I'm A Gucci Girl In A Payless World

My birthday is on Monday.

Now, I'm not saying that I expect gifts from Gucci or Prada.  I realize the economy is not doing that great.  I even realize that we may be looking at a severely cut Defense budget and that our income comes directly from the Defense budget.

But I'll be damned if I think it makes any sense that I have to receive plastic shoes from Payless as a birthday gift.

My husband is crying about the increased taxes.  He's crying about the Defense budget and how it impacts his line of work.

Excuse me?  Ever heard of a paper route, Alex?  Ever heard of mowing neighbor's lawns on weekends?  Ever heard of Grand Theft Auto?  I mean, come on.

I didn't cause the financial situation.  Why should I have to suffer from it?  I never gave out a shaky loan.  I never did a hinky business deal in my life, (okay, there was that one time, but he had it coming).  All I'm saying is stop moaning about finances and understand that I have some standards.

Cheap ass shoes hurt my feet.  Cheap ass shoes wear out really fast.  Cheap ass shoes make your feet smell like pickles (and not the good kind).  I really don't mind a cotton skirt from good old JC Penneys or Sears and Robuck.  I don't mind a cotton tee shirt from the Gap or Old Navy. 

Just please realize that shoes and bags cannot be from Payless.  That's all I'm saying.

Disco Zombies

I don't understand this fascination with Zombies.  They are dead people and they are ugly.  What is the deal?

Okay, Vampires, I get.  They are kind of sexy with all that neck-sucking business.  Werewolves?  Not so much.  I love dogs and I love wolves, but I don't want to date one if you know what I mean.

My husband, Alex, is a Zombie fanatic.  He loves "The Walking Dead" and even reads books about Zombie wars.  I don't get it.

In the old days, I think in Haiti, they had zombie priests or something in voodoo.  I never really understood that either.  Either you are dead or you are alive.  I don't buy into the idea that it's a half and half thing.  My husband tells me I'm missing a lot.  For example, Zombies can only move in one direction (forward) and they cannot swim.  Why this is important for me to know, I cannot tell you.  But Alex insists it's worthwhile information.

Alex also listens to a lot of Disco music.  I never even acknowledged Disco when it was happening.  He insists on playing "Saturday Night Fever" songs when he cleans up the kitchen.  His radio is always playing something like Gloria Gaynor or Sly and the Family Stone. 

I like classical music and country music and rock and roll and rap and blues, and hip hop.  Disco makes me shake, but not in a good way.  I find Disco as annoying as Zombies.

I don't eat KFC either.  That is so not chicken.  But if Alex is hungry, he will go by KFC.  Maybe he likes seeing the Zombies there while he listens to Disco music on his iPod. 

I really don't know any more.

"Put It In Your Mouth! Do It!"

Excuse me?

Alex walked in the office when I was looking at the whole internet and said "Put it in your mouth!  Do it!" to me.  He was holding something in his hand.

I looked at him and wondered if he had lost his damn mind.  He reached his hand toward me showing me a nasty little piece of chocolate that he had saved off of a chocolate Santa Claus we gotten from a friend at Christmas.  Alex had eaten everything but the head of the Santa.

I said "Put it in my mouth?" and he started grinning.  He is one sick bastard, that one is.

Alex needs to keep in mind that we are married and have been for many years.  The demands to 'put it in my mouth' are pretty funny at this stage of the game.

Plus, I don't want some nasty piece of chocolate he's been holding and letting melt in his grubby hands.  And where does he get off saying "Put it in your mouth!  Do it!" to me?

Well, unless he's holding  a big bunch of hundred dollar bills in the other hand.

Then I might think about it.  Naw.  Just kidding.

Sleeping In Separate Bedrooms

We've been married for almost 25 years.  I guess this was inevitable.

Since Monday night, my husband Alex and I have been sleeping in separate bedrooms.  No, we didn't have a fight.

I have a problem that is making it very difficult for anybody to sleep with me.  If anybody has ever had this problem, they will understand right away.  If they haven't, they will think I'm crazy.  The truth is probably someplace in the middle.

I started getting sick on Saturday.  I got worse on Sunday.  By Monday, I was re-writing my will.  I had a fever of 101F.  I was racked with coughing spells that actually felt like they were cracking my ribs.  When I bent over, it was like opening a faucet from my nose and eyes.  Coughing was agonizing, and completely out of my control.

Because of the upcoming holiday, I went to the doctor and he put me on a Z-Pac and nasal spray and some strong antihistamine medication.  My doctor also assured me I probably wouldn't die, but we all know doctors sometime lie in the situations just because that's what they do.  

Alex was in the process of trying to prepare a major presentation for work.  I'm not sure he noticed when I moved out of our bedroom and into Harry's apartment downstairs.  Alex also had Zoe and Harry, our two big mutts to keep him warm during a really cold spell.  I do understand that Alex was very preoccupied with work. 

By the way, I am a person who embraces being a "caregiver".  My husband, Alex, does not understand the concept of the word "caregiver".  (But you might also understand why I was trying to change my will.)

I had my misery and pain.  And I had yowling, hissing, meowing, rutting cats in my ears driving me crazy.  When I put my head down at night to sleep, my eardrums were full of squeaks, squeals, clicks, meows, moans, hisses,and sometimes Geiger counters that kept me awake.  These noises were in total concert with my breathing.  I began to realize, there may be worse things than death.

Now I like cats just fine.  But I really don't like cats in my head making a total racket.  When Alex considerately came in to check on me after about 72 hours, I had finally fallen into a drugged and fitful sleep.  He says he could hear "wheezing noises".  Wheezing my ass!  Those were the cats in my head making all that noise.

My fever is gone.  I have two more days of antibiotics. I'm beginning to think I may not have to do anything with my will right this minute.  I may even go back to our blissful marital bed by Christmas, but I may bring the cats!

Frank Gore Follows Me On Twitter

SF 49er Running Back, Frank Gore, follows me on Twitter.

I only say this because it's true.  Okay, I really don't know what "Twitter" is all about.  And never mind that I am not a huge football fan.  (Okay, I used to be, but that was back in the Joe Montana, Steve Young era, not now.)

Still, I am happy to see that Frank has the good taste to follow me.  The thing is, this has caused great agitation between me and my husband Alex.

Alex is really jealous.  He is a die-hard 49er fan.  He adores Frank Gore.  Alex watches every play of every game and totally loves the game.  (I'm a baseball girl myself.)  Every time Gore makes a great play, I simply call out to Alex.  "Honey!  Frank Gore follows me on Twitter!"

Alex tries (and fails) to be very casual over this.  He is seething with jealousy!  I have tried to assure him that it must be some kind of a fluke.  Maybe there are two Frank Gores?  Maybe it's not really THE Frank Gore?  (It is.)  Well, who knows!  I am sort of cute.

I like Frank just fine.  But I'm not really that much of a football fan, and I have now idea why he follows me on Twitter.  But I might venture a guess or two if pressed.

But I won't do that here.  Let's just say, "Honey, Frank Gore follows me on Twitter" and be done with it!

Things That Make Me Go Ugh

I hate it when I get these things.

First off, I have to put the damn notice someplace where I can't miss it.  (They seem to arrive about a month ahead of the actually date you have to deal with.)  In my house, that can be tricky.

My dog Zoe grabs things off of tables and counter tops and eats them.  My husband puts things "somewhere safe" (meaning somewhere where the item will never be seen again in this lifetime).  I write reminders all over calendars, but then I don't look at the calendar for weeks at a time.  My bad.

Remembering to check in after 5:00 PM the evening before the summons is also hinky.  Don't these people realize that 5:00 PM is the cocktail hour?  After two Bombay Sapphire martinis, I can't read the "juror number group" they are going to ask me for.  Why can't they put the time at say 4:00 PM?  I seldom hit the sauce before 5:00.

I called the number at 5:00 PM the night before.  I was told to appear at the courthouse in Oakland  at 9:00 AM the next morning.  Double Damn!  We have a nice little courthouse right here in Alameda.  Why can't they just send me there?  We actually have a pretty low crime rate in Alameda.  I think that we have had 4 murders in 25 years or something like that.  You guys read the headlines.  Oakland has murders (plural) every hour, plus a wide assortment of robbers, rapists, arsonists, bad actors and gangsters.  And why is it that police departments and courthouses are all located where gangster-looking and acting people hang out?

Also, I may have mentioned before I don't get up before 9:00 AM because most people die early in the morning according to a study I saw referenced someplace.  If it's my time, I'd just as soon be in bed when it happens.  There is no dignity in dying right on the damn kitchen floor with coffee spilled all around you.  So, in other words, the Jury system wants me to risk my very life over this.

I got to the courthouse relatively and surprisingly unscathed.  There is a long line out the door.  I was worried sick I was going to be late.  A Sheriff was telling everybody to take off all of their jewelry, belts, and stick them in the plastic bucket with purses, wallets, phones, lighters, lipsticks, compacts, keys and pocket change.  Folks, I have a lot of jewelry.  I need help taking it off.  Realizing this was an absolute problem, I asked the Sheriff to assist me taking off my bracelets with tricky clasps.  He advised me to just walk through the metal detector with my arms raised.  Whew!

I made it just in time not to be late.  After checking in, I sat in a plastic bucket seat for an hour while people straggled into the large room.  Nobody talked.  The man next to me slept.  When he woke up, I asked him how he got his shoes so shiny.  The man told me he polished them himself.  I said "Wow!"  Then he went back to sleep.

After an hour, the person in charge read off a long list of names and told those people to go upstairs to Courtroom Number 5.  I sat in that plastic chair for another half hour before we were told we could leave.

And what's with all the plastic stuff in courthouses?  Plastic buckets?  Plastic chairs?

I hate jury duty.

There's A Man In My Tree

Actually, there's more than one man in my tree.

People who know me well would not be surprised because having a man or two in my tree is generally my idea of a fun time.

Our big old oak tree needed her skirt lifted and a haircut to let the light in.  She was becoming a tad gloomy.  At 80 years old or so, I understand how that can happen. Her leaves were growing so low that they tangled in my hair as I walked up the path to my house.

Getting her skirt lifted has made her feel downright perky again.  The sun started peeking through her branches as they cut her back a bit.  Plus, she's no longer growing into the upper floor of our home.   

She was tended to this afternoon by 8 handsome young Mexican men.  They sang to her, gently trimmed her up nice and pretty, and took the dead branches off of her.  They disposed of all of her debris in a very respectful way.

After their loving tending, the guys stood across the street to admire her with big smiles on their faces.  As they cleaned up, I could hear some serenading in Spanish.

I took the young men out a bucket full of ice cold beers.  Their big smiles at my "tip" made my heart sing.