Alex In Amsterdam

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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!