Dear Miley........

Thinking a lot today about the skit on SNL where the 45 year old Miley Cyrus addresses the 20 year old Miley Cyrus....

What would I advise the 20 year old me?  At first I thought of all the changes I WOULD make, mistakes I would NOT make, fears I would address, decisions I would think twice about, etc.  Who wouldn't want a do-over?    After a few moments of reflection, I can say that person would be me.

If I changed and had a do-over, I would not be in the place I am today.  I would not know the people I know or love the people I love.  I would have regrets- just different ones.  Things happend the way they were meant to be.

Dear Chica,

You're something!  Everyone is something!  Be the best you can be.  Help everyone else be the best they can be.  Always be kind, but don't mistake being kind for letting someone take advantage of you.

You're doing okay.  Don't change ANYTHING.  The path you are taking is leading you to some really, really cool, unexpected, wonderful people and places.  It's gonna take you a little longer to get there than most, but I PROMISE it will come when it is supposed to.  (And the naysayers of the world can suck it if you end a sentence in a preposition)

Forget fear and practice forgiveness......Those two things are your biggest challenges.

Learn to love yourself.

Love, 

The Future Woman waiting for you.

P.S.  Please, DO NOT wear your hair like that. Seriously?  Permy Wormy hair.... The mall rat look will last forever in those pictures.  Just be glad Facebook, Instagram or Twitter do not exist to archive the little wild streak your 20 year old self is currently enjoying in fashion, dating and other extra curricular activities.  Oh, Lord, be glad!

Really?  Who gave you that perm?

Xo and don't change a thing.  Except for that coif!

Dancin' Your Pants Off!

Short and sweet today, dear 5 readers who read my blog.  I just wanna tell ya to dance your pants off!  Just do it!

On Sunday I saw one of my fave bands in the world, Old Man Markley.  Impossible not to shake your arse when you see and hear them.  I LOVE THEM!  Saw them on a side stage at Stagecoach a couple of years ago and then saw them again in San Diego at The San Diego Music Thing a few months later.  They were hanging out in front of the venue and were the coolest people ever.

They showed up yesterday at Adams Avenue Street Fair and well, I danced with joy and abandon.  I didn't even care.  It felt good to jump around like a heathen banshee in a short dress and cowboy boots.  I highly recommend it.    This is what's WRONG with this world!  There's too much bullshit and not enough dancing!

All those tight-ass wads up in Washington need to freaking DANCE.  And not just pussy shuffling from one foot to the other.  They need to dance and flail their arms. legs, tongues, eyelashes and bang their heads to the beat against the wall.  That makes a whole lot more sense in the long run.  Crazy Pants Dancin' is good for the soul!  In this case, it might remind them that they HAVE a soul. 

Lawmakers, forget your agenda referenda and go on a rhythmic twirl whirl  zenda' benda' full of groovy splenda'.

In the immortal words of Caddyshack's Al Czervik: "So what? So let's dance"

Put these tunes on and get to it!

Hitchhiker Joe - The Rugburns

Hey Ya - Outkast

I'm Alright (Live Version) - Kenny Loggins

Add It Up-  Violent Femmes

Mama- Steve Poltz

Journey- Anyway You Want It (Must be done at full volume on a golf course)

Justin Timberlake - Senorita

Old Man Markley-   For Better or Worse  (Yeeeeeehaw!)

Salty Sisters

Running along the shores of a place I often walked with my mom.  She loved it here.  The last time we were here, she walked one of the gentle trails while others in my family tackled the more difficult trails.  She ooohed and ahhhhed at the beauty that is my beloved Torrey Pines.  I always get a lump in my throat when I run past the entrance to that trail now.

But last Tuesday she was with me.  I felt her.  I was running along, trying to keep my usual single minded focus on competing with myself and running to full exhaustion, but it wasn't working.  I kept thinking that the kelp on the beach looked like mermaid tails.  It was really bugging me, this thought.  And just like that, I stopped mid run, grabbed some of the kelp, a bird feather to draw with , various other items from the sea and began to create.   This was something my mom would have done.  I am not creative, so this was a little out of my comfort zone for sure.

And she came - My salty sister!  She is a very, very primitive drawing of a mermaid, but I like her!  I began to fashion other sirens of the sea and spent 2 hours plopped down in complete solitude with my new little friends from the sand.

I love this one!

I love all the fun filters you can use!

I thought it ended there, but oh, no, no, no!  The Salty Sisters were NOT done with me yet!  They again rose from their home in the sea even BEFORE I began my run yesterday.  Walking along the salty marsh that is part of this beautiful place, I found little seed pods that looked like perfect wine glasses for tiny mermaids to celebrate.  And oh, beautiful yellow sage brush flowers for their hair.

And just like that, I started running!  But this time I was

running to the call from my Salty Sisters!  They wanted 

their story to be told!  "Ahhh," I said to myself.  "This is

REALLY about a story. " 

So I sat again in perfect solitude and allowed the sisters

to form.  And they told me their story.  They have a 

GREAT one!  Torrey, Martes and Sol haven't revealed 

all their secrets to me yet.  They insist on a few more visits in the next coming weeks.  

I waited for the sun to set- something that I rarely do here. ( I KNOW.... can you believe it?)   And I walked in the water, looked down and found the tiniest shell formed into a perfect round sphere; almost like a pearl and a beautiful bauble any self respecting mermaid would treasure.  I wonder which mermaid will demand to adorn herself with the little treasure I found.  I truly think Martes will most likely be the diva of the bunch, but we'll see. I can't WAIT to hear their complete story.  Thanks, Mama, for introducing me to your friends from the sea.  I have no doubt you were my little muse. 

A Toast to The Moon

Spitting Image

I am pretty tolerant of most things, people, habits, etc, but DO NOT get me started on spitting.   NOTHNG grosses me out more than spitting.  Seriously!  And why, why, why do most people feel it necessary to sound like a 25 yr. old cat gakking up a lifetime of hairballs while they do it?

Violator #1:  Guy at boot camp, please freaking go get a drink of water.  Please!  You spend more time yakking, phlegm flinging and de-furring the inside of your esophagus than you do exercising.   Have you noticed that each time you say hello to me, I can barely find it in my normally gentle heart to give you the time of day?  It's because you truly gross me out.  And THEN after your episodic refluxathon,  you seem to always want to borrow my personal  exercise mat and use it!  Yep, really, really want to share my mat with you.  Here's an idea:   Stop spitting long enough to go to Walmart and buy a mat for $15.  And please stop chewing cud before class or whatever it is that makes you produce enough saliva to coat the world.

Violator #2:  I must say that today I judged.  I was sitting at my favorite little funky coffee shop, enjoying the San Diego sunshine and my weekly moment of dietary sin in the form of a huge, fat laden, buttery scone.    A tall, skinny dude walked outside and violently hocked the biggest loogie in the history of man.  I fully expected 10 aliens to erupt from his mouth as he cleared his throat and spat a mere foot or so from my table.

I glared at him hard, gathered up my things and flounced down the street towards the precious parking I secured three and a half blocks from the place.  Each step took me closer to Priuscilla and this blog as I muttered silent curses in my head about saliva slingers and their kind.   I barely noticed a voice calling out behind me.

      "Miss, Miss!  Hey, Miss, is this your phone?"

I whirled around, and there stood the spitter.  He had followed me for almost 2 blocks trying to return the phone I 'd left in haste in response to his goo gala..  He smiled in earnest as he handed me the phone. He had very warm brown eyes and a sweet smile.  I smiled back and silently forgave his gross ass.  Maybe the aliens inhabiting his body were producing massive amounts of secretion as they  waited to spew forth  at just the right moment to take over ownership of the world.

For the rest of you who deem it necessary to share your mucus with the world,  just don't.  Pretty please?!?  Thank you.

Caped Shoesader

I am the uber dork of the uber dorks.   Call me Captain Super Uber Dork.  My superhero gear consists of any wardrobe malfunction known to man.  My identity just depends on what I bust out each night at midnight for my costume.  I go with whatever fashion accident comes my way.  Dress stuck in pantyhose is a good one.  So is black skirt caught on carry on suitcase and exposing your frontal lady bits to everyone on Southwest Flight 991.  Most recently, I flew around the town as Super Dress Lining Caught On Bra Hook Exposing My Backside Lady.  Very popular hero, that one.

Today I went to go get my annual boob smash.  Yahoo!  LOVE getting my boob smashed.  Why don't they provide margaritas in the waiting room?  I think being drunk during a mammogram should be a requirement.

So the lady takes me back and instructs me to undress from the waist UP and to put on the little half cape with the buttons towards the front.  Easy enough.

I saunter out, and she gives me a strange look, but quickly moves on to the business at hand and instructs me to put the right gal on the x-ray plate, lowering the top plate down for the vice.  OOOOUUUUUUUUCH!

"Hold your breath," she encourages cheerfully.  I diligently hold my breath and hope I don't throw up instead.  That would just be gross and uncalled for.  Plus I HATE that pink stuff they put down to clean up spew.

She comes back out and asks for the left gal to have her turn at the get down, take it all the way to town, mutha' of all squeezes.  The pressure on the girls is ten times more painful and invasive then any 7th grade boy frantically trying to get his squeeze on with your itty bittys behind the band room at St James Catholic School- before anyone comes around the corner.  Not that I know of such torrid things.  (It's just what those older, slutty 8th grade girls told me.)

About the time of the second "hold your breath" while this machine serves up some woman breast pancakes with a side of YYYOWWWWWW,  I look down.  What the hell!  Somehow, in my extremely nervous state, I managed to take my whole dress off and am standing in the middle of the room in a cape, thong underwear and 4" blue suede high heels.  Whhhhaaaaaaaaaat?

She comes back to help me assume the position for the side view.  She sees I am looking down.

"Ummmm, well, I guess I didn't follow instructions, " I say as I avoid eye contact. "I can go back and put my dress on."

She laughs.  "Naaaah, we're almost done."

She takes 4 more pictures, each time making sure my boobs are perfectly pressed and squeezed.  The flat slab even ROTATES.  Your boobies get to go on a little ride while you assume awkward positions made even more awkward if you are standing around in impossibly high heels and a thong.  I am soooooo embarrassed and uncomfortable.  What a dorkmo!  As soon as she is finished, I scurry back to the dressing room to put my dress on.  I try to nonchalantly leave the room as quietly as possible.  She is looking at my boob images already.

"You breast tissue is very fibrous, so we may want to do an MRI just to see things more clearly."

"Uh, Okay, " I mumble.

GREAT!  I get to do this again!  I love to be pressed, pancaked, vice gripped and humiliated.  Wahhhhooooo!  Next time, I'm shootin'  for FULL non compliance and going commando with thigh high hooker boots made of black vinyl.  And I'm stealing the little cape as a memento of the occasion. It will give her something to talk about, and I can leave there already dressed as the go-to superhero for distressed strippers.

( HEY KIDS! -  Serious Super Hero Saturday a.m.  "Cautionary lecture/moral tale/do the right thing 30 second blurb before the Hot Wheels and cereal ads come on" spiel starts here:    A breast exam is NOT that bad.  Do it!       Men, encourage the woman in your life to do it!   Go with her and go in first!  Do the empathy exam.....NOT your balls- your man boobs. Do this!  Go have a margarita, get your thigh highs on and rock that exam!)

Part With The Dress, CVS, Tribal Rituals

The things we do to overcome and gain control and balance over setbacks are so random.  When you look back, they are probably silly - crazy as well, but while you're in the midst of all that duuuurahhhhhma,  everything seems so serious, angsty, weird and logical all at the same time.   My dad used to say, "Ah honey, none of this will matter 20 years from now."    Oh, Daddy....  I know, but I'm going for just 60 days of daze.  Actually, some of this shit is pretty funny.  Not sure I will ever look back and laugh, but maybe.

Yesterday, I unpacked my fun little overnight bag.  I came across 'THE DRESS."  And oh, it made me so sad.  I took it out, hung it up, took angsty little artsy pictures of it, then  sank down against the washing machine and cried like a stupid little bitch done wrong in a bad soap opera.  I mean great big, soul - shaking cryin' like you did when Little Anne dies in "Where The Red Fern Grows."  (Fess up, peeps.  Ya'll KNOW you wailed like little babies when you saw that scene.)

Neighbor Dave came out in the middle of all this.  Imagine the poor guy coming out to his laundry room to find a sobbing woman sitting on his nasty garage floor clutching a delicate little silk dress.  What the HELL?!?

     "Hey."  He knelt down, keeping a respectable distance from me.

      "Well, , wahahahahaha, whhhhhaaaaa,"  I replied in that funny out of breath, hiccupy voice ya get
        during cry talking.

I won't bore you with deets, but Davey soon understood (really, I think he just PRETENDED to understand) the significance of the dress, blaa, blah, bleh bleh.  He looked surprised when I ended my story by blowing a bucket full of snot and tears all over the beautiful dress, folding it up and placing it in the little fancy bag it came in when I purchased it.  I walked over, opened up the trash can and gently placed it on top, closing the lid with a thud.  Crying jag #2 started in 5, 4, 3, 2.........

Davey waited until I finished and then asked the logical, unemotional, burning MAN question.  "WHY are you throwing the dress away?  It's a perfectly good dress.  It's beautiful."

I couldn't explain. Keeping the dress would mean looking at it hanging in my closet and each time the mere sight of  it would evoke memories I'm trying hard to forget- like how beautiful I felt each time I wore it.  It's a chick thing, boys.  You just won't get it.  Don't expect ya too.

 I grabbed my keys and purse and asked him to drive me to CVS.  "I need some sunscreen."  This was also hilarious since it was raining and gray outside.  But he drove me there and waited in the car.

Oh, CVS.  Really?  Your muzak on a good day sucks.  On a "Throw away THE DRESS rainy Sunday," it makes you want to plunk yourself down in the aisle with the Oreos on the shelf, rip them open, eat a dozen and then wash it down with whatever $5.99 + CRV case of beer you're encouraging us to swill for the week.  I bought my sunscreen and ran back to the car as fast as my little legs could go.

  When we pulled into the drive, Davey  STILL wanted to argue the case against throwing the dress away, I could tell.   He paused and glanced towards the trash can, giving me a quizzical look as we passed it.   But he's pretty damn smart.  He knew not to go there. We spent the rest of the day watching NBA games.

Later in the evening , I left for home.  As I walked out of his house, I saw glowing little tea light candles left over from his Halloween party placed on top of the trash can.  The sight of the pretty candles on top of the industrial green trash can looked ridiculous.  Davey followed behind me looking sheepish.

       "The dress needed a ceremony," he joked.

        "Right.  But I should have covered myself with tribal designs made from sunscreen, dunked
         Oreos in PBR and danced naked in a circle to Hall and Oates."

We both started laughing..  I went back in and drank a beer with him.  A man friend with candles and the ability to make you find humor is a good thing.

 
















     

Thank You Bitter Old Man

I received a 5 page letter from a resident at one of my buildings.  It was filled with hate, vitriol and made a general reference to the fact that the world was going to hell due to "women in charge and ruining everything."

It is my job to address the concerns of those who reside with us in a completely professional manner.  I rattled off a polite, perfunctory letter to Bitter Old Man - trying to address the maybe one or two legitimate concerns he had mixed in with the fifty problem diatribe on why he hates his life at our building.

I am the midst of grief due to loss and have been feeling not so great, I've gotta say.  And on Friday, I was so DONE.  Then B.O.M. calls.  I take the call.  He launches his spew right at me, and I listen for a full five minutes.  I can't even summon the will to respond.  Then something kicks in.  Ahhh, a true feeling- not the numb, out of it, wrapped up in suffocating gauze funk I've been in, but an honest to goodness feeling.  And it's freaking POWERFUL -UNLEASHED!  I politely tell B.O.M. that I have addressed his legitimate concerns and that, quite frankly, there is nothing else I can do for him.  He returns serve by lobbing the good old "I am calling my attorney" rap.  I wish him well and hang up on him.  Yeah, I went there!  Fuck it and fuck him!

Dear Bitter Old Man,

 You live in a building built for seniors.  Some of your neighbors will be infirm, require a wheelchair or walker and will need to flush their toilet past 9 p.m. at night.

 I have a vagina.  I also have a clit, hormones, a period and boobs (Ok, well, A cup, little girl boobs, but I rock AWESOME nippage).  Most of the people at your building seem to be happy and love their life.  Not quite sure what the correlation is, but if you insist on going there, then I'm gonna assume my vaginal awesomeness has everything to do with that.

Any questions?

Xo,
Susie.

Sado Bunny

Early Easter am opening at Molly's, circa 1983.....Tired, (hungover?) wait staff schlepping in, having only gone to bed a few hours earlier.   Greaaaaaaat!  Gotta put costume on, get into character and serve food to the good people already waiting in line for the privilege of eating brunch at the normally closed at this hour- Molly Murphy's House of Fine Repute.

Camp Director and I are getting the Front House ready to rock.  Papa Luigi is busy abusing Minnie Mouse over the house microphone to the kitchen, telling the kitchen help she is giving away, ahem, " favors"  for $1.  We are laughing until the GM buzzes up front and tells us to knock it off.  He also asks if the doorman has his Easter Bunny costume on.

"Shiiiiiiit!"  I totally forget he put us in charge of that.    I remember calling the only costume shop in town 3 days earlier.  Fresh out of bunny costumes, but Countess, the Head CW, agrees to let us use the costume her brokerage firm would use for their Friday soiree.  She agreed to leave it in the dressing room on Saturday before she left for the night.

I  run back and find a lumpy, gray mass of matted fur stuffed into a bag.  It smells like 2 day old beer and looks even worse.  The costume only covers the body and the head, requiring some sort of makeup to complete the Easter Bunny look.

I grab the doorman who is pretty new.  Normally Robin the Boy Wonder, he's doing his time at the required, thankless job of doorman at Molly's.  The shit job of the place -one in which you sit outside in the Oklahoma wind and heat, and wait until Camp Director or Little Red Riding Hood decide if you are cool enough to come inside and join the big kids.

Some never made it past the door, and after 2 months, they would suddenly ask to go to the bathroom on a busy Saturday night and never return.  That employee bathroom was the black hole of "I am never gonna fulfill my dream of becoming a Molly's waiter, so I should just skulk away on the busiest night with a 2 hour wait."

Campy and I like the new kid.  His costume is killer, he's kind of funny, and we allow him to come inside occasionally and entertain us in the Front House.  His real name is Chip.  He's almost in.  But we aren't quite done testing his mettle.  No need to allow him to grow cocky.  Plenty of time for that when he gets promoted to Waiter's Assistant- only to realize he's got to be Soup and Salad for the Jaguar Salad Car for 2 months; a job which guarantees he will smell like ranch dressing for days on end and get no dates because of it.

I grab the gnarly bunny suit, shove Robin into the equally gnarly employee bathroom and command him to put in on while I hunt down someone to put his makeup on.  David Eagle, Service Director and costumer to the stars, agrees to put his make up on.   10 minutes later, the scariest looking Easter Bunny EVER in the history of the Universe checks in with us at the podium.  His eyes are rimmed in black, there is some nasty, grayish looking "fur" drawn in large, swooping loops on his cheeks and two white "fangs" protrude from his lower mouth.    His eyebrows are a frightening combination of gray and black.  He definitely has the uni-brow going on.  Someone dubs him "Sado Bunny."

Hearing the opening music, Camp Director directs him to open the doors and begin the madness of Easter Am Brunch at Molly Murphy's House of Fine Repute.  A few hours later during a lull, Campy and I walk out to check on our errant bunny.  He has somehow procured a cigar to complete the scary look.  He looks at us, grabs a few of the candy eggs from the basket and launches them across the very busy Meridian Avenue.  "I got your Easter Eggs RIGHT HERE, little girl, " he proclaims in a gravelly, east coast accent.    We laugh, both at the scary bunny and the comedic stylings of Chip Burch.

Molly's is gone now, but Sado Bunny lives on.  He is always on my mind during Easter.  The hilarious, talented, endearing Chip is one of my best friends.  He always calls me on Easter and repeats his infamous line in his best Sado Bunny accent.  Here's to you, my twisted friend!!!!!!  Best Easter present EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!

Love and Magnitude

Mother Teresa said:  "It's not the magnitude of our actions, but the amount of love that is put into them that matters."

While Mother Teresa is so right, I will say that in my Mom's life, there was plenty of love AND magnitude.

Mrs. Nancy:

Den Mother
Camp Fire Girl Leader for all three girls in different groups at the same time
Camp Fire Board of Directors
Honorary Lifetime Member of Camp Fire
PTA President
Woman of Achievement for the Arch Diocese of Oklahoma City
Oklahoma Parks and Recreation Employee of the Year

Too many honors to list due to sheer magnitude.

And THEN there is love.

It was not unusual to be at a restaurant, the store, the mall or other public place and see what we called "the look."  People would stop, glance shyly over, then a little more directly and then....their eyes would light up and they would approach.

"Mrs Hazelton!"
"You were my preschool teacher."
"You taught me to paint."
"You taught my child."
"You gave me a ride to basketball (or insert play practice, camp or home.)."

And Mom would smile, speak for awhile and then the conversation almost always ended in a hug.

Thank goodness for station wagons!  And thank goodness there were no seat belt laws is the 60's, 70's or 80's.  Because it wasn't unusual for 10 kids crammed into the wagon- singing, laughing, joking and loving life.  And Mom was actually the calm center in all of this.  Occasionally, I would catch her eye in the rear view mirror and see her smiling, for she LOVED children, and she loved fun!

Did I say fun?  Oh my gosh, yes!!!!!!  Our house was the epicenter of fun.  It wasn't sterile, tidy or neat.  It was full of chaos, noise, acceptance and love.

There's that word again.  LOVE!  And every child- and there were many- who sought refuge or respite from their own chaotic lives, knew they were loved, accepted and valued the minute they passed through the door.

Many people told us that they considered Mrs Hazelton to be their second mom or that they wished their own mother could be as wonderful as she.  So many children experienced art, adventure or love due to the fact that Nancy felt so strongly about helping children when they needed it.

For many years, Mom served as the one and only chaperone for the weekly Camp Dakani Counselor Overnight.  This allowed teenage counselors to spend the night at camp.  Upon learning that the overnight was to be cancelled due to lack of an adult chaperone, Mom volunteered.  She spend every Tuesday night getting bitten by mosquitoes, listening to giggling girls who were supposed to be sleeping and then watching as we hiked to the creek at 1:00 a.m. to go frog hunting with Uncle Dan the Camp Ranger..  We canoed down the creek to catch frogs for the Wednesday frog races.  Talk about fun!

And talk about hundreds of girls who slept under the stars, listened to trees sway in the Oklahoma wind, heard frogs croaking and then final quiet as giggles gave way to exhaustion.  Dawn arrived, and Mom in her pink curlers attempted to wake up grumpy girls, then took a short, cold sponge bath out of the water spigot and drove to work- no doubt completely exhausted from little sleep but happy that her girls had fun.  This went on for years, even after her last child went to college.

Perhaps, due to her own difficult childhood, Ms. Nancy had a special place in her heart for troubled children, or lonely children or children who just needed a little extra attention and someone to listen.  She was ALL ABOUT the underdog.  Mom never met an underdog she didn't like!

Mom's first center was in the inner city.  Upon gaining control of the center, she discovered very few programs other than the half-court basketball games had been established.  She worked tirelessly to develop strong art, cultural and performing arts programs at this center.  Paint was a regular part of her life.  So were messy paper mache,  glue, glitter, yarn and Popsicle sticks.  Somehow, she would fashion these things into beautiful arts and crafts, costumes and parade floats for children to create and enjoy.

Mom went on to teach at Villa Teresa with the Carmelite Sisters Of Saint Therese.  Sisters, she absolutely adored you!  She told us many endearing stories about all of you.  We love that one of you adopted 2 abandoned kitties- an act forbidden by the Mother Superior- and Mom was your partner in crime, errr, encouragement and gave you money to properly take care of them.  We love the story about the criminal running from the police who somehow found his way to the top floor of the convent and instead of being frightened, one of you calmly invited him down to the kitchen for some milk and cookies.

Family was important to Nancy.  She, along with her husband Clovis, managed to put 5 children through private school.  She managed to make every game, every play, every recital, every event. Her grandchildren were so important to her!  She kept them, helped out in raising them, nurtured and loved them.  She made all of their events as well.

To Daddy:  You were her ever present sidekick.  You stayed up with her for hours making parade floats, costumes, tissue flowers for decorations, etc.  You did it because you loved your girl and her children.

She's gone too soon.....  We thought we had more time.  A dear friend of mine- one who feels strongly that Mom had a direct influence in her life- gave me her theory as to why God chose to call her home at this time.  It took someone else to help me make sense of it all.

You see, when Nancy Hazelton went home to meet her Lord on Thursday, February 7th, at 3:00 a.m., St Peter not only threw open the gates, he ran and met her halfway!

"Oh, Mrs Hazelton, thank goodness you're here!  First, good job while you lived on earth.  Excellent job!  Your life was full of giving and love right up to the very end, but your work is not done.  Every day, we greet small little souls here in heaven, but most recently, we received some very special little souls suddenly and all at once.  While we love them very dearly as we do with all God's children, they are, quite frankly, driving us crazy!  We need someone who understands children.  We need someone to love them, nurture them and guide them.  We know of no finer person to accomplish this than Nancy Hazelton.  You come highly recommended."

Mom most assuredly replied:

"Oh, St Peter, you've answered my prayer.  I was afraid there would be no art in heaven.  But first before I begin, family is ALWAYS #1.  Let me greet my mom, my brother, sweet Jeannie and others I have loved and waited to see and THEN I will help you.  I will roll up my sleeves and get to work.  My only question is,  WHERE DO YOU KEEP THE PAINT?"

Patience With Patients

Short and sweet today.  Maybe.   Bless everyone who has EVER cared for a sick parent.  In our case, we have a village helping, but it can be overwhelming.  So......when you call, text or email and ask, "What can I do to help?"  here is what we want to say but probably won't .

A BEER!

A monkey trained to fill out medical questionnaires.

Siri trained to fill out medical questionnaires

A good old fashioned fuck

A clone of every wonderful, awesome, crazy - good medical professional we encountered this week.

A professional gangsta' hit on the occasional lazy, make US call the referring physician ourselves for the orders you lost, even though you are sitting on your ass, at the front desk, talking about what you want for lunch medical UNprofessional. (Okay, a little harsh.  I will settle for giving you a wedgie you won't ever forget.)

To walk outside and find one of those bouncy houses they have at birthday parties for kids.  I dunno.  It just seems like the perfect place to jump around and act crazy when you are about to go insane from the remote being lost yet again, the spilled bottle of teeensy, tiny little pills and the television turned up to the volume of "render you deaf before you even hit menopause."  If the bouncy house has a tall, mysterious, beautiful man with a soul patch and dark, penetrating eyes serving as the attendant, then that is mo'bettah.  (See #4)

Just 10 minutes in a soft, warm feather bed to lie down and watch Mr. Rogers or The Happy Little Trees Painter.

Just 10 minutes in a vat of moisturizing cream to counteract the über drying effect of the gallons of hand sanitizer we are using.

A forehead tattoo holding the bar code for that stinkin' CVS  discount card that seems to have a maniacal desire to leave the confines of my wallet and wedge itself in the dark, dark caverns of my humungo purse.

A hook on my forehead for my car keys that head for the same cavern.  Maybe they are hookin" up.

A visit from the Patience Fairy when she is needed most.  (See #6. Hint:  * Hidden devil horns embedded in head and long red tail located right above my crack threatening to BURST forth with vigor at lazy, obtuse medical UNprofessional. Thank goodness that didn't happen.  It would have ruined my new skinny jeans and  those waiting room chairs are uncomfortable enough without the added problem of a glowing red tail to adjust).

A magic shield that renders us invisible during those odd moments in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store, in a meeting, or at the Starbucks when reality hits us and tears come in buckets.  Stop STARING at me.  Yes, I am crying in a really random place, at a really random moment in the condom/Cruex aisle. No, I am not crazy. These aren't the droids you're looking for.  Move along.  You can come back for your dick itch meds after I have my moment, storm trooper.

Unlimited time off from work and regular life to help the one who stayed up with me on many nights as a child.  It seems so wrong to report to work when your work should be spending every precious moment with your loved one and making the rest of their life as comfortable as possible.

A glass of wine to go with my whine.  Wow, what a little cry baby puss I am being.  Sorry.  I am over it.

LOVE.........That one you already gave us, dear friends.  Thank you.  Your texts, messages, calls and insanity free zones of coffee, get together including wine you made yourself,  trampolines in the middle of the forest and borrowed cars ARE magic potions of love, kindness and strength.  We thank you for every single one. You are the bouncy house bombdiggity!  I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Laughing at Dog Funerals

It's not every day that you get to go to a dog funeral.  Yes, a dog funeral- complete with a viewing.  Eeeeek!  Sort of creepy, random, surreal, sad and funny all at the same time.  I felt like I was channeling Elaine from Seinfeld in a Coen Brothers movie.

Now listen!  Don't get your knickers in a knot!  I have buried plenty of beloved dogs in my time.  I have ashes on a shelf.  Dundee and Mr. Tweeligers broke my heart when they died after 17 long years of love and devotion.  I know the grief losing a beloved pet brings.  Dogs are like family!  Who else greets us like we are the bomb diggity EACH and EVERY TIME we walk through the door?

So, Uncle Bill, I understand your need to bury your beloved Mr. Mike, who, by the way, was a girl dog.  (I didn't even ask....)  But I still have to tell it like it is.

My dad offered to take eccentric Uncle Bill to the dog cemetery to bury his dog on Friday.  Due to some extenuating and painful circumstances, Dad needed to stay at home and deal with some important family business.  Poor child #4.  She got the shit stick.

Oh yay!  I picked up Uncle Bill, drove 40 miles, turned left off of Highway 9 as soon as I saw the Saint Francis of Assisi statue and pulled in.  Hmmm....not sure what significance the slightly crooked statue of the cavorting Roman goddess sporting a jar of wine holds, but THAT was the first sign that this day would be wackadoo.

We pulled into the house marked "Office" and I followed Uncle Bill.  Upon entering the door, we were greeted by 4 snarling Min Pins snapping at his heels. At first I thought we entered the wrong door as it appeared we sauntered into a private residence.  Nope!  The Funeral Director, dressed in a plaid shirt and dirty overalls, greeted us.

After a pit stop involving VERY careful and purposeful non contact with the toilet seat (Thank GOODNESS for regular attendance at boot camp and those cursed forward and reverse squats), we were directed to the chapel located beyond the house/ dog funeral parlour / office / Min Pin asylum.

A chapel?  Okay.  Tiny, with a small glass kiosk welcoming the Williams Family for Mr. Mike's funeral at 1:00 p.m. Inside....an altar, stained glass windows and ummmmm, Mr Mike.  Yeeeeek!  Yeeeek stands for yikes and eeeek combined - totally appropriate to utter when you enter a chapel and see a dead dog in a casket with a blanket and a teddy.  Okay, I admit it.  I whipped out my phone and tweeted.  Like a 16 yr old.  I may have even typed OMG!

Honestly, I think the whole viewing tradition for humans is sort of Creepy McCreepster.  But for dogs, it is even more weird.  Still, out of respect for Uncle Bill, I managed to mask the horrific/incredulous/snarky look threatening to erupt over my normally expressive face.  To Uncle Bill, this ritual is normal, important and necessary.  Come to find out, every dog he's ever loved and lost in his 70+ years is buried here at the Min Pin Memorial Park.

After the viewing and proper goodbyes, we followed the Funeral Director in his golf cart up to Uncle Bill's private dog cemetery.  There on row #24, which is marked on the sidewalk in red spray paint, we listened to the 15 second service conducted by the Min(pin)ister and then watched as they lowered the plastic casket containing the remains of Mr. Mike the girl Cocker Spaniel in the ground.  And I cried.  Well, because I did! It was a funeral after all.

 I sat in the car while Uncle Bill met with the Funeral Director to pick out a proper headstone.  Soon a text arrived from my little sister.  Earlier in the day, she really, really got a kick out of my discomfort in the whole affair.  Here is the text exchange between loving siblings:

Cheri:  "Taps sounding for the 4 legged friend."

 Susie:  "This was sad, but also funny.....I feel bad for laughing. But seriously!

Cheri:   "Just adding a little levity to this whole stinking situation.

Susie:    "And that is a gift from Mom. She has a wackadoo sense of humor. That is a wonderful legacy."

That's it!  That is why I spent the day as I did. Thanks, universe!  This day was a reminder of my mom and her wonderful, slightly irreverent, wacky sense of humor.  She HAD to have a slightly skewed sense of humor to endure five children, one dog, one raccoon, 4 cats and every stray kid who came to find refuge from their own crazy lives in her always open home.  Of those, there were many.....

Oh, Mom.  Over the years, we've endured some trouble when our snarky Hazelton selves laughed, mocked or grinned at solemn moments like weddings, grand poobah ceremonies,  secret sorority initiations and now dog funerals.  But for every person who found fault with this, there are 25 more who love us for it.   Because life IS wacky, and we take ourselves way too seriously sometimes.   There is always room for a little humor.

Thank you, Mama!  I love you for the gift of laughter, a sense of the ridiculous and the teensy bit of smart ass you gave to all of us.




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