy inspired bright red low-cut dresses, hooker shoes, jewelry everyplace one can wear jewelry and preferably the kind that jingles, flashy mink coats and heavy perfumes. (I very seldom give in to my real taste because I realize it's really a lack of taste.)

Paris brings out the best in women and I'd be much more chic if I lived there.

Finally, Spring

2011-03-30T15:41:00.001-07:00

Finally!

It seems like forever since the skies have been blue and the sun shining. It rained for 23 straight days and nights until two days ago.

The dogs were going nuts. No real exercise out in the pouring rain. I was going nuts. Why go outside at all when it's raining?

The sun is out, the birds are chirping, the fish are swimming and it's about 70 degrees today and expected to get warmer tomorrow. Actually, 70 is a little warm for me. I like 67 and partly cloudy.

I'm feeling very disgruntled this year. My husband left me home alone while he visited family in Arizona last week. It made me hate him. Now, the sun is shining and he's busy at work in his San Jose office and I still harbor harsh feelings toward him. I guess I don't really hate him, but all he brought me home from his trip to Arizona was a stupid plastic key chain. I threw it at him and it landed on the floor. It was so boring the dogs didn't even want it.

I tried to get a friend of mine to run off to Cabo with me for a few days but he says his wife won't let him. I've invited various people to come and stay for a visit, but nobody has taken me up on it.

I'm bored to where I'm throwing popcorn at my cat for kicks. I'm even thinking of buying myself a nice condo in the heart of Paris. If I do that, I will go live there and drink wine all day and paint. (I am not artistic, but if it's my fantasy, I'll do it my way.) Maybe I can lure good looking men up to my lair telling them I want to immortalize them in oil! (They don't have to know I mean olive oil till they get there, do they?)

Maybe this is just "spring fever". Or maybe I'm actually having an epiphany. It's been at least 3 weeks now since I've had one so I'm not sure anymore. I'm not even sure I know what one is at this point.

I think maybe the problem is bathing too much. I never get dirty, so why bathe? I may just quit taking baths until I get good and dirty and have ants crawling on me.

I used to like the way I smelled. Now I don't smell like anything. Isn't that weird. If I put on perfume, I smell like "Coco" but other than that, I think I'm just too clean.

That's it. No more baths!

Gift Horses

2011-03-28T15:52:00.001-07:00

Don't look gift horses in the mouth!

What does that really mean? If somebody gives me a horse as a gift, I probably will want to look in its mouth. It is also likely I want to have a vet look it over from head to tail to hoof. I will be expected to care for and feed this horse, right?

My husband Alex came home from a little jaunt to Arizona last week. He went down to see his family and take in some pre-season Giant's games. When he came home, Alex began telling me an astounding tale.

Alex's mother wants to give him approximately 200 acres of undeveloped land about an hour from Gallup, New Mexico. The land borders on the Navajo Reservation and has been in the family for a long time.

Alex is Navajo and he has a lot of family in the area. All these acres of land sound pretty good to him. To me, not so much. What would we "do" with land like this? Alex grins and says "we could get a double wide and live there!".

If I didn't know better, I'd swear he had been having at the peyote buttons, but no, that's not the case. Although Alex is Navajo, he is an urban Navajo. He was born in San Diego at a Marine Corps base hospital, grew up in Phoenix, Arizona, and has lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for the last 23 years. He has short hair and does not ride horses. I doubt if Alex has ever touched a sheep or been inside a double wide.

If Alex owns this land, what does he expect to do with it? Pay property taxes? Develop it? Oh I give up. I guess he could sell it. (Wait, this is family land we are talking about! "You don't sell land that has been in your family for a hundred years." says Alex.) Oh, yeah, right.

This reminds me a little of when we got married. Alex's mother fretted a lot about how she was going to afford the four sheep and two goats that she needed to give my mother as traditional gifts for our wedding. (My mother lived in a San Francisco apartment at the time.)

But, sweet as it sounds to give such a lovely gift, even if my mother had lived in a house with a huge yard, it's unlikely she would have wanted to care for sheep and goats. It was difficult talking Alex's mother out of the gift.

Alex is very excited to receive the gift of 200 acres of property from his mother. Maybe he can build a casino on it.

Tea Party

2011-03-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

I have always loved a tea party.

My friend Kim has two young daughters. I invited my Kim and the kids to my house for a tea party last summer.

We had scones with strawberry jam, cookies and pretty little egg salad sandwiches. I also had two different kinds of tea, and honey, of course. I set the mood with some nice classical music. The girls, Kim, and I had a ball.

After we had our feast, we had a design competition where my friend took one girl, I took the other and we made them formal dresses out of toilet tissue. The girls also got to use make up and put on as much jewelry as they wanted.

Alex took the "glamor shots" of the girls when they got ready for the judging.

We let Alex choose the winner. (I had prizes for everyone.) Alex chose one dress as the "best design" and the other as the "most flattering".

Both dresses started pretty much falling apart as soon as we put them together. But we had enough tape to keep them modest enough with no major wardrobe malfunctions.

I love boys too, but there is nothing like girls for having a really good time!

Terrible Trials Of The Non-Technical Left-At-Home-Alone Wife

2011-03-22T16:19:00.000-07:00

Technology can be a good thing or a bad thing.

We have a big old 60" flat screen HD TV with surround sound, Blue Ray, and a bunch of other things. I really don't know what most of those things are.

When my husband is at home, we watch movies, sports events, and our few favorite shows on this television. It's a fairly comfortable place for a family room.

When my husband is not at home, I go upstairs and turn on the TV and nothing happens. Why is that? Well, there are about 10 remote control devices laying around the room. It usually takes a combination of two to turn the set on. There is a computer attached to the television, disc drives galore, places for DVD's, places for UFO's for all I know.

We have a total of five televisions in our home. Oops, make that six. I forgot the one in the man cave under the house. Except for one very tiny television in the kitchen, I cannot turn any of them on. I don't have a degree in electrical engineering or remote control device management.

When I am home alone because my husband chose to go on a little vacation to see his family in Arizona and I have nothing to entertain myself with, this is the television that I know how to operate. I do have to use a magnifying glass sometimes to see the smaller print on the screen.

I hope my husband is having a fun vacation in sunny Arizona while I sit in my pitiful kitchen and watch this pitiful 10 inch television as rain splashes on the windows.

Well, okay, maybe I should be doing his laundry about now, but my heart just isn't in it. I have a better idea!

I'm going to make him a nice batch of toasted almond scented cookies for when he gets home! And I'll go shop for a nice new black dress. Nothing too fancy. Something appropriate. You know.

She Said "Fine"

2011-03-19T16:35:00.001-07:00

My husband, Alex, is on vacation next week.

That's nice, right? Uh huh.

Alex made a plan to go visit his mother in Phoenix and catch a Giants spring training baseball game. Uh huh.

He will be leaving on Tuesday morning and coming home late Thursday evening. Uh huh. That leaves Monday and Friday for us to enjoy "vacation" together.

Well, okay, it was my suggestion. Alex brought it up and at first I thought we would all drive down to Phoenix. The problem is that we have two big dogs. Harry, the boy dog, doesn't like to travel. He can't sleep in a moving car. In fact, he can't even sit down.

After 4 or 5 hours in the car, Harry is whimpering and crying with exhaustion. I guess I could drug him, but then we'd have to deal with a drugged standing up whimpering and crying Harry.

Another issue with Harry is that he does not like to poo anyplace but home. This makes for an uncomfortable couple of days for him. Harry doesn't like travel in other words. And, kennels are out of the question. Both of my dogs have "issues".

After some consideration, this began to sound like a lot more trouble than it was worth. I told Alex, "Honey, you just use your airline miles and go down to see your Mom."

Alex immediately said, "Oh no, I can't do that! I travel all the time for work, and I leave you alone far too much, my darling wife! There is no way I would even consider doing what you have suggested!" Uh huh.

Well, actually, that's not exactly what he said. He said "Oh, okay." And I responded "Fine." Maybe I will send him along some nice almond scented cookies for his plane ride. I do look quite fetching in black.

Where Did He Go?

2011-03-15T17:36:00.001-07:00

I have a husband.

My husband is the same one I've had for 21 years. His name is Alex.

From the time we got married, Alex has found places to hide from me. I don't know why he does this, but he does. At one point many years ago, I was mad at him and Alex hid in the house for 3 full hours. I never could find him until he came out of hiding. I searched everywhere. He had disappeared.

Over the 21 years of conjugal bliss, I have lost a lot of my passion. I no longer scream at my husband or try to shoot him. (That was a joke. I never tried to shoot him. Poison him? Maybe.) But even today, his disappearing act has continued.

Alex disappears for hours at a time. When I call him and say "Where are you?" He sometimes answers "Right here." But I have no idea where "right here" is. Our house has three levels, one being a full basement. That basement contains the laundry facilities and what can only be called "the man cave".

The house proper has 11 or 12 rooms. Now don't get excited because most of them are relatively modest. Because the house is 130 years old, there are lots and lots of weird spaces in it. If Alex chooses not to be found, he won't be.

I love my husband but this behavior of his can make me tired. I've been known to take off all of my clothing and run around the garden screaming "I'm free! I'm free!" very loudly until he comes out of hiding out of fear that the neighbors will call the police.

My Persian girlfriend and I used to run up the hall at work naked with a large black man on Friday afternoons screaming "I'm free!" That was very fun and that's why I still do it.

Camels In Cars

2011-03-13T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have always had a certain fascination with regard to the Bedouin tribes.

These nomads of the desert are such romantic figures. I've seen them portrayed in movies and I've read numerous stories about them.

When my husband Alex was stationed in the middle east for a year during the Iraq War, he spent a good amount of time in Saudi Arabia. During some of his "cultural field trips" in Saudi, he claims to have seen numerous Bedouin people. While I believe a lot of what Alex says, there are some times when I question his veracity.

Alex told me that the Bedouin people are mostly seen now driving SUV's, with their camels in the car with them. It was not unusual he said to see camels' heads stuck out of the sun roofs on as the people drove down the freeways.

When I mentioned this to some friends because I thought it was amazing, they burst into laughter and said "Alex is kidding, Linda." The subtext being "how can you be so stupid?" of course.

When I confronted my husband saying "Why did you lie to me?" he responded that he was telling the absolute truth. He saw Bedouins driving along with their camels in their SUV heading out into the desert. Alex further elaborated that the camels can "fold up their legs" and fit in an SUV just fine.

Okay, I have no idea if this is the truth or a lie. I think it makes some sort of sense, but on the other hand it doesn't. What self respecting Bedouin would only have one camel? I think they have a whole herd of camels.

But maybe Bedouins only take their favorite with them when they go to town.

Beauty Shop Blues

2011-03-10T14:53:00.000-08:00

There is not much that scares me as much as a hair cut appointment.

Give me a trip to the dentist and I'm fine. Give me a trip to the doctor and I'll do it without breaking a sweat.

Make me an appointment at a beauty shop for a hair cut and I get high anxiety.

The problem is that if my hair is cut wrong, it's just like having to wear that ugly yellow and lime green polka dot dress that Aunt Berta gave you 20 years ago. You have to wear that ugly dress day and night for at least two months. It wasn't cute 20 years ago and it's even worse now.

I wear my hair short. It could even be called "boy short" or a "crew cut". I had my hair cut one time and I walked out looking like a washed-up country western singer with whoop dee doo's in her hair. I had curls and waves everyplace. I am not a curls and waves kind of woman. (Nor can I carry a tune for that matter.)

I have naturally very straight hair. A very sweet hairdresser convinced me that my hair would look great with a 'body wave'. Uh huh. My hair looked just like Harpo Marx for two months after that one.

Another time, I had a hairdresser who cut a pie wedge shape into the top of my hair. Now I like a piece of pie just as much as the next girl, but not on top of my head. The broad side of the pie was a bangs type thing in front. I was mystified and horrified in equal measures. I had to get used to wearing a baseball cap whenever I walked out of the house for over a month.

My appointment on Tuesday was pretty drama free. My hair looks great. Okay, not great, but short just like I wanted it.

Mexican Women

2011-03-07T18:59:00.000-08:00

Camping? Sure if she can wear heels.

Riding a horse? Yeah, if you can do that with heels.

Mexican women tend to wear heels for all occasions. Many of us are not as tall as we would like to be.

Mexican women also like bright shiny earrings that dangle from our ear lobes. We also tend to choose bright colors for our clothing and then put the dresses away because we think we look garish in them.

Mexican women tend to like to cook. We are frequently fairly traditional homemaker-wise. We breast feed our babies, do the dishes, and iron our husband's clothes.

But Mexican women have bad tempers. We are likely to stick you with a knife if you cheat on us. We will then cry and clean up your wound when you swear you'll never do it again.

Mexican women are proud. You won't see us begging for attention. If our boyfriend or husband leaves us, we would never let him have the satisfaction of knowing we were hurt.

Mexican women are fun in bed. We are as likely to laugh as to moan. Mexican women don't take it all that seriously. It's supposed to be fun.

Mexican women are deeply spiritual. We may deny being religious, but watch our faces when the white smoke comes out of the Vatican announcing a new pontiff.