Say Ow.

Sorry, you guys….  I usually like to keep things on the light side and write fun stuff.  But yesterday I had an encounter with someone who brought out the worst in me, and I just have to write about it.  This is my blog. That’s how I roll…  Eject now if you don’t want to ride today.

I love to sin on Sunday and eat a flaky, crusty, oh, so bad for me cranberry scone at Twiggs along with a big ol’ non fat latte.  It makes my soul glad.  Heck, Twiggs makes my soul glad.  It is so funky cool with mish mash furniture, art, books and unusual people.  Most of them are pretty mellow and perfect Sunday Sinners.

So yesterday, they were pretty busy – even for Twiggs.  And I waited patiently for my cup of heaven.  I had my scone already, but I wanted to savor it with steaming hot latte.

I see the Barista slide the cup with my name on the counter and announce, “Non Fat Latte.”  I sleepily sauntered up to get it when some woman started to reach for it at the same time.  As I am pretty laid back, I figured I would let her have it and wait for the next drink.  She grabbed it,  realized it was not the no soy joy, I am a piece of crappy humanity, with no sanity, cup of angry at the world java she SURELY orders up for her psyche every day.

She stamped her little foot like a 3 year old being denied a toy.  Or maybe she stamped her Birkenstock like a 59 year old who has been denied joy and bitchily exclaimed, “WHERE is MY drink?  I was BEFORE her.”

She haughtily glared at me as if I had magically dictated the order in which the barista chose to make the drinks.  The Barista hurriedly explained that the 10,000 ingredient drink she ordered was a little more complicated to make and tried to soothe her.  He swiftly slung the drink up on the counter as fast as he could.

She was having none of it.  Even after getting her drink, she was huffing and puffing.  And she followed me over to the table with all the coffee accessories like cream and sugar and cinnamon.  Everyone was staring.  I was embarrassed for her.  That she would act that way at all was amazing to me.  I couldn’t help that the little bit of sassy that resides deep in me came out.  I pointedly held up a packet as she stood breathing down my neck, conjuring up the Okie accent I have lost and quietly drawled, 

“Did you need something in a sweetener?  Sugar, Equal, attitude adjustment?”

She blinked, stepped back away from me and mentally collected herself.  She said nothing, and I turned back to take my own advice and dump extra sweetener in my latte to remind MYSELF that I am generally peaceful, loving and kind.  But yunno, I went there and am not proud of it.  But sometimes people need to be called on their shit.

And then it made me remember when I was a Barista.  It is a freaking tough job.  Grouchy, impatient people not understanding that a good espresso drink takes time.  It is an art.  There were a few of the regular customers who made me want to hurl the hot espresso down their skivvies and watch them squirm.  They were abusive, unkind and miserable.

And then there was Junior.  He came once a week.  For physical therapy.  And he was sweet, unfailingly polite, kind and patient.  People would climb all over him when he appeared.  He played football.  But I liked him because he always smiled, never complained about the wait and always said “Thank you so much” as I handed him his mocha. There was not a “big time, look at me” bone in his body. He had grace and style.  You could feel the genuine goodness he had in his soul.  You could feel it.   When he smiled, his eyes smiled. 

And Junior, we wish you would’ve said, “Ow.”  Whatever you were going through, we wish you could have sought help and healing.   And that goes for us all:  Football player, bitchy woman at Twiggs, everyone and anyone.  Say “Ow!” when you are hurting. It is hard to say and do, but so important!  Let someone help you sort stuff out.  It is what you need to do to be whole.  Be brave and say it!  Even saying it out loud helps.  Give in and then get on with life!

And bitchy woman at Twiggs?  Thank you.  Thank you for reminding me that humanity is important.  And being sweet and kind is not weakness, but the best way to live life.  And take some sweetener and say “Ow.”  I promise you will feel better!

Free Spirit

We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit! How 'bout you? Yesterday was all about FREE spirit. Free in every way! Free as in no money, nada, zip. Free as in give in to the action verb and let it go. Free as in happy, grateful and lighthearted.

Sometimes our spirit takes a pounding. And when it does, no bandage, icepack or crutch is gonna help. It gets underneath your skin, clear to the bone and sits circulating in your heart- pumping little hurt clots to your veins. It's a Soul Scratch.

So yesterday found my scritchy, scratchy spirit wandering along Adams Avenue listening to dozens of local musicians playing all manner of venues for FREE! Yes, free! Adams Avenue Unplugged. Hundreds of top notch musicians spread out along a 2 mile stretch of the beautiful Normal Heights/ North Park area of San Diego. And once again, I was thankful and happy for the blessing of music this wonderful place has given to me and many others.

FINALLY got to see Jeff Berkely! I've been meaning to catch one of his shows forever. And Dimille's was a beautiful place to hear him AND have a Fat Tire on tap. Ahhhhhh! Wandered over to hear a couple of buskers playing. They were full of talent and hope and love. They made me smile.....

On down to catch a little of Happy Ron's set and then BOOM, the Universe happened. Right place, right time! Hanging out with my adopted Italian fam here in San Diego has been a gift that has always given such joy.  They are fun, crazy and full of life.  Their love flows to me in many ways.

 I was sitting listening to Happy Ron when I ran into a friend of the Fam. He was hanging out and asked where I was headed next. I told him I WANTED to catch Tom Brousseau, John C. Reilly and Gregory Page at LeStat's, but the line to get into the tiny little venue was wrapped around the block. No way would I ever get in to hear them.

He smiled and said, "Ummm. no problem. You can come through the back artist’s entrance with me and hang out."

Yowza! Wahoooo! And so I found myself with a first class ticket on the Page, Brousseau, Reilly plane. My friend had just one seat reserved in the front, so I stood in a tiny little space at the doorway to the stage. It was perfect! I definitely had the best seat in the house for sure! Why? As Reilly and Brousseau sang their quiet, soulful set, I stood next to THE Gregory Page and listened while he quietly sang along. Beautiful, sweet and lovely.  He stopped at one point, and I shyly asked him to keep singing.

 "I'm getting an extra concert." 

 He smiled and obliged.

 Suhweet! That's all I can say. I've got spirit! She's free! And she sometimes leads me to beautiful, unexpected places, people and things.

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

 http://www.gregorypage.com/

Frogs to Memories Ratio

First words off my lips as I bounded off the school bus every summer: "Wheeeere's Uncle Dan?"

And there he'd be. That tall, lanky man with the curly ,close cropped hair standing just beyond the flag circle with a cup of coffee just grinning from ear to ear - Waiting for about a million gazillion hugs from the Hazelton girls and about a million other little campers. First words out of his mouth; "Do ya'll remember the first time I put you up on a horse? All THREE of you fell off at the same time!" And then he would laugh that smooth, coffee, ciigie laugh and get so tickled he would choke. It would always seem like it happened just the day before when he told that story. He would laugh every time just as hard as the day it happened. His blue eyes would sparkle and shine, and I knew I was home.

Home for the summer. Camp Dakani. From age 4-18. Home meant days spent soaking up the sunshine, swinging on those freaking awesome swings strung from trees hanging over Harrison Creek, and always, always hanging on to EVERY moment possible with Uncle Dan. That poor man. He found no rest with us around. We'd go up to the house and bug his wife Hazel as to his whereabouts if we didn't see him.

And every Tuesday night, no matter WHAT, we were gonna go frog hunting. Dan would pull into Dakani at midnight, I am sure in retrospect dog tired from his swing shift at OG&E, and meet about 10 little girls ready for a canoe sojourn down Harrison Creek to catch some big bullfrogs. Not to eat! No, no, these frogs were destined for the weekly frog race at Dakani. After the race, they'd be set back free to bask along the banks of the creek, most assuredly awaiting their next race the following week.

And there we'd be: The Fike sisters, the Hazelton girls, the Boggs, Joella and Tammy and Teresa. We'd put in along the low water crossing and begin our hunt. Dan would paddle up the creek in a canoe filled to the brim with giggling, squirming, screaming little girls and did so with the patience of Jobe.

"Now shine the flashlight along the banks. You gotta blind 'em." He'd always say it in a quiet little whisper.

And bingo! There would be two white orbs glowing back at us about a foot or two off the bank. Dan would paddle so quietly up and angle the canoe just so. You could hear a pin drop. Then Cheri Hazelton, the champion frog catcher out of all of us, would grab the frog from behind, being careful not to break the beam of the flashlight, and haul that big bullfrog into the canoe. That's when the pandemonium would erupt. Girls screaming as Cheri brought the squirming frog back to where I held the toad sack. The canoe would be rocking back and forth, girls would be scrambling to get away from the frog and through it all, Dan held the canoe steady while laughing hysterically at all of us.

Steady..... And sure and right and salt of the earth and loved beyond all imagination. That was our Uncle Dan.

Ratio of frogs caught to mosquito bites 1:16. Ratio of frogs caught to Uncle Dan's laughing fits- 1:25. Ratio of frogs caught to happiest memories of HUNDREDS of kids. 1: Infinity

Ancient Druid. A.M.

I usually come to work around 5 in the morning. I jump in the shower, get dressed in sweats and drive through the still sleeping city I love so much. It takes me 10 minutes to arrive at my office versus the 45 it would take even an hour later. I crank up the music and let my little body and soul wake up with the sun.

This time is always so special to me. There is NO ONE around! Well, except for Bushman. Bushman sees me every morning with my hair still sopping wet, dragging my make up case, work clothes and hair dryer through the dark parking lot. Bushman is our resident homeless dude. He's been here for years. He lives by the river that runs behind our office.



How to describe Bushman..... He's got wild, wild hair, hence the nickname. He has the full on Grizzly Adams beard and a wild, untamed look in his eye at first glance. He always carries a filthy blanket over his shoulder. Bushman used to wait until someone entered our building in the am and would glide right in behind so he could wash up in the restrooms on the first floor. Since people were frightened of him, we upped the ante on our security system and Bushman pretty much stays away now.



I see Bushman almost every morning. I gave him money once. He grunted and accepted it, never once looking me straight in the eye. But I looked at him and saw a gentle giant of a man who somehow either chooses to live life outdoors, probably has mental challenges and lives on the fringe of society. Bushman does not appear to suffer from substance abuse. He seems wounded, shy and feral.



This morning, I jumped out of the shower and realized all my sweats were in the washer. Since it is cold outside and I don't like to put my work clothes on before I dry my hair in the office bathroom, I looked around and saw the black robe my friend loaned me for Halloween. Full on black with a hood, pointed sleeves and floor length, it was perfect to keep me warm while I made the dash from my car to the office. Besides, no one would be around to see me.....



I drove to work in my Druid robe, parked the car and grabbed my stuff to drag into the building. As I rounded the corner, I encountered Bushman sleeping on the picnic table in front. He opened his eyes as I approached and let out a little tiny scream. Not realizing I was wearing a black robe that probably resembled the Grim Reaper, I squeaked out a "Good Morning" in my high pitched voice. Bushman shook his head, mentally collected himself and grunted out a gruff phrase that might have been some sort of Good Morning back. Either that or "What the FUCK are you wearing?"



Not much is known about the Druids. They left no written records about themselves. The only evidence they existed comes from descriptions and stories from the authors of that time. I think about Bushman. No one really thinks about his existence. He is like a ghost passing through. No one even knows his real name. Maybe one day I will find the courage to ask him. Maybe he'll tell me. Maybe not.....

Wonder Woman and The Crotch Rocket

It's not easy being a SuperHero. There are people to save, enemies to fight, the Universe to save. Yeesh! And SOMEONE always wants to touch your magic lasso! Sometimes it should just be enough that you are a Superhero and you spend the day without saving anyone or anything. It should just be enough. Or maybe it should be that every once in awhile, your SuperHero status is reversed and you actually do more harm than good.....



Once I left Molly's around 1 a.m. It was a warm spring night, and I wasn't going out with the others to the Photo Finish, so I elected just to drive the short distance to my house still dressed as Wonder Woman. I was headed down the I-44 and that really curvy overpass when a guy on a Crotch Rocket came flying past He did not negotiate the curve well and slid about 50 feet until his bike came to rest in the middle of the road.



"Oh, shit!" I parked my car and immediately ran over to see if he was okay and offer assistance. Within 15 feet of him, I could literally smell the alcohol wafting from every pore in his body. He was passed out, but groaning. He had a MAJOR case of road rash from the tip of his ankle all the way to his thigh. His jeans were ripped open all the way.  I could see his Tighty Whities.



I stood there, not quite knowing what to do. I wasn't a SuperHero. I just played one five nights a week. I cautiously leaned over his body and peered into this face. "Ummm, hey are you okay?" My 20 yr old squeaky high voice sounded thin and tentative, not bold and deep like Lynda Carter's. Plus,. well, let's just say I wasn't packing the full on Double D's either.....The only thing I had in common with Lynda Carter was long, dark hair and blue eyes.



After what seemed like an eternity, but was really just a few seconds,Crotch Rocket Boy's eyes fluttered open. I was standing over him. He blinked twice and then screamed. "Whoa!" He shot straight up and started scooting away from me. I looked at him, concerned that he was moving when we hadn't established whether he had broken bones.



"Hey, are you okay?" I started to move closer to him. The bike was still running and I could smell the gasoline everywhere. The minute I spoke, he screamed again and grew more frightened. "Whoa, don't come over here." He yelled vehemently. He continued to back away from me by sliding on his rear towards his bike. He finally made it up on all fours and stood up. He placed his hands out when I again tried to approach and screamed again. " No, No, I'm okay. I didn't do anything, I swear!" He slowly backed away from me, taking care to keep facing me and not turn his back. "Whoa, Whoa, Whoa....wow....wow." He kept this mantra up as he picked his bike and tried to get on it. His eyes NEVER left me.



It was then that I realized that poor Crotch Rocket Boy, in an already drunken state, crashed his bike, probably hit his head, passed out and came to in the middle of a deserted overpass with WONDER WOMAN standing over him. Poor guy! And this Wonder Woman was young, naive and not even packing the proper SuperHero, ahem, rack. Al I had to offer was a golden magic lasso and a helping hand.



He somehow managed to get on his bike and drove off, not even looking at the road ahead, but continuing to stare back at me. I stood there in the cold spring night and watched him leave, certain that he would need psychiatric intervention after our encounter. Maybe not. Maybe he tells all his friends that he once met Wonder Woman. "She's not as big as she looks on t.v. and her magic lasso doesn't really work that well."

Don't Look Ethel

Our New Band. Don't Look Ethel

Coming to a Waffle House near you. Admission price: Anything off the $1 menu at Taco Bell or items sold in gas station bathrooms.

First Album: You Did NOT Just Run over that Squirrel

Songs:

"We Rode the Hell Outta the Weekend"

"Right At the Y"

"Parked on the Hose"

"4Weelin at the Crazy House"

"Texas Truck Nuts"

"Blowin' the Stank Right Off Ya"

2011 Miss Bigfoot Pageant Rules and Regulations

1. Please report Monday at 6am for Opening Number Choreography. Trixie from Trixie's Tap That Exotic Dancing School will be choreographing this year's dance to the song "Swinging."

2. When your name is announced at the Opening of the Pageant, please move forward to the center microphone. There will be twine taped to the floor in an X pattern. Place your right foot on the X and speak into the microphone. State the County you are representing and whether you are missing any of your social 6 teeth.

3. Gorilla Grip Glue has been provided to all contestants. It is STRONGLY recommended that you utilize this powerful glue during the swimsuit competition. It does wonders with bikini bottom "wandering."

4. Tuesday is the annual judging of the Bigfoot Festival Art Competition. All contestants MUST take part in judging the art. Yes, we know that only 2 people enter, but this is a vital and interesting tradition of the festival. Last year's winner, Myrtle Suggs and her watercolor of Bigfoot giving Miss 1984 a hickey was beautiful, poignant and realistic.

5. Please be mindful of the papparazzi and their constant stalking. Last year's unfortunate photo of Miss 1969 eating a big Texas Corn Dog nearly brought the pageant to its knees. (Of Course that begs the question as to whether Miss 1980 has ever gotten off her knees).

6. There will be ABSOLUTELY NO HAIR PULLING ALLOWED WHEN THE WINNER IS ANNOUNCED. Any Contestant who engages in this unseemly behavior will do 2 nights in County Lockup and 1 day serving meals at the McAlester Prison during lunchtime.

7. All Pageant contestants must report Monday to the Official Pageant Motel and reside their until Pageant Night. We have chosen LaFontaine's Fauxtel for this year. Please bring your own linens and bed bug spray.

Turn Up The Bad

Turn UP The Bad
Yeeehaw!!!!!

Yeah, I felt blue for about a minute
But the diva in me wants so bad to win it
Only thing to do is turn up the bad
Break out the leather to combat the sad

Goin' out drinkin' and stayin' out late
5 inch stilettos, now there ain't no debate
Listenin' to punk rock, gonna get out of line
Dark black liner makes blue eyes shine

Ain't no way I'll back down when it comes to these times
My chicks like the girl who might commit crimes
And if for a minute these blue eyes cry tears
I'll turn up the bad and order everyone beers

Let's go honky tonkin' and wear out these boots
Time to get back to my hell raising roots
Let's pull a Shania and write some new songs
Hell I gave em up once but let's smoke Marlboro Longs

Ain't no way I'll back down when it comes to these times
My chicks like the girl who might commit crimes
And if for a minute these blue eyes cry tears
I'll turn up the bad and order everyone beers

Last thing I'll do is think about him
Close down the party, strip naked and swim
So what I'm on Facebook in nuthin but heels
Got 3 dates lined up with some cute Navy Seals

Ya'll stick with me and you'll see how it's done
Ya turn up the bad and you have bad girl fun!

Late Night Delirium & Dirty Carpenters Lyrics.

Stayed up late doing financial reports and really, really tired. This week was kind of funky. It started with the unusual event at the Padres game, my "look the other way while you save the wild cats who live on your property" covert operation was exposed, and some other fun stuff. So I am gonna let stream of consciousness tweets from last night take over from here.



All nighter to finish reports due tomorrow. Reminds me of college - only not as fun, Need pot of coffee. End this fu#$ week already! : (



Cawfeeee tawk. Like buttah' Okay, numbers are floating off the page at me and I'm delirious. Hey that's a Prince song. #randomnightthoughts



Really! We spent $35 on a highliter set? WTH? R you using for makeup cuz basic pink or yellow work for most. I am just laughing. 64pack?



Hated the kid who had the 64 pack of crayons. I've got your burnt umber right here, kid. Along with your Snoopy lunchbox and your big chief



Ok, I am going outside 4 air Sleepy,intolerant & full of it. Evidently chatty as well. Why don't dogs talk? Why do birds suddenly appear?



Name every Carpenters Song you can in 40 seconds



"I'm on TOP of some guy looking down on creation & the only explanation I can find. Are the crabs I have found ever since You've been around



Late night delirium. Suck week. Padres game angst, operation save the cats exposed, missed opportunities. Only thing to do: massage & dancing! There! All better!

Life, Caterpillars and Sensitive Souls

The curse of being me is extreme sensitivity sometimes. It doesn’t happen that often- maybe once or twice a year. Can’t help it! Just the way God made me. What others gloss over or ignore, I tend to obsess about. Not gonna apologize. The very talented Gregory Page has a line in one of his most beautiful songs, “That ain’t right or wrong.”

Once we went to the track with House and all the peeps from the office. It was one of those “You spend tons of money with our company, and so we are inviting you to act like millionaires in the private luxury box” scenarios.

It was fun to have our own private bartender, betting window and food and drinks galore, but in the 8th race, one of the horses broke down in the last stretch. I was stunned. After the race, everyone flooded towards the exit, but I meandered down to the track and watched to see if the horse would make it. I couldn’t break my gaze as I watched them put up a tent around the horse and tend to him. I must have stood there for around 3o minutes until I realized I was the ONLY person left at the track and my party was probably waiting for me in their car.

They were. I pretended I got lost as I was loathe to tell them why I was really so late. We heard the Del Mar Race recap on the radio ,and they announced that the horse that went down in the 8th had been put down. God, I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Not until I got to my own car and then I sobbed like a little baby. So silly, I know. Whatever! I am not going to apologize. Somebody needed to cry for the creature. Might as well be me.

Last night found me in a similar situation. During the 8th inning of the Padres game, we went up to the ladies room. There was a huge line and a Padres usher was directing people to use other restrooms. I heard her say, “Someone is passed out in there.” The person I was with looked annoyed and said, “Well, just step over her.”

I looked at my friend and remarked that it sounded a little more serious than just passing out. Don’t know why, but I thought of a story my friend told me about his grandmother having to step over deceased people to get water during World War 2 in Italy. In that case, it was survival. In this case, all that was being called for was for others to suffer s slight inconvenience out of simple respect and humanity to someone suffering from illness.

As we made our way back from the alternate restroom, I saw a group of paramedics wheeling a stretcher out. The patient was covered from head to toe- indicating to me that the person was dead. I looked at my friend in shock. There was a group of 20 yr old hipsters following behind laughing and snapping pictures-no doubt destined for Facebook or Twitter.

My friend shrugged and said, “Wow, that is sure a downer.”

Downer? Wow, Downer? I immediately grew tearful. No, I didn’t know the person, I didn’t see them pass out, I didn’t know about their world, but I couldn’t help feeling bad and saying a little prayer. It bothered me the rest of the night. I kept thinking about this person and their family and about how this person lost their life and people were laughing. Maybe I am just a tad too sensitive. People die every minute of every day. Don’t know why this struck me so profoundly.

As we were leaving, my friend remarked about a caterpillar she saw trying to cross between two grass areas on the concrete sidewalk where thousands of exiting fans were tromping and how it wasn’t going to make it. It didn’t really register until we had gone about 50 feet. I immediately slowed and contemplated turning around and trying to save the caterpillar, but I didn’t. I stood for about 30 seconds as people rushed all around me, caught in a swirl of indecision. I should have. It felt like saving the caterpillar would make up for the other loss that was suffered that night. And that is just stupid as hell, I know!!! Don’t freaking ask me why I made the correlation. I just did… And I didn’t act. I should have saved the caterpillar!

In the scheme of things, one sorry ass little caterpillar doesn’t matter. But I sure wish I would have stopped and done it. Maybe it is bothering me because saving the caterpillar would have meant having some insane measure of control over a life- any life. Maybe that’s it.........

The Greek name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the same word means the soul.

So the sensitive little soul I have says to the person who lost theirs last night: You are in my thoughts and prayers as well as your family. And to let you know that each and every time I see a caterpillar in need, I WILL stop and give aid. In your honor. It’s your legacy now. ……..

The Neighbor Dave Song

Ok, peeps...this is NOT a biography. I repeat...I just used some real life elements to write a poem(or maybe a song).... I have accidentally flashed my neighbor on more than one occasion. He's also seen me rolling around on the ground at 2am when I sprained my ankle letting Emily out to pee.   I got to thinking about how people meet and the things they do (Or DON'T DO ) for love....so I wrote this... What if a girl wanted to her neighbor to notice her, so she "accidentally" flashes him to get his attention? And so I wrote this....





Neighbor Dave, Neighbor Dave,

I could bring you peach pie

But why be so subtle when I could flash you my thigh?



I'd love to borrow sugar

Do you have white or raw?

Oh sorry bout last week

that day you saw me in my bra



Ah, Neighbor Dave..why can't ya just look and see?

 Won't  ya just look past the hedge and see my lawn for the trees?



I see those pretty blondes,

They always coming to our hood

Sometimes they knock on my door and

I tell 'em you moved.



Dark hair I know, but I've got clear sky eyes

Funny and quirky, yeah did I mention my sighs?

The kind that leave you breathless

and knowin' you just made me high



Ah, Neighbor Dave, why can't ya look down your drive?

And see me standing naked to let you know I'm alive.


Yeah remember  last summer when I fell and broke my wrist?

2 am and you sat with me, ya know you made my heart twist.

Pretended the drugs made me give you that kiss

But when you answered back I backed away from the bliss.....


Please look at me tomorrow when I pick up the paper
In a dress made so short,  it'll give ya the vapors.



Ah neighbor Dave. I'm a much braver soul

Come over for a little or the whole sugar bowl.

Ah neighbor Dave.............

The Camp Director

Complete opposites. Camp Director and Little Red Riding Hood. She's brainy, intellectual and serious! I'm A.D.D and don't care about most things.



Wary of each other, we bonded over a hellish Thursday at Molly's when 500 Shriner dudes descended upon our fine establishment. A 3 hour wait and every freaking Shriner in a Fez trying to slap their bumper stickers on every girl's ass in the place. She won my heart when she sharply dressed down a drunken FezBoy with the words, "Sir, if you come anywhere near me you are going to draw back a bloody stump."



I won her heart by calmly handling my 1st time running the podium while she handled the Club Door. We ROCKED that night! Somehow we managed to get every last wild ass Shriner into dinner on time. Newly ordained into the Pod position, we knew we had serious shoes to fill. We'd heard all about the greats before us like, Joanne Freeh, Petunia and our trainer, Hot lips Houlihan. At Molly's if you were great on Podium, and could handle crazy ass 2 hour Saturday nights, you could pretty much run the place and get away with murder.



Ever the little activist, Campy taught me to care a little more about the world and pay attention. Don't even start a debate with her. You won't win. Girl can bring it like no one else I know when it comes to issues in the world. In turn, I think I allow her to get in touch with spontaneity, laughing and going crazy!



First time I sang my dirty lyrics to "Pina Colada" on a slow Sunday, I thought she was gonna die. She pursed her serious little lips and then just CRACKED up laughing. I knew I had her. Then we started talking about boys. We both had just ended romances with our dream boys. We were walking wounded. We both went on a run of dating every bad boy we could find for a couple of years.



We became roomies and went through being dirt poor together. Trying to work full time and going to school meant eating our one meal of soup and salad every freaking day at Molly's. We prayed (and cursed) on a daily basis, hoping our cars would make it. Hers would not go in reverse. I think mine had an issue with forward at one point. Her car was a Ford Ranchero. She called it "Fucking Bitch"- FB for short. I called mine MALIBLUE- because you never knew if it would start or not.



Our apartment was in this old Victorian house. We had a bitchin' claw foot tub bathtub with a Kenny Loggins poster on the ceiling. Ahhhh Kenny. Which reminds me that Kelz taught me to harmonize. To this day, I can sing with her in perfect harmony. Our version of "Peace of Mind." is KILLER if I do say so myself.



Once Kelly and I were so overwhelmed with poverty, work and school, we talked one of the bartenders into giving us a 6 pack of Elephant Beer and went over to the bank parking lot by Molly's and drank it all down in like 30 minutes. Problem was that it was a Saturday and we were due back at Molly's for 5 p.m. opening. We sheepishly called Dr. Feelgood, who was Service Director for the night (and our really good friend), and he came and got us. You don't want to be tipsy on a 2 hour wait Saturday Night. Not when you're running the Podium. Somehow, with the help of the good Dr, we muddled through. Kelly went home early. We were both ahem "flirting" with Upper Management, so we got away with it. That and the fact that we could rock that Podium/Club Door like champs!



Through thick and thin, we have stayed best friends. She put up with me teaching her 3 year old to blow on the dice while playing CANDYLAND and saying "Luck be a lady tonight." He repeated the phrase all day the next day- which happened to be Christmas- in front of his very, very strict Baptist Great Gran. I put up with her exasperation at my packing habits (throw it all into whatever happens to be handy) and lack of organization.



When I took on raising my friend's little boys, she didn't ask the million questions everyone else was asking. She just listened, advised and somehow understood it was something I had to do. She was AWESOME! She got me through that one like a trooper! She is an advocate for the children of teen parents by profession and is so good at what she does. She is someone who really does make a difference in this world.



We can make each other laugh like there is no tomorrow. She has the uncanny ability of knowing when she needs to give me a call. It is weird. She is dialed into my psyche. She will call me on my bullshit faster than anyone. I can also tell when she needs a little crazy ass note or fun phone call.



She's coming this weekend!!!! I love her and know we will have the best time. We'll drink margaritas, hang out at Torrey Pines, read trashy magazines, talk about the world and just revel in friendship!



Camp Director.......

Mammary Memory

Thinking about being 9 and Fr. Chapman asking Bruno B. and me to read at 10 am mass. Ummm talk about major playground cred for AT LEAST a week! Then we found that one of the readings contained the word "Breast." Oh, hell no! No self respecting 9 yr old says breast in front of the world. I was a mess all week thinking about it. When it came time to read, I jumped up and pretended to be confused and read the non mammary reading. Sorry, Bruno. I'm thinking that I heard you worked at a topless bar for awhile...... I owe you.

Art McGowan Should Friend Me!

Ahhhhh, Art McGowan. Class of 76, senior stud for the ages, the ULTIMATE Mount Saint Mary's Rocket. Five reasons he should friend me...


#5. That small little scratch on the side door of your pristine 76 maroon convertible Corvette? May or may not have been due to me leaning over it to toss you a note and the zipper of my freshman cheer skirt catching on the door latch. So, ok, I had to have someone cut me out of the skirt, jerk it free and walk back to the school from the hallowed senior parking lot clad only in Danskin cheer tights. I DID later earn the honor of class favorite. Maybe that whole event was a blessing....

#4. Sure, everyone likes to credit Greg Robinson for the miracle, come from behind win by the Underdog Rockets over the Millwood Falcons. I ALWAYS correct people and tell them the real story. How you rallied an uninspired coach, a lackluster team of louts, who just wanted to let the game clock expire so they could get to Shakey's, and a despondent water boy by jamming a cleat in your wrist, drawing blood and working out the winning play on your white football pants and saving the day.

#3. Due to your heroic feats on the field, you had a slight injury and had to ride the elevator to class with Sister Justina the elevator operator for a week. I quickly manufactured an injury and happily doused myself with Charlie perfume for a pre 4th hour ride for a solid week. Ok, so maybe the last day I passed nervous freshman gas and when you wrinkled your nose, I rolled my eyes and gave Sister Justina a look of per disgust. I'm quite sure that the smell of Charlie and tacos still makes you think of her.

# ‎2. Hey, tell your dad I'm sorry about the time Lisa Worley and Trish got me all liquored up on an ounce of Bacardi and dared me to ring your doorbell and flash you. How was I to know that your dad would answer?

# ‎1. You can friend me with complete confidence in the justice system. They have anti-stalking laws now.

Smelling The Spelling Test

All memos today will be produced on Big Chief Tablets...No copy machines are available. You must use the mimeograph machine and make dittos. The good news is that everyone will get high off the chemicals of their spelling test and produce beautiful art, music and writing. The bad news is we will flunk the spelling test

Sweet And Sour

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Roller coaster kind of week! You know how they say when you lose a love, you shouldn’t listen to the radio? There will be that random song which rips your heart out and serves it up with a side of salty tears. Yeah, it’s like that when you lose a love- no matter how you lose ‘em.



My week has been like that. Week - how ‘bout life? All of our lives are like this. Nothing will teach you to live in the moment like life! It will kick your ass hard and then envelope you with love, laughing, dancing, singing and magic, awesome sauce.



This week I got a hard kick in the ass over my sweet Jeannie. She’s my sis in law. She’s more than that! She was my extra sister. She was the “Oh, hell yeah you are going to go take your driver’s license test NOW," drink a little, smoke a little, get out of your comfort zone a little instigator we should all be so lucky to have!



For some reason, this week the wound of losing her was ripped wide open over and over again. Whoever murmured that platitude about closure is a moron! There is no closure! The wound stays. Maybe over time, it’s less painful, but you cannot go to the ER and have them stitch up this gaping hole.



Perhaps, because I am prone to joking around and try to keep sadness or darkness at bay, life decided that I need to acknowledge the wound a little more and pay heed. It started Monday, when I was elected to carry out a little family tradition that Jeannie always did. Happy and honored to do it, but it opened up that wound and let it bleed.



Instead of carefully selecting IPod tunes for my run this week, I took a chance. Yep! I could have just clicked to another song, but somehow that just seemed cowardly and false. It seemed like it was meant to be. Maybe I needed to let it go. I had never even heard this song before, as it was a fairly new album download. So I let the song play and Wednesday saw me running down the path with tears streaming down my face. People were staring. “Why the fuck is this chick running down the path crying like a freaking drama queen?”



And then there was today. Went to FEDEX to drop off an overnight package for my niece, Jordan. The guy pulls up my account, sees the address and prints out the label. As he shoves it across the counter, I see the name of the Addressee: Jeannie Hazelton. Arrrgh! RRRRRIIIIP! I then remember that I sent Jeannie tickets to see Poltz at The Blue Door to celebrate remission a couple of years ago I quietly ask them to change the name. It felt like I was wiping away her essence by having them change the name; that I was acknowledging the loss and the finality of it. Kind of silly and sentimental, but that’s how it felt.



They guy is like, “Are you sure?” And I almost yell! Susie, who is almost always unfailingly polite to everyone, gets a little grumpy! “Yes, I am SURE!” I glare at him.



As it is not in my nature to get sideways with people, I feel the inexplicable need to explain. WTF?!?! “Umm, sorry. It’s just that she…well, she is not with us, umm she is gone…umm she is deceased and seeing her name would just open up the wound for her kids.” I can’t even look at him while I am mumbling all this shit. I am an emotional, unhinged freakazoid who’s been released to wander about in public places…



He nods and prints another label. It felt so, I don’t know, so FINAL.



He then reaches across and briefly touches my hand. “Hey, I understand. That was hard. I am sorry for your loss. It’s cool that you are looking out for those kids. I can’t say that anything will be okay, but I CAN say that you are lucky to have that kind of love for someone.”



So true, Kevin from FEDEX, so true... And thanks for extending a little sweet dose of humanity in the course of your day. May good karma come to you always…..

MEDICINE
Steve Poltz

“And you were still alive and you greet me with a hug.”

This medicine is kicking in and gives my heart a tug.”

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

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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....