The Art Of Jizz On the Recycle Bin Handle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!