Ass, Off-Gas & Plenty of Sass

Memo to people who attend sporting events- specifically baseball: Really? You seriously think we like having a face full of your arse during a critical moment in the game just because you’ve decided that you desperately need to stuff your already horrendous pie hole with that 5th plate of nachos, some more beer and a churro? Thanks to you, I missed a fabulous over the wall catch by the left fielder and one of the most exciting moments of the game.

I have an idea! How 'bout using common sense and courtesy and waiting until the inning is, I don't know, OVER before you come tromping back to the MIDDLE OF THE ROW habitat you call a seat? You've already created quite the individual ecological niche there with your stacks of plates, discarded drink cups reeking of warm beer and peanut shells.

Why is it ALWAYS in the critical moments of the game-, which, by the way, are few and far between in baseball, that you and your already overstretched bladder decide to heed the call of nature? Can’t your saggy bladder wait until the batter strikes out, fouls or gets to the base off a fabulous full count swing? Oh, wait! I forgot! Your selfish bladder ONLY sends the signal to get your pee on exactly AS the batter finds the sweet spot on that ol' Louisville and sends the home team into the playoffs or World Series glory. I guess I have to take the scoreboard's word for it, since I was intimately pressed against the backside of your 6'7" frame while standing to accommodate your passage in tight quarters.

I think the conversation went something like this:

YOU: "Oh shuckydarns, those Padres got a hit.”

ME: Wow, really? I missed it, apparently, but can I just say that you wear those Wrangler Jeans oh, so well? Also, Tide with Bleach will get that mustard stain right out of the waistband of your SpongeBob. Boxer shorts"

Equally annoying to fans- who’ve forgone much needed medical care in order to afford baseball tickets - are the "See –and- be- seen crowd." Yep, you know who you are. You have about as much interest in the game as I have in watching Pro Bass Fishing Hour on the Nature Channel. You're all about wearing your ridiculous Ed Hardy shirt, reeking of some gosh awful cologne, with nary a hair out of place on that shellac coiff that surely sports a full year's worth of product. You definitely have a case of Tanorexia.

As you casually saunter down your personal catwalk- which is - lucky for the thousands in attendance- Aisle 1, Home Plate Section, seats 13 and 14 in a 30 seat row, you arrive fashionably late in the middle of the 4th inning (no mad dash to your seats between innings for you!) You pause at the end of the row, turn and squint your eyes as your gaze up into the cavernous, forty thousand seat ballpark, and miraculously find someone you know! You smile that dazzling chiclets smile you just paid thousands for and whip out your iphone to discuss how lucky everyone is that YOU have arrived! We are treated to a full 5 minutes of "end of the catwalk poses" while everyone gets to hear dazzlingly brilliant conversation spew forth from your rosemary scented, chap stick slathered, SPF 15 protected lips.

We all get to miss the botched call from Blue on that checked swing because 1. We are slightly dizzy from the off -gassing effect of all that product and 2. It's either stand up or get a face full of yo' skinny ass draped in your 7's.

Can I tell you a secret? Just once, I long for some transplanted Yankee fan to lob a mustard encrusted corndog right straight in the middle of your dome! I would GLADLY endure the splattered mustard blowback on my weathered, #51 game jersey for the rest of game if I could see that!

Mr "Does RBI stand for Really BIG Idiot?" is usually accompanied by his beer getta'- as in "Babe, why don't you go get me another draft?' Beer Getta' chick makes me laugh so hard. Poor thing gets sent out on more beer runs than a new pledge at his first frat party. Give her some love, peeps! She rocks those ghetto fabulous 6-inch heels up and down that aisle better than ANYONE! Of course the novelty soon wears off- even for the horniest men in attendance- as less and less beer makes it back to her clueless hunk and more and more ends up soaking everyone in the row. Plus, BGC gets sloppy drunk and the mere hint of Double D boobage her stretchy top from BEBE first promised, is quickly followed by full frontal disaster. (Note to self: Apparently the secret part of the Victoria’s Secret Push Up Bra is load failure and lifting issues occur when the, ahem, “materials supporting the illusion of firmness and enormity” come in contact with copious amounts of spilled draft beer.)

Still, ya gotta’ love beer getta’ when she mistakenly interprets the 7 inning stretch for her Bikram Yoga class.

I dunno, I really don’t remember my dad having to teach me basic manners when it comes to the ballpark. I think I pretty much learned them myself. It’s pretty simple. Maybe the Padres should put a little sticker on the back of every seat in the ballpark.

GET IN, SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP! (Except to cheer for the Padres, of course)

The Survey Says......

Answering one of those surveys people send me on FACEBOOK. What to answer? I am always reticent to answer these and send them back to people. What if my answers are no good? What if it is a trick email instituted by agents of the Shadow Government and they have psychologists grading the answers at the other end? Will I get Kozynskied if any one answer is slightly off the chart of normalcy? I'm gonna do my best, my friends. Let me know if you think any of these are even slightly cause for concern.

Worst Habit? Gosh, I hate to confess this, but I am addicted to rolling the lint roller over and over my ass in front of the neighbor man. This is not really what you think. I am just running late for work and have to roll AND run to my car at the same time.

Tell one weird thing about yourself. Umm, well once in college I was hungover & running late, so I threw on sweats and wore espadrilles. The preppy peeps shunned me, and boys who were trying to date me ended up with serious reservations regarding any future plans of matrimony or breastfeeding their progeny.

Can you cook? I accidentally poisoned my hubs once and now he does all the cooking. Yes! Thank you to the Vons which sold me that tainted hamburger meat. In the short term, those burritos were wicked, but the long term effects are wonderful.

In all actuality, this started waaaay back in Jr high. As a Campfire Girl, I took a cooking class offered by OG&E. Two weeks after the class, we were sitting at the dinner table as my mom perused the obituaries in the paper. She suddenly announced, "Oh, Susie your cooking teacher died last week." She then sighed a polite little sigh which was just as quickly followed by an amused snort from my sister, Kathy. This resulted in the whole sick and twisted Hazelton clan laughing hysterically for about 20 minutes.

What was your dream growing up? I wanted to be an Olympic gymnast and woke up every am at 5;00 to be the next Nadia. Unfortunately for me, I had a growth spurt in 8th grade which included 5 inches of height, some boobage and an ass that wouldn't quit. And by that, I mean it wouldn't quit hanging out so that I could properly balance. Just walking in the sun and seeing that big booty in my shadow was scary enough, much less trying to stuff it in and do cartwheels on a little beam 4 inches wide. Nadia, I salute you and your tight little ass. Now go eat some donuts and leave me to my Olympic Dreams of gymnastic glory.

Negative or Optimistic attitude? Optimistic..except when I step in dog poo - which thankfully does not happen that often.

Ever been arrested? No, but I have friends who have. Once, a really cute undercover detective, who looked like Michael McDonald when he was with the Doobies, asked me out. I think it would have involved handcuffs. Does that count?

Do you swear a lot? I swear each and every time I break down and eat those nasty, greasy, but oh, soooo good meat paste tacos from Jack in The Box, that I will never eat them again. Time passes by, and I forget that heaven in meat paste land = well, you don't need to hear those details.

Favorite thing to do in your spare time? I'd like to say that I feed the poor and save endangered species, but I prefer to hunker down with bargain Harlequin Romance Books with the covers torn off (They're cheaper that way) and a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies. Perhaps I am contributing in some small way. The little neighbor Brownie has gone to camp 3 times off my cookie purchases alone! (They freeze up real well!)

If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be? I'd like to change into a Supermodel on Mondays and Saturdays. I think only doing it two days a week would keep the ugly me humble and appreciative. Plus, Saturday is going out night. Perfect day to be pretty and hot. And Mondays? Well, looking Supermodel beautiful on Monday means everyone will forgive and ignore it if your pantyhose have a run, you are a little late after sleeping in from all that glamorous partying from the weekend and your black pants have dog hair on them. (Think how thrilled the neighbor man will be! Spared at least one day from arse roller running)


Worst thing to ever happen to you? Oh gosh..always when someone dies...And when the Jazz lost the 96/97 nba finals...

Any Piercings? Yes, but I always let the holes close. I can only wear gold and where's the fun in that? I long to JUST ONCE purchase trashy, cheap earrings at The State Fair of Your Choice instead of $50 Jr League gold hoops. Something in a "Fancy Verdigris Metalwork with Chicken Claws" would be lovely.

El Nino, Moonshine and The Masked Monkey Man!

My take:

After the annual Bigfoot Campfire Storytelling Event, We found a dive bar 3 miles into the deep, dark woods on Friday night. It was soooo scary. It was surreal, twilight zonish and something I will never forget. We were driving down the two lane highway when we saw a sign that says "BAR - 3 miles." with an arrow. We almost drove past the "El Nino Supper Club", but my sharp eyes caught the neon Budweiser sign gleaming through the thick cedar trees. An old trailer from the 60's sat surrounded by an aging white picket fence with weeds and a rickety wood walkway leading to an old, bent up screen door. It came complete with the town drunk, Leo. We started to get back in the car when Leo encountered us and bade us to enter. I believe his exact words were, "Get on in there. She might be asleep, but we're open."

Anita, who reminded us of Eileen Brennan in Private Benjamin, was indeed slightly dozing in her recliner when we crept in. Anita, with her red flaming hair and slightly bent posture is at least 85. It was as if we had entered someone's private living room, only this one had a bar and a couple of tables. We chose to sit at the bar and ordered up some $3 margaritas- the "house specialty" according to a sign posted next to another sign, which advised us of the dress code requiring shoes and shirt but "bra and panties are optional."

Mimi asked to go to the restroom and was directed behind a curtained doorway which I later discovered also served as Anita's sleeping quarters. The gentlemen in our party were advised that their restroom was behind the trailer which was pretty much 'anywhere you want to go" according to Anita. Mimi asked what there was to eat and Anita announced that the only thing she had left were brisket sandwiches. "We'll take 6," Mimi cheerfully announced as I gave her a look of sheer terror.

As we waited for "Red" to microwave our culinary waterloo, Leo served as a charming host, regaling me with tales of his recent romantic break up which involved his objection to his best girl's new colostomy bag. I learned everything I needed to know about Leo and then some. We also met Pepper the resident bar chihuahua.

The brisket came, and I am pretty sure I possibly ate human flesh for the first time in my life. (It does not taste just like chicken) I'm thinking that no El Nino Supper Club patrons ever actually make out alive, but since we were late to the party that Friday night, Leo and Anita were too tired to make the effort and decided to let us go. It was either that, or Greg offering to buy her a shot- which she quickly took him up on- whipping out a bottle of Peach Schnaaps and charging him $6 for the pleasure of watching her belt it down like a 21 year old frat boy in the Gaslamp on Friday night.

After Cannabalism Fest, Anita sang us some tunes on the guitar, but not before asking for requests. Chip was sad that she did not know the acoustic arrangement for any Rogers and Hammerstein, but we were charmed all the same by her efforts. We took our photos with Anita (El Nino Tradition is that you don't get out the door without a photo in the pink sombrero) and left into the cold, dark woods- none of us speaking for a few seconds as we drove away. "Was that real?" someone finally asked. We all laughed nervously and hysterically after that- all the way back to beautiful Peckerwood Knob Cabins.

Saturday was the 5k and the Bigfoot Festival and of course our annual turn about the fair as Bigfoot Royalty. Mimi is standing in line for corn dogs, gets tapped on the shoulder and hears, "Hey, do you remember me?" She turns to find our sweet troubador from last year, Tommy Ladd. There were hugs all around and of course Tommy invited us again to Clancy's to jam. He has grown even more talented in the year since we heard him last.

As we stopped at the local market to pick up some grub on our way to Clancy's, we heard a shout out from a jeep just pulling away and discovered the County Commissioner from last year who taught us to play spoons. We ran and hugged him just like we've known him all our lives. Clancy's was great again this year. Tommy Ladd and Willy Steve played, County Commissioner played spoons and we were treated to a taste of moonshine from an old guy with a full white beard, missing teeth and overalls. He carried it around in a paper sack wrapped in a mason jar.

Sunday morning ,while it was still pitch black outside, Mimi opened her shutter windows up in the loft overlooking the other cabin in which Greg and Darren were staying and screamed like a little girl. "Something's in that tree." I was right behind her and screamed also, mostly due to her reaction. As we were running, I say, "Was it a raccoon, a bobcat, a possum?" She hysterically cries, "No, it was a man in a monkey suit."

"A man in a monkey suit?" I screamed even louder. Chip and Dottie, having been rudely awakened by hysterical screaming on a peaceful Peckerwood Knob Sunday morning, come bounding up the stairs. They bravely look into the dark, swaying tree as they try to calm us down. "It's just the wind" "You were seeing shadows." No amount of convincing could disuade Mimi from her vision of our hirsute visitor in the tree.

We had certain suspicions, which we carefully pondered for a few hours over coffee and which later resulted in a hilarious, seemingly random discussion with Greg to see if he would fess up after we referenced certain things. We queried him about his access to costumes at Warner Brothers, quoting that one of our favorite movies was "Planet of the Apes, and discussed the old tv series "Bewitched" and how one of our favorite episodes was the one where Dr Bombay turns Tabitha into a monkey. Each reference was met with a confused look from Greg and hysterical laughter from the rest of us.

We finally told Greg the goal of our rather strange conversation with him and what had occurred the night before. He SWEARS it was not him and I believe him. Still, I know Mimi. She is one of the most logical, straightforward people I know. I do not know who was trying to scare us, but they certainly did. We think it may have been Mr Green, who wants to scare away tourists from Peckerwood Knob- due to an abandoned gold mine upon which it sits. We called the gang from Scooby Doo and the Mystery Machine is rolling towards Honobia even as we speak. They'll have it solved in half an hour in plenty of time for all of us to get back for some Scooby Snacks. Of course Shaggy and Scoob will spend that half hour mucking things up in misadventure, while Alan and Daphne disappear to God knows where. (Can you say "Hook up while everyone else is concentrating on a mystery?") My money will always be on Velma, the girl with the sensible shoes.

Just as Jim Smith, the photographer at Lightsmith Photography blogged, I will go ANYWHERE and do ANYTHING with the wonderful friends I have from so many years ago.. It is really not about the destination- it's about the company you keep.

Get Your Scan On!

I am guessing that the main protesters over full body scanning at airports are males between the ages of 20 and 40. You know, the ones who haven't endured having their "Junk" regularly viewed in a non romantic setting at least once a year? (Strippers don't count!)

We chicks yawn and say, "Bring it on! What's the big Whoop? You want to view the goods in order to make sure we're not smuggling in bombs wrapped around the hooha, then knock yourselves out!"

We've fully exposed ourselves to "the outside world" since around age 16 and the annual party for two continues on until well, I guess it never ends. Not to mention that during childbearing years, the fallopian fun fest involves an ever widening circle of opportunity for even more outsiders "not intimately involved" to bare witness to our nether charms.

That's not to say that all that involuntary exhibition over the years doesn't take some getting used to. I still regularly stuff my HMO"S patient suggestion box with a plan for handling "the annual" which involves providing liquid courage in the form of box wine in the waiting room AND supplying large paper bags for all patients to wear over their heads in the exam room. (BIG FAN OF ANONYMITY HERE!!!!!!!)

I remember being absolutely HORRIFIED when my girlfriend, Terri blithely allowed her hubs, both sets of in laws, hub's bro and the man who performed the last oil change on her van to parade in and out of the birthing room whilst she was in the throes of delivering her baby. I was still grappling with the fact that more than one medical employee at a time was allowed to be present when her personal viewing party began.

Perhaps the body scan is no biggie to women because we've probably endured our share of awkward moments involving our "nekkid" selves. Imagine being twenty and in walks a handsome, blonde intern who is subbing for the day in place of your usual kindly, fatherly Dr. Welby-like regular physician. (You chose him exactly because you figure he's seen it all and then some and it's not QUITE so creepy.)

Poor little intern is just trying to make small talk, but the small talk involves a convo that normally takes place at a bar or during a party, not with your two feet flying up in the air, in a room colder than ice and well, you know the rest...

"Wow, I see you work at blah, blah, blah. Do you know Whozer Whatsit and So and So?"

"Umm, yeah I DO."

"Well, make sure you tell them I said hello!"

"Ummm, yeah. I will be sure I tell good ol' Whooz and 'So you said hey! Should I tell them
we know each other up close and personal?"

Awkward silence for a few seconds until the jaded nurse snorts with laughter and intern realizes he should have just been quiet......

Frankly, I'd rather walk thru a scanner than have Bertha, who just came back from her lunch consisting of lots of onions and garlic, pawing me in secondary.

Hey, buck up everyone! So you pass through the scanner and 3-4 TSA agents can see all of you from shit to Shinola. As long as you aren't packin' PETN, CENTEX, TNT or small furry hamsters, it's all good! Just, grin and say, "Cheese

We're Fat Because We're Not Amish

I read this from the MSN news site.....hmmmm....Harrison Ford fantasies......

Maybe you CAN blame being fat on your genes. But there's a way to overcome that family history — just get three to four hours of moderate activity a day.

Sound pretty daunting?

Not for the Amish of Lancaster County, Pa., who were the focus of a new study on a common genetic variation that makes people more likely to gain weight. It turns out the variant's effects can be blocked with physical activity — lots of it.

I vote for moving to Lancaster Pa and becoming Amish! We can be lovely, size 4 Amish women with 7 kids and no electricity. We will hope and pray that an accident happens to our hard-working but boring Amish husband and that Harrison Ford crashes into our barn ,we have an illicit affair with him in between feeding the children and milking the cow, and we pass our idle time running from crooked cops and drug dealers.

We will sweat like pigs, have boobs down to our knees from all that breastfeeding and probably have hair on our legs and crotches that resembles a jungle (Do Amish women wax?)

Perhaps- inspired by never being able to actually SEE Harrison during our midnight trysts, we make candles and use the excess wax to open up our own Amish Hair Removal Salon. We quickly become the Mary Kay in the world of Amish Hair Removal, open up salons in all Amish settlements and quickly amass vast quantities of pies, chickens and other methods of Amish payment.

All of the waxing and trysting with Harrison will continue to make us svelte and lean. Who's with me??????? The train for Lancaster leaves on Friday....

(Bring extra Twinkies for the trip. We can work it off once we get there!)

Other. Please Explain

My physician referred me to physical therapy for a very painful upper back condition.  I waited for a month while the Grand Poobah HMO Administrator gods huddled in their magic cave to decide whether they would wave their approval wand and grant entrance to  “Thirty dollar Co-pay three times a week land. “  After countless phone calls, letters and an almost visit to a tattoo artist to get my medical record number permanently inked on my ass, they broke council and granted the request.

Not to be ignored, outdone or denied their OWN chance to hold court in the seemingly fiendish plot to drive patients needing services to the brink of insanity, the Insurance Provider gods convened in their own demonic den to decide the merits of my painful plea for relief.

Finally, after 2 months, I took my twisted little self to the closest physical therapist, filled out MORE forms, cursed myself for not following through on the ass tattoo and nervously waited for the summons to sally forth and be healed.

All the countless hours spent calling, cajoling, filling out form after form – often with the SAME information requested in the previous form, finally resulted in actually seeing someone who’s sole interest was actually seeing me as a real, live human with a need instead of a number

Jane, my assigned therapist, was wonderful.   Well trained in the traditional course of physical therapy, she had the added knowledge, practice and belief in chakras, spirit energy, meditation and the importance of inner light.   She soon had me relaxed, pain free and on the mend. 

Soon, I received a letter from a third party company representing my medical insurance provider determining if the services I am receiving currently from my medical provider "were the result of an accident in which another party may be responsible for payment."

Gosh, I’ve NEVER attracted so much attention from so many parties at once!!

7 choices are then listed for me to peruse and select which presumably will allow them to determine the true cause of injury and the proper person to bill. I diligently read the first six choices, however none of them quite fit my scenario.  I am slightly panicked since I always like to make an A on these kinds of tests. I even sharpened my #2 pencil so that there would be no mistaking my choice. Then I see my favorite box in the world: #7. Other. Please explain.

I love Other- Please Explain. It has always been my safe harbor all the way back to the days of sign-ups to play softball for the Southside Chiefs in 5th grade. Back then my ma used Other-Please Explain to discuss the reason I should be allowed to play for the team practicing on the field closest to our home rather than having to travel for (eek!) a whole mile to the team who practiced by the freeway.

I'm an Other-Please Explain kind of girl. I have never neatly fit into any category, be it skin type, age bracket, hair color, eye color (green if I'm wearing pink, yellow or green-blue if I have on purple), situation, etc. There is usually some strange quirk that prohibits me from confidently checking the appropriate box in life. You can imagine what stress the Census form must bring.

Here is what I explained to the third party to explain to the first party:

Other. Please Explain. My physical therapist says that she has never seen a more crunched up 1st cervical vertebra than mine. We discussed the different reasons, and she came up with a list of likely causes. I have written them down for you and hope you will be fair when you divvy up the billing for the responsible parties.

1. Sometimes this injury happens in the womb and does not become apparent until we age. In this case, you will need to contact my mother.

2. My therapist tells me that childhood falls can also result in this injury. In 3rd grade, Anthony Galiando stomped on the descending end of the teeter totter as yours truly was rising to the top of the world on the other side. I am sure I do not have to explain the physics to you, but this did result in me flying off the teeter totter and landing about 6 feet from the apparatus onto the hard dirt surface. I do believe Mr. Galiando is currently incarcerated, but he may be able to slip someone the shiv and make recurring small payments via cigarette cartons until his portion is paid off.

3. Repetitive motion can also do the trick. I KNEW I was being irretrievably harmed when Sister Jean made me scrape gum off the bottom of all those desks as punishment for wearing blue eye shadow. I'm not quite sure if she was a closet fashionista who knew that you should never wear blue shadow if you have blue eyes or if she wanted to punish me for looking like a tramp. Probably both! I believe her Order was Sisters of Charity but maybe it was Sisters of Divine Makeup Intervention. You can look her up. I bet she even has a FACEBOOK account.

4. Sudden, unexpected changes in body position most assuredly put a kink in the works. In that case, you better contact the 79-80 Rockette Cheer Squad. Once we were practicing a pyramid and yours truly was on top of the heap, king of the hill. One girl shifted to itch her underarm and we all came tumbling down. I ended up with a concussion and a black eye. It is SQUARELY her fault and when you charge her, please also ask for additional money for me. My senior pictures were awful and no amount of makeup could make me look like I hadn't been in a gang fight after school. (They were $100. I won't charge interest)

5. Hours of keeping your head in one position and not moving also seem to disagree with Ol' Mr. C-1. Gosh, I don't know who to blame for this one. I just think it would be churlish to blame Mr. Rogers. He was only half an hour anyway. Plus, he's dead. I guess you might have to contact the NBC network since I DVR Days of Our Lives and usually spend about 3 hours at a time finding out who's doing whom in Salem. I do occasionally cock my head to the side when I see some of the romantic pairings they make, but I'm thinking that probably does not constitute enough head movement and if anything, probably exacerbates the injury. I know it injures my eyes and ears when I view some of the storylines, but that's a different appointment all together.

6. Bad posture is also a culprit. For this, you're gonna have to do some detective work. There was a big, tall, blond girl who lived on McKinley Street in Oklahoma City. Mrs. White's Ballet Academy was also on McKinley. Big Blond Girl used to threaten bodily harm as I proudly carried my little ballet shoes, tights and tutu stuffed into my BARBIE BALLET BOX and ran past her on my way to Mrs. White's. I soon gave ballet up, but never told my Ma the reason. I'm not sure of this girl's name, but I bet she is now a man- thus making a difficult situation for positive identification.   If you do find her/him, please charge her money AND kick her ass.

In closing, I do hope this has been helpful in sorting out the responsible parties to bill for this treatment. I have to go now - since filling out this form has brought on stress due to painful repressed memories, and I now have a new pain in my neck. I will leave it to you to bill yourself accordingly.

I never heard back from dear old Third Party, but I’d like to fantasize that my response resulted in the following:

1.      1.  That the poor schmuck stuck in a cubicle reviewing these forms for “Third Party” laughed his/her ass off when they read my response

.

2.     2.  First, Second and Third Parties had one BIG party and decided they had enough information about me to last a lifetime.

Big Deal, Big Hero

I spent a day amongst heroes once. I almost missed it. When some friends of my husband asked him to video a memorial service for their father Duffy, who had been the president of the San Diego Chapter of The Pearl Harbor Survivors Association, I initially opted out of accompanying him.

“I don’t want to sit in a room full of strangers,” I told him. “You go ahead and we’ll go have dinner when you get back.”
“
No, you REALLY, REALLY need to come with me.” He was emphatic. “It will be a day you won’t forget.”

Truer words were never spoken. Expecting a sad, mournful day amongst strangers, I experienced a sometimes reverent, sometimes joyful celebration of heroism, honor and most importantly, true humanity - which defined the day and the man we were honoring. It was one of the best days of my life.

As we arrived and I helped my husband unload all his equipment, I noticed at least 75 older men dressed in bright Hawaiian shirts. Dallas nodded towards them. “Those are Pearl Harbor Survivors.” His voice held a worshipful tone that told me immediately that this was so much more to him than just a favor to a friend.

He grew even more excited when he pointed to a spry old man with a medal around his neck. “ That’s John Finn- the oldest Medal of Honor winner! Despite being wounded by gunfire in several places, he stood for hours shooting at Japanese planes on December 7th, 1941.”

While Dallas positioned the video equipment, I wandered around the Scottish Rite Temple as people continued to arrive. Soon I was lost in a sea of flowered shirts, military men and women in uniform, several local politicians and other dignitaries.

“Hmmm, I guess Duffy was kind of a big deal,” I murmured to myself.

I grabbed a seat as the Memorial began in the center of the packed room that easily held 300. As soon as everyone was seated, the Pearl Harbor Survivors marched in front and center to chairs reserved for them. Some could barely walk, some needed help just to reach their places, but I could tell that come hell or high water, it was important for them to make it there to honor one of their own.

The service had the customary solemnity, dignity and reverence present in most memorials - that’s where the celebration of heroism and honor came in - but the biggest difference that set this one apart was a beautiful performance of music , accompanied by a poignant remembrance from the artist of what it means to impart true humanity and understanding- even under the most difficult circumstances.

A tall, thin man of Japanese descent rose and began to play his clarinet accompanied by a recording of Big Band instruments. His talent was extraordinary and the smooth notes echoed through the temple. He soon played each Military Branch song- which sent an electrifying energy through this crowd ; mostly made up of men and women who belonged to “The Greatest Generation”-those whose service and sacrifices at war and on the home front are the reason we are free today. It was touching and inspiring to see them rise and sing with emotion and pride.

As the music died down, a spontaneous cheer rose up from the gallery, and the people stood for a full 5 minutes. It was both an ovation for the heroes present and a farewell salute to Duffy. That moment alone was so special it could have ended there. I would have been forever grateful I was present to witness it.

It didn’t end there. Tad came to the microphone and very quietly spoke.

“When I entered the military, Duffy took me under his wing. He stood by me when others shunned me because of my Japanese heritage. He was honest, kind and wise. He showed me what it meant to wear the uniform with pride. I owe him so much. Thank you Duffy.”

The beautiful notes of a lone clarinet playing Auld Lang Syne filled the room once again. You could have heard a pin drop.

Duffy, you were a big deal! More than you will EVER know....

DOWN THERE, OUT THERE, WIPE THE GLASS

I just read that Kotex was barred from using the word "vagina" in their ad for a feminine product so they substituted "down there" instead and that was also nixed. LMFAO.....

We get to hear all about men who can't get their mojo up, peeps who fudge their undies and need Depends, and the fast talking man who speaks at the end of every ad for new drugs? Well, he doesn't quite speak fast enough for me NOT to know said drug may cause spontaneous eruption of the ass, non stop wood for more than 4 hours or some other undignified, personally explosive hazard.

It is kind of funny that we get so embarrassed over the mention of feminine products or any mention of the vagigi in general. And girls? We are number one violators in perpetuating the hysteria... Raise your hand if you have driven thru AT LEAST four 7-11 parking lots looking for the ONE store that has a female clerk. Now, sista's I know you have gone to the store only because you didn't watch the calendar and need some "feminine products" as we like to call them and that is all you needed. But instead of walking bravely up and plunking that shiny pink package with the perty flowers down on the conveyor belt, you loaded up the basket plum full of household products, Star Magazine and well, while you're at it, Sara Lee is sooo good for what ails ya!

Recently, I was visiting two of my older female employees and my purse fell over while I was talking to them. Low and behold, out pops the little pink plastic package that holds a lite days pad. Oh lord, you would've thought I farted or had shit running down my leg. I actually think they would have preferred it. They looked stunned and scared as I hastily shoved the damn neon pink grenade back into my fake Coach bag. Later, I thought how funny it was that two grown women who most assuredly have had Auntie Flo visit were so bejiggity about an accidental pad exposure....Good Lord!

Which leads me to my last story...Know what lite days feminine pads are good for? Back in the early 90's I had a Honda Civic. Now anyone who's ever had a Honda will tell you that the front windows fog up REAL easy. My devoted hubs would get really mad if I used my hands to wipe the windows, due to the smudge.

ANYWAY, while on my way home one night, I was stopped at a traffic light and the windows started to fog up really bad. I looked around and had nothing to wipe them with....UNTIL...I remembered that I had a whole box of, yep, you guessed it, KOTEX LITE DAYS in the bag beside me. I quickly grabbed one, ripped off the pretty pink wrapping, and oh so meticulously wiped down the front window while waiting for the light. Satisfied and feeling smug about my quick thinking, I then looked over to see the 2 dudes beside me literally ROLLING in their macho red truck. They were howling with laughter. I looked at them and then I started laughing as well. I held up the now dirty ,wet LITE DAYS pad and showed them how well it had done the trick. The light turned green and we went our separate ways..

Hmmm....sounds like a good commercial for KOTEX.