no place like home

My grandson put his hand in his pocket to retrieve a chocolate candy bar. What he took out was a mess in a wrapper. It had melted. The candy bar was useless and his pants needed to be changed as well.

I blew out the candles on the dining room table only to find that the wax had melted and was now ruining the finish on my wooden table. It has gone through the beautiful table cloth and was now in the process of defiling the table surface.

All the kids wanted to do was put a carrot nose and button eyes on their snowman. But the weather didn’t cooperate and Frosty melted into a puddle before the kids got to enjoy their labor.

The cocktail party was a big success, except for one thing. The ice bucket was empty, just a pail of useless icy water remained. The warmth of the festivities had melted the once crisp frozen cubes.

You killed her! Hail Dorothy! The bucket of water had successfully melted the Wicked Witch of the West. She simply shriveled up and died a puddle of her former self.

A saddened child, a heartbroken hostess, a form of murder!      

Melt……...........................Melting……......…………..…..Melted.

So why is it they call America, or more specifically New York, a “melting pot”…..like it’s a good thing?! But maybe they did get it right….we are melting, puddling and becoming useless as the immigrants come and refuse to acclimate, use our language, and salute our flag.

The block I grew up on looks like the Middle East. The mothers wheeling baby carriages have most of their faces covered up with a burkha, their speech unintelligible. The men all have skull caps and dark swarthy skin. There is no eye contact with anyone not shrouded or weather-beaten. I am an American. I am the stranger here.

The neighborhood I grew up in, just blocks from the street I lived on looks like Bejing. The store’s signs are all in Chinese lettering that no one other than themselves can read.
Zao An Ba Ba instead of Good Morning, Xie Xie instead of Thank you. All this politeness falls on deaf ears…I speak (and hear) English. I am an American. I am the stranger here.

The places I shopped as a teenager and worked as an adult have been flooded with Ukrainians who refuse to speak English when there is another Russian present. As you walk down the street you can almost see the Kremlin in the distance. The local high school even allows its students to take the NYS Regents in Russian. I took it in English. I am an American. I am the stranger here.

I’m melting, melting……what a world, what a world!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfV_ENR5IZE

not the only loser

Oh well, so much for the old adage ‘third times a charm.’ I took the Who Wants to be a Millionaire test for the third time and didn’t pass AGAIN. I went with two other friends who also didn’t pass, but at least they didn’t have the dubious honor of carving a third notch in their loser belt. They don’t tell you what passing is, or how many you got wrong or even the correct answers. The one consolation was that only six in over a hundred test takers passed. We got to watch the filming of three shows, but I never made it to the hot seat, I didn’t get to talk to Meredith and I certainly didn’t win a million dollars or even enough to cover the $18 salad I had for lunch afterwards. At least not this time around. The guy in desperate need of a visit from the follicle fairy who talked when you weren’t supposed to talk and took too many of the sucking candies they passed around…he passed. The woman from Wewaddle, Wisconsin with her knee high knee-highs and kelly green scarf (when we were clearly told to wear only dark colors)…she passed. The high school teacher from Yonkers who bantered with the warm up guy about the constitution but clearly was not in front of his high school students this day…..he passed. Three others who weren’t in our section also passed showing no enthusiasm and no fanfare. Damn them.

I should have known it was going to be a bad day. It started out earlier than I would have liked, waking at 5am for no apparent reason, the ATM machine had no cash to give out, the Dunkin Donuts line was 20 deep, and the gas station attendant had an attitude when I told him the pump wasn’t working. The traffic on the West Side highway was bumper to bumper with tour buses, cabs and really lousy inconsiderate drivers. Time was of the essence now so when a construction worker, all tough in his little orange vest with the flourescent stripe, decided to direct traffic I should have just apologized to my friends and gone home. Turning cars were blocking the intersection and me. We were at a standstill. Tough guy stands in front of my car just as the box cleared and I could have proceeded. He continues to direct turning cars in front of me, who now also block the box leaving me standing still again. Had he remained in front of my car he would have ended up an orange blob with a flourescent stripe under my front left wheel, but instead he sauntered over to my window with a half assed admittance that he screwed up and made things worse. Knowing that my mouth might get me in more trouble than this was worth, especially since I was in a inescapable situation, I told the man to get away from my car, and when he wouldn’t I picked up my cell phone as if I was calling for help.  He left. Now the funny thing is, who the hell was I gonna call?….the cops couldn’t have gotten anywhere near us unless they helicopter-ed in, and I doubt me, my friends and our millionaire tickets warranted much attention since Amadinajad and Gadhafi (wasn’t it spelled Khaddafy a few years back?) were in town. The box cleared and once again we were on our way.

I dropped my friends off at the corner and began the daunting task of looking for a parking spot or parking garage. One 'i can walk that far' block away was a beautiful spot….just off a corner, in front of the $18 salad shop, with a no tow zone and a muni-meter.  Fifty cents for 15 minutes. So for an approximate 5 hours stay, it would cost me $10.….in quarters. Did you do the math? That’s 40 quarters. I had seven. I put in my seven, got my receipt, put it upside down in the windshield and hoped for the best. Maybe the meter maids/men/people/persons (whatever is politically correct these days) were too busy on the east side at the UN where they were allowing the aforementioned tyrants to speak. Either my upside down ruse worked, or they really were busy on the east side, either way no ticket!

Regardless of how the day began or ended, I will apply for more tickets, I will try out again….and take the test a fourth time. After all I have a lot of room on my belt for loser notches.

hanging ten.....

I am watching the Yankee game. I am watching the new CBS show The Good Wife. I am watching Pee Wee Herman on the new Jay Leno show. I am watching Fox 5 News. I am watching Scarface. This is how it is to watch TV with my husband. Unless House is on. Then, and only then do I have one glorious hour of no channel surfing. Most couples I know watch different shows at night which explains why most houses, according to statistics have 3.5 TV sets. I have 6.

My husband likes to watch 4 minutes of a show, determine it is not view worthy and move on. Sometimes I get to see an entire segment, commercial to commercial before the channel is changed, but that is rare. And actually worse since I would like to know how it ends. The worst however, is when we are watching or should I say, just passing through….a game show, like Deal or No Deal. I just saw this guy say no deal to over $100,000 and he clicks. Can you put that back? By the time he finds the channel I wanted to go back to, the guy has lost the million, a new contestant is in his place and Howie Mandel is washing his hands.

Most nights while he is channel surfing I too am surfing….the web. We sit opposite each other at the kitchen table, me with my laptop and him with the remote. Click, click…… and click. While I clean up emails, update my Facebook status and pay some bills he is mindlessly clicking thru all 800 channels. Every so often there is a pause in the clicking, I hear a few precious moments of a movie or news brief and back on the road again. Sometimes I don’t know that he changed the channel and a story line takes a weird twist. We were watching the Yankee game and by the time I looked up for the score it had gone from a winning 4 -2 to a losing 5- 10. What the hell happened? Who’s pitching this disaster? It wasn’t til I saw the word Classic in the upper right hand corner that I realized he had put on a different channel, he too thinking he went back to the current game.

The one constant is that if the TV remains on one channel for longer than ten minutes it means one of two things….he is asleep or the show is something filmed in the 1940’s and is in black and white. His father was color blind, could that have anything to do with it I often wonder? It is almost eerie how much he enjoys black and white movies. Westerns, Military, even romance….if they are sans color he enjoys them. Now I am not talking about the silent movie black and whites and although he does like those too but doesn’t seem to read fast enough to really enjoy them.  When the Wizard of Oz goes from black and white Kansas to Technicolor Oz I lose him every time.

There was a Stephen King book made into a movie called Christine. It was about a 1958 Plymouth that was possessed and aside from all the other hideous things it was capable of doing, it always played 50’s music on the radio even though it was the 80’s. That’s kinda what it feels like to watch TV with my husband. The TV goes on, and although the 2009 Fall Season premiers of Biggest Loser, NCIS, Dancing with the Stars and Top Chef are going on, the TV becomes dark and morphs into a black and white archived movie. Scary!

 

Thank God for DVR’s. I DVR everything. I can fast forward through the miniscule parts I saw with him and then finish the show. I can find out how something began, how a ball game ended and even why the Kardashians aren‘t speaking. I can find out who got voted off the island, married the bachelor and how the Gosselin kids enjoyed their 5th birthday party. I just cant watch it all at once.

I'll be in tomorrow....

I hate being sick. I am such a baby. I woke this morning after a lousy night’s sleep to find my throat on fire. And my head hurt. Top, forehead, temples….just one big pain….and it felt like I was wearing a hat two sizes too small that I couldn’t take off. I called work to say that I wouldn’t be in and planned my course of curative action. The medicine cabinet had a minimal stock of pain meds…aspirin, Tylenol, sore throat lozenges, and a musical Spongebob thermometer. Forget the fact that it was a rectal thermometer. I  just assumed that I had no temperature. I took the Tylenol as I whimpered and moaned like a two year old. I fished out two lozenges and made my way to the couch. Of course as soon as I laid down my bladder decided it was time to make a bathroom run. Didn’t it notice me passing the bathroom? I splashed cool water on my face which all but sizzled making me rethink the whole thermometer thing. I made it back to the couch, found the fetal position and covered myself with the throw all the while moaning a slight barely audible sound. (Hey I told you I was a baby)

Within minutes of my delightful posturing under the throw, a wet cold annoying nose prompted me to let him out. I didn’t have much strength left to argue the point, so I just got up and let my dog out. Cursing and moaning. I passed the closet with the medications and ever so momentarily thought about the thermometer…and then continued on to the couch which seemed to get further and further away.

The phone rang. I couldn’t reach it without disrupting my covers, so I let it ring and waited for the answering machine to pick it up. It did, and the person hung up. Bastard! My cell rang. Same hang up scenario only I wouldn’t know that til I crawled from my couch sanctuary and found my cell phone in the bottom of my pocketbook after emptying the contents on the floor as the damn dog barked all but splitting open my head with pain. I want my mommy!

I took two more pills, eyed Spongebob once more, made a bathroom stop and made the trek back to the couch. The dog was eating something. I assumed it was my lozenges since the coffee table was bare. Since they are little more than a sucking candy with menthol I knew it wouldn’t kill him and let him continue his feast. I laid down, covered up and groped for the remote. Nothing. Nowhere. (The dog couldn’t have eaten the remote too could he?) I rolled off the couch since I didn’t have the strength to sit up and found the remote dangerously close to going under the couch where it would have to remain til I had the get up and go to get up and get it. The dog, thinking my materialization on the floor was a signal to play came bounding over. His entire face and paws were red. Blood, no….Fancy Fuschia…my lipstick. Urrgh!

I wiped a tear away as I sprayed the Fancy Fuschia stains on the carpet. After putting away the cleaning supplies I made a cup of tea, grabbed two more lozenges, and cleverly hid them in my pocket. (That dog can’t get one over on me… twice!) The couch just wasn’t working, so I planted myself in the great big leather recliner that my kids bought their father for Fathers Day two years ago that he has yet to recline in. I now know why. Once you recline, if you don’t have abs of steel, you have to remain in that horizontal position until someone comes to your rescue. And I was holding a cup of herbal tea. Since I couldn’t reach the table, can’t sit up enough to sip the tea, and no one was due home for hours I sat holding the tea til I fell asleep. And so as physics would have it, every action has an equal reaction. You let go of a cup of hot tea, you get burned with a cup of hot tea. At least it was herbal.

I sat tacky with tea until I could no longer take the chill and my blanket was on the couch, feet away. Like the adreneline rush of a superhuman feat, I managed the strength to sit up and fall sideways out of the recliner. I went and changed my clothes, took what amounted to an overdose of Tylenol and put on my computer. I gave up trying to take care of myself, I gave up trying to feel better, instead I wrote this. I feel better now.

i tried.....

I love Italian food. I love Chinese food. I love Greek food. Hey, I just love food so I thought at the very least I would like Middle Eastern food. I was wrong.

I went out to eat dinner with some friends at a local Mediterranean restaurant that had come highly recommended. From before we even got seated I knew we were in trouble, at least I was. I felt like a traitor. Like any one of the waiters could have been flying a plane through a building by tomorrow morning. If I had thought about it I would have worn an American flag draped around my neck. But I am so politically incorrect these days, that I thought I would just give this place a chance since the Greek diner we eat at regularly had grown boring. The place was big and airy and filled with mostly middle easterners which if true be told, it is always a good sign if the regulars are of the same culture. While it didn’t seem to bother the others, it gave me the creeps.

The menu was large and varied as was the wine list. The waiter (more Russian looking than Middle Eastern) was tall and dumb and spoke little English. We tried to order drinks. Mine was easy. A glass of Merlot. Where it got trickier was when he was asked what liquor they had. My friend got a vodka and cranberry…score one for the waiter. But when a Bloody Mary was ordered, well…we lost him. I think he heard the word bloody and started picturing the 72 virgins he was promised. The makings of a Bloody Mary explained we moved onto the appetizer. Let me just say, it was delicious. It had a bunch of unrecognizable things pulverized into an even more unrecognizable paste that you ate with delicious bread that you broke rather than sliced. Chick peas, eggplant, and green olives became hummus, Baba Gannouj and something called Fattoush. There were two dipping sauces where the ketchup should have been …..a cucumber yogurt dipping sauce with dill and feta cheese and a spicy tahini sauce and they were NASTY! At least I thought so.

As we figured out what we were having for our main course it dawned on me that I don’t like lamb or seafood so the only thing left on the menu was chicken. No pasta, no BLT, no tuna on Rye. It was about now I started missing my boring Greek diner and the tub of old pickles. Everyone ordered and I got the chicken kebobs which I assumed were like, well shish-kebobs. (What is a shish anyway?) The meal came and there were chunks of chicken, on top of raw onions, on top of a tomato slice, and a burnt hot pepper over a bed of flavorless rice. I guess in the middle east they don’t believe in giving you the shish with your kebobs since I didn’t even get a stick. Dry, tasteless, boring.

Dessert seemed more promising. The sweet desserts, I had heard were to die for. Got that one right. If this didn’t send me into a diabetic coma nothing ever would. The waiter brought a tray of desserts to look at. Halvah, marble halvah, rugala, a rugala assortment, something he said was rugala but wasn’t, and some flat thing that sounded like he said was chocolate cake. That would have been the safe bet, but since I felt like I had already abandoned my country I would try the rugala. I got the ‘something he said was rugala‘….which was basically shredded wheat soaked in way too much honey with pecans and apricot jam. Oh and a dusting of pistachio nuts that made the whole thing look like it had mold on it. And coffee. The coffee was great and the dessert made my teeth hurt, but I ate most of it anyway, just out of principle of course.

We paid the bill and left the undeserving waiter a decent tip so that he kept serving tables and didn’t go and join some sleeper cell. Next weekend I am going back to my Greek diner, where I can order a three egg omelet, waffles and home fries no matter what time of day it is. Opa!

i see you....

I just came back from an eye exam. I am still blind. The nice lady in the white smock (who I am sure there were two off)  put something kinda burn-y, kinda soothing in my eyes that made me tear a lovely shade of yellow. She then instructed me to put my chin and forehead on this machine so that she could look through my mustard colored tears and into my eyes. Not happening. I have breasts. If they really needed my head and chin to rest in this contraption they should have made allowances for them. They didn’t so I just sat contorted til the test was over. Another machine was dropped down in front of me and I was instructed to read the smallest line of letters on the chart on the far wall. Now keep in mind, I knew ahead of time there was a wall, and a chart….but letters? When I finally zeroed in on the smallest line I could read, lens were placed in front of each eye with the doctor asking which was clearer….A or B? 1 or 2? By the tenth A or B I could tell I must have been getting something wrong because she kept asking…are you sure? I assured her which will probably mean I will be walking around with brand new glasses and still be blind as a bat. I knew I shoulda picked A!

The exam done and still blotting yellow tears from my blurry eyes, I made my way to the fitting counter. This is the place that no matter what coverage you have through your job or union costs you a fortune. The frames covered under the health plans are usually big black ugly glasses that only a face like Cindy Crawford could make look good. On me, not so much. As the technician handed me pair after pair to try on in the huge magnified mirror, he complimented me. That one looks fabulous on you! Liar That one is perfect for the shape of your face. Gee I often wondered what went with fat and a double chin? These are so lighweight you won’t even know you have them on. Yes I will, I can see. So I settled for a more stylish frame, by a designer who made his fortune in cologne and now wants to charge more than twice what the other frames will cost and four times what the health plan allows. But I will look fabulous. So he says. Cha-ching! Then I was offered scratch resistant lens. Cha-ching! Gradient lens that allieviate the need for sunglasses, a steal. Cha-ching, cha-ching! Spring hinges so that if I sit on them they wont break. Cha-NO…..I refused these since I know that it is gonna take more than a little spring to help when my fat ass sits on them.

My eyes have stopped tearing enough to throw away my yellow stained tissue. I still look a little jaundice but I am assured it will go away. I fill out the necessary form, sign what had to be signed and took out my checkbook. $344...that is with my health coverage. I could have sold an organ and not made enough to pay for these glasses, but I am gonna look fabulous because these lightweight frames will go so well with the shape of my face…at least that’s what the tech told me. And if I don’t, and if they aren’t I will leash up my seeing eye dog, grab my white cane and hunt him down.

lies, all lies

My mother lied to me as I’m sure I have lied to my kids. They, in turn, are now lying to theirs. And I don’t mean about the tooth fairy or Easter Bunny.   15 lies my mother told me:

1. It’s just baby fat. Yes it was….and then it was teenage fat, and adolescent fat and now adult fat. My whole life I’ve been waiting for those baby rolls to go away, instead they escalated to a bakers dozen and then some.

2. I love you both the same but why cant you be like your brother? Why? Because if I was then I would have a penis and bathe once a week. Any other questions?

3. Never put shoes on the table, it’s bad luck. What’s gonna happen, are the shoe police gonna come and confiscate my Payless BOGO’s. (By One Get One) It’s not bad luck, its just disgusting.

4. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach. Have you seen my stomach? Wrong again mom. (see #1)

5. You’re not dumb, your just not trying! Yes Mom I was dumb. Cute as a button perhaps, but dumb as a stone. Math, not my forte. Science, forget it. History, not so much! I tried Mom I really did.

6. I’m gonna count to three! No your not. You never get to three. You either never start counting or you play the 2, 2 ½, 2 3/4 game….

7. Sitting too close to the TV will hurt your eyes. - Then why the hell did you put the couch where you did?

8. If you swallow a pit it will grow in your stomach. By your calculations I have a small orange grove, a watermelon patch and several cherry trees thriving in my gut. Hey maybe that’s why I cant lose weight, and they say fruit is good for you?!

9. Don’t make that face, it will freeze that way - If Jim Carrey’s face didn’t freeze I think I am relatively safe.

10. Two wrongs don’t make a right - Yeah OK but to tell you the truth it feels mighty good. Sometimes that second wrong is just necessary.

11. Act your age. I was four the first time I heard this. I must have been acting 3.

12. You better quit while your ahead - Somehow I doubt Michael Phelps and Lance Armstrong’s mom ever said this to them.

13. Eat your dinner… there are starving kids in other countries that would love the food on your plate. OK, so mail it to them. The peas stink…they are canned and salty and what kid likes peas anyway? Besides I think before Angelina adopts them all, the starving kids would rather a Twinkie or maybe something chocolate instead.

14. Wear clean bloomers in case you get hit by a car. Thanks Mom, but if I get hit by a car and the blood doesn’t ruin the outfit then I am pretty sure I will have shit myself anyway.

15. You’ll understand when you have kids of your own. Sorry I am still in the dark and my oldest is 34.

cheetah

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they have to be accountable for past actions and poor choices. I think in some religions they call it confession, in others, restitution and in others still, atonement. In my world it is called ‘getting caught’. I have a friend who’s husband confessed, restituted (is that a word?) and atoned but basically he got caught. He was dating a woman who wasn’t his wife, sleeping with a woman who wasn’t his wife and shared a Hampton beach house with a woman that wasn’t his wife. Problem is, it wasn’t the even the same woman who wasn’t his wife. Mr. Wonderful had 4 woman in his life at the same time. Four…that’s three more relationships than I know I could possibly handle! He canoodled during lunch, had more late night business meetings than an investment banker and he even slipped in and out at night when she was asleep. He avoided a paper trail by using cash for everything including hotels, motels and boatels. (a trick he picked up from Joey Buttafucco’s blunder) Each woman knew him by a different name although he did stick with his correct initials. (in case he blew his cheating, lying nose on his monogrammed handkerchief) He had his car cleaned after every clandestine visit to remove any remnants of the last woman he had in the car. (and I mean that in the literal sense as well) The sex he was having with his wife became mundane and limited and she had no idea why. Her Victoria Secret thongs were unimpressive. Her toned, tanned body barely piqued his interest anymore.

For some reason, Mr. Viagra broke off the relationships citing one reason or another that these cheap broads bought hook, line and sinker. Except for one. She wasn’t going down easy. She wanted her 15 minutes and she wouldn’t be silenced. She called his wife. She told her everything. She gave dates and times and locations. The problem was that the Mrs. already knew…deep down where it mattered most, she knew. She knew about them all. And knowing before you are told gives you a sense of empowerment. She agreed to meet with the woman and was frighteningly unimpressed with what she saw. Her husband had risked the stability of their lives for a romp with a woman that was plain at best. They talked for hours, and a bizarre friendship formed after many tears and too much wine.

That night she confronted him. She too named names, dates and locations. And he denied it. All of it. There were no other woman. There were no clandestine meetings. He simply didn’t do any of it…and to add insult to injury claimed he was appalled by her accusations, he packed. And left. It had been three days since she heard from him. He went to his girlfriend. She threw him out. He came back to his wife and she did the same. He decided to come clean and told her much of what she already knew. He expected forgiveness….there was none. Good riddance and stay tuned!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0pftUq7QQw

when life hands you lemons.....

Sometimes Life Sucks - Look for the Silver Lining

Patrick Swayze’s death - I get to watch Dirty Dancing. It is my favorite movie and it will be shown like 20 times this week. I get to say ‘nobody puts baby in a corner’ as many times as the opportunity arises without sounding obnoxious.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vciEDI3dD8I

9/11 - Those flowery, seasonal, decorative foo-foo flags have been replaced by good old fashioned Betsy Ross, 50 stars, proud to be an American flags and will stay that way until the Halloween one replaces it.

 

Kanye West - Thanks to this loser, even black men have to admit that when this brother messed up at the VMA awards it was as racist as it gets. To him the fair-haired little white girl has no business winning over the black diva Beyonce?? And just ask Jay Leno about silver linings…premier show with Kanye as his guest….rating bonanza!

 

Broadway shows close due to poor ticket sales - The theatre prices have driven all but the wealthy away…but with ticket sales down I actually stand a chance of getting an aisle seat for my husband and I so that we don’t have to watch the play comfortably instead of in a constant inhale mode.

 

Sham Wow pitchman arrested for beating up a hooker - One less hooker, one less Sham Wow commercial.

 

Rep. Joe Wilson calling Obama a liar - Proof positive that we live in a true freedom of speech society where you can call a spade a spade (no pun intended) and not be hung.

Roger Federer defeated by 6 foot 6 Juan Del Potro at the US Open - We can finally state without embarrassment that size really does matter.

 

H1N1 virus - The schools have never been cleaner. The custodial staff finally cracked open that bottle of Lysol they bought in 2003. Hopefully when schools plan trips to foreign countries…they won’t. Rent the movie Outbreak for God’s sake! Why not go somewhere here in the states? We have monuments (think Rushmore), state parks, (think Yellowstone), and beaches (think Miami, Malibu, Coney Island), oh, and don’t worry, we have plenty of foreigners for that out-of-the-country experience.

 

Closing Guantanamo Bay - “Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lieutenant Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives! You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall! You need me on that wall! We use words like Honor, Code, Loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline! I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I would rather you just said "Thank you" and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to! - Jack Nicholson, A Few Good Men (I was sooo waiting for a time to use that quote)

Jacyee Duggard’s 18 years of captivity - The parole system will change. It has to. The parole officer that ‘paroled’ this psycho needs to get another job. Maybe at Taco Bell. Hopefully now sex offenders will be seen for what they are…uncontrollable and incurable. You hurt a child you go to jail and you stay there. Bubba is your new girlfriend and it is going to be a long engagement.

Barbie is that you?

I hate Facebook. (I hate it every time I sign on) I don’t want to know that you’ve just showered or peed or shaved your legs. It is of no importance to me whether you dined out or ate in, watched a movie or have a cold. I don’t care what time you went to bed, or with whom for that matter. (ok maybe I am just a little interested in that) I hate looking at pictures of where you have been, who you have met, or what you have accomplished. (I am jealous)

I don’t know how to build a farm or cultivate crops and I really suck at keeping endangered animals alive. I don’t care when it says you are gonna die, or myself for that matter and no matter how many quizzes you take, you don’t now or ever will look like Barbie or Ken for that matter. I don’t want to war with the mafia and chose not to partake when you ask me for help to do so. I can’t send you a gun or a bomb and if I could I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be advertising it on Facebook. Since I can’t really enjoy the drinks you sent, I will not pretend I did and send one back to you. I don’t care what actor or actress will play you in a movie because I doubt they will ever make a movie about your life or mine for that matter.

I have seen how you looked back in high school and it really isn’t necessary to tag yourself since other than the ridiculous hair do’s we all look quite the same. And speaking of tagging, if you tag me in a picture make sure it isn’t one of me stuffing my face (could be quite a feat!) or smiling like I am constipated. Unless it is Halloween or pretty close to it, I don’t want to see you dressed as a woman (if you are not) or man (ditto) or Elvis. If you want to show me costumes from your childhood, don’t bother.  I have made more than my share of ghosts, disney characters and music icons....I am bored with the whole holiday.

I cannot get more than 25,000 jewels to drop off the god damn board in one minute and I have no idea how anyone really does. I think they must cheat. I can’t pop over a million bubbles and breaking bricks just isn’t my thing.

I will join your causes as long as I don’t have to donate any money. I will sign your petition as long as I don’t have to donate any money. I will participate in your surveys as long as…well, you get the idea.

The movie star/singer/tv personality you think you are friends with on Facebook isn’t real. Do you really believe Angelina Jolie is by her laptop talking to you?  It’s some 70 year old toothless woman in tornado alley sitting at her computer shoe-less and more than likely bra-less scratching her…..self.  Derek Jeter isn't thanking you personally for the kudos you sent when he reached his milestone...it's probably Pete Rose.

If you get a virus because you played every game, joined every cause, accepted every gift, and repeatedly update your profile......you deserve it.  And if you tag me in something that gives me a virus I will hunt you down.

If you think for one minute any of this is true, you dont know me very well.  I am addicted to staying informed, staying involved, and staying in touch....I am addicted to Facebook and I can't wait to see your pictures, join your cause, drink your drinks, take your quizzes, beat your scores (or try to), visit places and countries I have never seen.  I want to help you get through a rough patch at work, at home, with him or her.  I'd love to send you a knife or a margarita and if I get a virus, it will be worth the connection.  I love Facebook.

in the middle of the night

I have insomnia. I get maybe four hours of sleep a night. They say it is bad for you. I agree. You have no idea the oddities that go on throughout the night while the world sleeps. (well at least this half of the world) Did you know that all through the night the ice maker in the fridge is busying itself making ice.   It knows, somehow, that right before you went to bed you threw five ice cubes in the dog’s water bowl and sets upon the task of replenishing.

Many of the tv channels go off the air after showing at least three hours of paid programming. (which simply translated into English means selling shit to those of us who are almost brain dead from lack of sleep) There is no music or flag waving like years ago, just a blue screen that says….off air. It is a little sad and a cue for me to go get the Nyquil (the stuffy, sneezy, coughing, aching, fever why the hell did I buy that pocket fisherman medicine) or I will never be able to function tomorrow.

The scary scurrying animals come out. I hear them rifling through my garbage. The possum, the raccoon and some other rodents I would rather not know are scampering around thisclose to my doors. I live in the city, but at least at my house upstate when things are scampering they are deer and chipmunks. Ya know, like Bambi and Alvin (and even the lesser know  Simon and Theodore).

The dog farts. Often. Maybe because it is quiet, or maybe because the doors and windows are closed….but my dog farts constantly all night and certainly more than during the day. He jumps up, does a little side step, looks at his ass as if to ask, what was that? was that me? It would be better if he just quietly lay there and did nothing. I would have thought it was my husband.

Your neighbors are up too. Not all of them, but there is always that one house where the lights go on in the bedroom, and then the bathroom and then the living room. The kiss of death. You leave the sanctity of the bedroom….its over. You go down any stairs at all…your done. You put the tv on….forget it. Just buy something useless and get it over with. You aren’t going back to sleep until you give someone your credit card over the phone.

Something leaks. Or drips. Or trickles. It could be the sink, the toilet, maybe even the hose outside. But you will hear it and it will make you have to pee.

Your house is sinking. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Listen carefully and you will here the groaning and moaning of beams that have held up your house for decades. They have stood strong through wind and weather and even your fat Aunt Dolores and her three porcine offspring haven’t been able to break them. If you think back it started simple enough, a squeaky step…a whiney doorway floorboard…but in the middle of the night the beams seem to take on a life of their own. Bending and swaying to nothing. Creaking and scraping against the unknown. Just try to get back to sleep when you think the roof is caving in.
 

There are bugs that just wait for nighttime to begin their mating rituals. I suppose during the day the female bugs are all repulsive and unsightly and therefore undeserving of their attention. But at night, or maybe because it is too dark for them to actually see them, the females become these elegant, chic bug-lets with long antennas, and wispy wings. The males decide somewhere around midnight would be a good time to go courting by showing off there best leg rubbing skills….their proficiency in abdomen vibrating. The only bug noises that make me happy is the high pitched din of my bug- zapper when it catches one of the little bastards in full pursuit.

 

gracie

I bought a book on the meaning of dreams at a flea market this weekend. It reads more like a dictionary, where you look up the main focal point of your dream and see what it ‘really means’. The only dream I was able to remember and was interested enough to look up was one where I was hiding from some thieves in bushes outside my house. So I looked up ‘hiding’ and ‘bushes‘. It said that I was repressing the urge to express myself in a sexual manner. Huh? Ok forget that one. I looked up ‘parking lot’ and ‘lost’ because of a reoccurring dream I have of losing my car in a huge parking lot late at night. It said that I was losing my sexual awareness. (I sense a theme running through this) One more try….I looked up ‘baby’ and ‘crying’….yup, the baby represents the innocent in me crying out from sexual tension. I gave up and threw the book into the garbage. (which probably means I have discarded my sexual desires)

I guess provoked by the dream book, I had the first dream about my mom in a long long time. I awoke both saddened and happy from the experience. I was seated in a unrecognized diner when in walks my mother who, I might add, has been gone for over 15 years. At first, as expected I gasped at how much this woman looked like my mother, then as she approached and I saw that it truly was her. I kept saying…no way, this can’t be happening, but ‘Mom’ assured me it in fact was her. I immediately stopped questioning the how, and hugged her harder and longer than I probably had in real life. I never asked where she had been or how she came back…I just set upon the task of presenting her to the family. My kids were younger, closer to the age they were when she died. They were skeptical but easily convinced as was not the case with my brother. He needed answers but accepted them readily and without further explanation….which was good since my brother is gone since 2001 and trying to explain how our dead mother returned to my dead brother (who it seems also returned) was just a bit much for one dream. ‘Mom’ told us she had been looking for us. Even showed us a note that explained that she was looking for her family and that she was a diabetik….spelled just as incorrect as mom had spelled it. To whom she gave this note, we didn’t ask. Who showed her how to find us, we didn’t ask. How come she didn’t age…didn’t ask. Funny thing about dreams, they make all the sense in the world until we wake up. Like what happened next. We went shopping. ‘Mom’ and I went to a mall. What mall and where, no clue. In the dream I stared at her constantly trying to see some inconsistency, something that didn’t fit…..a mole on the wrong side of her face, a hole in an unpierced ear. Nothing. Even if this wasn’t my mom, well I was just as willing to accept her as a substitute….no more questions asked. But I did have one more question….perhaps because she hadn’t aged. I asked her how old she was….and she hesitated…and avoided…changed the subject. I could see her doing the math in her head and she came up with 66 which means she was 12 when she had me. (I guess I do look younger than my years) Her answer pierced me like a knife. This was an imposter, a good one, but a fake nonetheless. And as dreams have a tendency to do, everything changed. We were back in the diner…(funny how food always seems to take me to my comfort zone) the doppelganger turned into a much younger, looking nothing like mom, poor imitation. My brother was no longer there, just a few dollars he had left for his portion of the bill, and my kids were suddenly age appropriate. (and of course paying no portion of the bill) The phone rang and I woke up. Saddened by the fact that Mom was not back at all, nor was my brother. Happy though, that I got to feel my mother‘s hug, and smell her, and be reassured and comforted by her if only for one night.

I went to the garbage and fished out the dream book. I looked up dead people. I looked up dead mother and dead brother. I looked up imposter and diner and mall. And no matter what combination of dream keywords I used it came up the same theory. I want to end my sexual inadequacies by pretending to be someone I am not and bury my feelings by being overly dependent on a sibling. Gee, and I thought I just missed my Mom.

bird seed

So here it is Labor Day Weekend, a weekend of half-off sales and traffic jams, barbeques and traffic jams, telethons and traffic jams. Did I mention traffic jams? Every Labor Day for the last 25 years we have gone to the Catskills for the weekend. When the kids were little we tolerated the traffic jams on Friday afternoon and endured worse on Monday. Then the kids got older and smarter and now they stay home on Labor Day, hit all the sales, barbeque and wait for the tote board to change for Jerry kid’s. Predictably my husband and I headed for the mountains.

The traffic wasn’t bad. Wasn’t good, just wasn’t as bad as I had expected. Contrary to the norm, my husband and I spoke for a good portion of the three hours drive. At one point I casually mentioned how if I was to kill him I could see many places where I could dump his body and it would never be found. I told him that I never understood these morons who murdered their spouse then got caught because they didn’t bury the body deep enough. He offered this: If you are going to kill me and dump me on the side of Route 17 make sure you bring bird seed with you. Needless to say, I asked why….which began a 15 minute speech about how the birds, especially the larger ones, would be attracted by the seed, find his body and basically eat most of the evidence. Him! What is wrong with this man?? Or should I be worried that he put this much time into thinking this scenario through. Hmmm.

The trees hadn’t started to change colors yet, but the scenery still amazes me. Towering cliffs of stone, embankments of rock and I often think, who first decided to put a road straight through the mountain. Who said, ok guys here’s a good place to put an interstate, blast away! Then we can dot the highway with signs that say that rocks may fall on your car, beware! And speaking of signs along the highway, I have never seen so much to read as I barrel along at 85...um 65...Yield, Speed Zone, Work Zone, Fines Doubled, Merge, No Merge, Right Lane Ends, Left Lane Ends, Road Narrows, Road Widens, Road Work, Rte 17, Rte 6, Future Rte 86, No Shoulder, Wildlife Crossing, Slippery Bridge and it goes on and on. Why can’t they just put one sign up….follow the white lines…drive careful….you’ll get there!

As we got further onto the mountain we hit the world famous Wurtsboro hills. This is where one of two things happen. Your car either slows down to 12mph, which is 3mph slower than the 18 wheeler on your rear bumper, or the smurf in the mini cooper flies past you giving you a dirty look and the finger for not getting in the right lane sooner. Either way you just grin and bear the 7 miles of hills and vow to look for a way to avoid them in the future. That is until you see the mini cooper pulled over on the side of the road flanked by two sheriffs cars, and then you laugh and laugh and continue reading the signs. Speed limit 65

I make no bones about it, I am incredibly crabby without my grandkids. The pool was too cold, the hot tub too hot, the drinks were too weak, the coffee not hot. There were too many bugs and not enough deer, casino no luck, we ran out of beer. The diner was greasy, the flea market had junk and the shows at the night club, well they all stunk.

We came home early so that I could spend Labor Day barbequing with my grandchildren, watch Jerry sing, strained and off key to his kids, buy just about anything because it is half-off....and maybe pick up some bird seed.

sheets

My son has a bed frame from IKEA which cost around $100 bucks. It was his sister’s originally but when she got married he inherited it. It is black metal and looks like a prison bunk. There are even handcuffs attached to the headboard but we won’t go there. I am a firm believer in…don’t ask don’t tell. IKEA has some funky odd European sizes, so his bed isn’t a Twin, not really a Full and just short of a Queen. So what the hell size mattress do we get? His mattress ended up costing about 6 times that of the frame since it had to be custom. And plush. And pillow-top. Yup, my son is a JAP.

He has one set of sheets. Two if you count the red ones he bought and doesn’t really like. The sheets cost $129 since they had to be Egyptian cotton and a minimum of 500 thread count. The sheets have to be queen sized to fit, but folded and tucked in order to look good. When it is laundry time they have to be washed, dried and put back on the same day. It suppose that it really helps that the sheets are black. I thought I would be the good mom and buy him sheets. Kohls was having a sale and so I found nice 500 count Egyptian cotton queen size sheets in royal blue. Thanks but no thanks, royal blue doesn’t ‘go’! Go with what? His comforter is black, his headboard is black, his walls are grey his rug is grey..(hey I think I am getting where the whole prison thing is coming from) blue doesn’t go? Even royal blue? What the hell do I know….I brought them back. They have no other colors that ‘go’….no grey or white or black. The sale is over and the sheet section is limited. At least in Queen size. I find sheets that are white, and queen, and Egyptian, and 300 thread count. Since I really don’t believe my son’s ass can tell the difference, I will quietly change the 3 to a 5 with a permanent marker. Cleopatra herself would have loved these sheets. Best of all, it was buy one get one free. I found yet another queen, Egyptian, 300 count in black. It was like panning for gold and the big nuggets just surfaced. There was no price. I looked on the package, on the sign, on the tag…no price. I knew I was in trouble.

 

I lugged the sheets to one of the scanners they have scattered around the store. The little boy in front of me scanned four different action figures with no problem but when I tried the sheets, nothing. I tried again, nothing. Third times a charm…..$179.00 and get one free. One hundred and seventy nine dollars for sheets. White sheets. Plain, boring white sheets. Oh but I get one free…so I do the math in my head….duh….and the sheets are only $90.00 each. What the #%@*??? I buy my sheets in Telco or at the Flea Market where they are a manageable $25 a set. OK so they are made in Pakistan and probably will spontaneously combust one day, but hey I can change my sheets and not have to wait for them to dry. Since I don’t want my son to combust or his JAP ass to chafe on cheap sheets I purchased the buy one get one free sheets. Your welcome, son.