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.




Connected by DROID on Verizon Wireless

Forgiving Kevin Batey

Yunno, Kevin Batey, you were the source of major vexation back in the day.  You deprived me of dessert, caused me to do the walk of shame to Sister Irene’s office and ruined my white patent leather shoes.  In addition, you grossed me out and made me forever wary of germs.    

Let’s go through each transgression one by one, shall we?

Dessert Deprivation:  You used to get in trouble a lot.  And each time, you and Anthony Galindo did your time in the first grade cloakroom at St James Catholic School.  Cloakroom is such an antiquated little word.  It was antiquated even then.  That place hadn’t seen a cloak in years by the time I made it to the hallowed halls of St James.  Nope!  I do remember that I had a cool, bitchin’ red swing coat from Sears.

Kevin Batey, you created mayhem and mischief precisely because punishment provided unfettered access to our lunch boxes- specifically the Hostess Cupcakes lovingly packed in my Twiggy lunchbox by my momsky.  Do not deny it!  I saw that shit eating grin on your face each time you slunk back to your desk, newly released from cloakroom prison, not to mention the small bit of chocolate cupcake goo under your fingernails. 

Afternoon in Sister Irene’s Office:  I trace my penchant for bad boy love riiiight back to you, mister!  One day a small note appeared on my desk after recess.  Carefully unfolded and read during phonics with Mrs. Jones, the note informed me that you loved me.  You asked me to reply with denial or confirmation of reciprocal feeling on my part.

Flattered and fascinated by attention from the resident bad boy, I really did not stop to examine feelings.  Hell, yeah, I checked yes and promptly felt hot, warm breath on the back of my neck.  No, no, no, this was not due to a sudden, physical culmination of our newly found love!  Mrs. Jones noticed my inattention during her passionate introduction of schwa, came up behind me and read our first grade expression of torrid, forbidden love.

Not only did she find the note, she read it to the WHOLE class!  Now EVERYONE knew I was a 6-year-old hussy in love with a cupcake thief!  The repercussions were enormous.  Yanked out of my seat by the scruff of my neck and promptly shuffled off to Sister Irene’s office, later shunned from playing with the jump roping good girls, I was reduced to hanging out with fellow resident bad girl Regina Denham (Her parents were divorced and not Catholic).  She did tell me my first dirty joke.   She had an amazing arsenal of dirty jokes. (Actually, that part was cool in hindsight).

Ruined Shoes/Germaphobe:  There I was!  Dressed in bride like splendor in a dress placed on lay-a-way MONTHS before the actual event of my First Holy Communion.  Lacy, white, frothy beautiful with a veil, delicate white socks like little rich girls wore in beauty pageants and white patent leather shoes that were supposed to double as Easter shoes later in the month..  Honestly, I do not even remember anything about the actual ceremony.  For me, it was ALL about the dress.   

Full of heavenly hosts and a sip of wine, we were supposed to reflect on our second sacrament in a reverent manner.  To be honest, I was sort of thinking that the cardboardy hosts needed punching up with a little more sugar or something. You chose this sacred moment to ralph up that day’s school cafeteria offering of spaghetti.  Did I mention that I HATED spaghetti as a child due to the close association it held in my mind to worms?

Yeah, thanks for that.  I can still hear your retching and the site of upchucked noodle worms splashing onto the back of my beautiful holy girl shoes.  EEEEUUUUW!  I think I started crying.  I remember you definitely started crying.  For all I know, your sudden expulsion resulted from too many filched cupcakes or an afternoon spent binge drinking the Scotch from the liquor cabinet at your house. 

Whatever!  You left me bitter, barefoot and barren.  (Ok, that last one is not true.  I strictly wrote it for dramatic effect, but it COULD have gone down that way)

Years later, I asked errant altar boy/ local musician/ wise sage Steve Poltz for his wisdom and advice on whether I should forgive you during his stint as guest columnist on The Nervous Breakdown.  Here is what he advised, and I trust his opinion completely.

Dear SJJP,

Kevin Batey got sick to his stomach during my first communion and ralphed on my white patent leather holy girl shoes…I will be seeing him next month. Should I forgive him?

•  

2011-04-11 14:21:54

Dear Susie,
You need to pay Kevin (mastur) Batey back. I suggest eating a bowl of granola with strawberries and sour milk and then spinning around in a circle a hundred times and then hugging him while simultaneously vomiting on his stupid shoes.
Only then will you be able to be his “friend”.
Cheerio,
Steve

Sooooo, Kevin Batey that works for me.  We can put the completely sordid, sorry, patent leather ruination, bad boy lovin’, cupcake free past behind us with a bowl of Kashi cereal and some twirling.    I feel better already!

These Mules Are Going Nowhere.....

 Today is about nothing and everything.  Sitting in my office crunching numbers when a man leading a 3 pack of mules wanders by my window to the world of Mission Valley.  Huh?  Huh!  He looked happy.  I wanted to run out and join him.  Not even ask him anything.  Just walk a little block or two with him and the mules and feel free and happy just to be here and there.

He was too fast!  Plus,  how would I explain walking down the street with a stranger leading mules dressed as I am today in a bright red sweater dress and high heeled ruby red Dorothy shoes?  Somehow, I think, I wouldn't have to explain to anyone who truly knows me.  Anyone else doesn't matter.  And right now, NOTHING matters.  And that feels somehow scary and wrong, but also somehow sort of okay.  It is what it is.  Just go with it and let it be.  Accept what comes to you- even if it feels weird or different......  Like 3 mules and a man walking past you.

There WAS a little sign on the arse of one of the mules. (I LOVE the word arse).  It said 3MULES.COM.  Oh, great, I thought to myself.  Everyone has a gimmick.  He's probably schilling shoes, or vitamin water for livestock or an End of The Worldy dude.

 NOPE!  Just a nice little message about trying to live in the moment, be aware and take it one day at a time.  So simple.... 

  3 MULES     To answer the most asked questions:  Who are we?  Where are we from? And where are we going?  We are mules. We are from the outside. We live outside all day , every day. Where are we going? Nowhere, we're here- the outside, the web of life- the beautiful earth, a place like no other.    We have come to this place-a place of golden sparkling light, a place for anybody and everybody.  Give your faith, hope and  energy to this place at which time you connect to it and receive the magic and endless possibility of infinity.   As you walk in this place with these mules you spread the awareness that this beautiful earth like no other can only be protected by the way we live one day at a time.

Pat's Last Vote

Pat was a pistol!  She rallied the troops at the senior community where she lived to sign petitions so that alcohol flowed at the monthly functions.  She loved QVC and ordered so many shoes her closet was overflowing.  She cursed like a sailor, had a sexy, smoky voice and loved the song “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.”

Father Frances comes every Sunday to say mass at this community.  Pat, in her words, “went all Thorn Birds,” and developed quite the crush on the retired priest.  She took the jacket he left behind one winter day, reasoning that he would have to come to her apartment to get it and that was her chance to get him alone.    She cackled with glee about her plan and kidded about finally having her own Rachel Warde/Richard Chamberlain afternoon of passion.

He never did get his jacket, and she never got her fantasy afternoon.  She grew ill from pancreatic cancer and fought a valiant fight to the end.    Even on her deathbed, Pat had something to say.  A few days before she lapsed into a coma, weak and feeble from her illness, Pat discussed her voting choices for the coming election.  She stressed the importance of her votes. She told her family that she received a mail ballot but “Couldn’t remember where she put that f*&&^%$ thing.”

We all came to say goodbye.  Father Frances came and even though Pat was in a deep coma, her eyebrow raised and she managed a smile when he came to her bed.  We all laughed hard at that! 

Her children found the ballot.  Even though Pat died a week before the election, they broke the law, filled in her choices and dropped it off.   And she voted!  Her voice counted!   

 I feel that you have to sell your soul to the devil to win an office.  I am jaded about the whole thing.  I missed a few elections.  To be honest, I didn’t even start voting until well into my twenties.  I appreciate it because of Pat.  I swear I hear her cigarette voice every time I vote.    Thanks, Pat.   

If happy little Bluebirds fly…………

Half Pint, Heroes and Pit Bulls

Yesterday a stray pit bull attacked Laura Ingalls Wilder and her sisters.  At least it seemed that way.  Tired and anxious to greet my dog after a prolonged absence,  we instead pulled up to see 5 young children dressed in very old fashioned clothing racing towards us in a sheer panic.  Whoa!  They were screaming, crying and yelling for help.  Four little girls in plain cotton dresses and one lad dressed in overalls straight from the set of Little House On The Prairie somehow missed Central Casting and ended up running the mean streets of San Diego.  None of that rolling down hills of tall grass and helping Pa finish chores for these prairie kids!

We heard dogs fighting and realized a stray pit bull was attacking their mutt of a dog.  I did what I ALWAYS do in emergencies - I froze. I stopped breathing, frozen in panic and fear.  Thank God others are not emergency challenged and quickly utilized baseball bats, a knife and their own size and deep voices to combat the relentless attacker.  That pit bull was determined to take his prey down, and it took a few minutes to dissuade him.  I won 't pretend that the baseball bat was not utilized by the heroes in their efforts to save the little dog.  Thankfully, a few swats to the rear end FINALLY made the pitty back off.

During this time, I gathered the extras from the Little House set and somehow flipped on the absent maternal switch hiding in my bones to comfort and soothe them.  They were so little!  And they were charming in their braids and long dresses.   The littlest one, with her long blond hair and little round face melted my heart with every dramatic, hiccuppy little sob.

Soon "Ma Ingalls" came running frantically to her children, eyeing this disheveled heathen, dressed in a short skirt and loooooong jacket (A little Cake reference).  She stopped short when she saw me, looking askance at the expanse of leg peeking out from under the skirt.  I think I recall the advisory warning  label required by law sewn into the fabric when I bought this skirt.  It said: "Modesty NOT guaranteed when comforting small, frantic children is required." But I ripped the label off at the first wash, broke the law and ignored all care instructions, thinking of how silly it was that I would ever have to worry about such a scenario.

Ma Ingalls took one more more glance at my gams, cleared her voice and began to soothe her babes. My little Laura Ingalls went running into her arms as fast as she could but did not COMPLETELY let go of my skirt- which served admirably as a snot rag for panicked children.  Of course my skirt hiked up even further, and Ma Ingalls again cleared her throat while glancing at my wardrobe malfunction in the making.  She drew herself up, looked me straight in the eye and smiled.  "This was NOT the day I planned!  I wanted the children to get some fresh air and enjoy the rest of the day."

I smiled back, all the while pulling down on my errant skirt, trying desperately to make it prairie worthy by sheer force.  I was tongue tied.  She glanced down again, smiled again and took my hand.  "Thank you for staying with the children."

I squeezed her hand and stopped worrying about the skirt.  What mattered most was the moment - not her religious beliefs, not my attire, not any difference or similarity.  You can make fun of my Kumbaya moment all you want!  What mattered was the people who came together to save the dog,  protect the children and be good neighbors.  There wasn't a mean Mrs. Olsen in the bunch.  (Okay, bullshit!  We DO have a Mrs. Olsen on the block.  She's the crabby lady who gave me the scary cake last Christmas with a plastic baby in it.  She is DEFINITELY a Mrs. Olsen, but Mondays are bingo day down at the town hall, so we were spared what surely would have been an occasion for one of her rants).

I stopped by today to check on the little dog and his family.  He is on the mend and the Prairie Kids were busy working on their lessons (home schooled, of course!).  Little Laura was too shy to even say hello, but she did smile at me.  And Ma Ingalls did as well.  Short skirt be damned!

Cake Short Skirt / Long Jacket Lyrics

 Songwriters: MCCREA, JOHN

  "I want a girl who
Gets up early
I want a girl who
Stays up late
I want a girl with
Uninterupted prosperity
Who used a machete
To cut through red tape....."

 

Bigfoot, Weenie Roast Prongs & Seven and Seven

An oldie, but goodie.  Honobia, 2010.

This year the trip to the annual Bigfoot Festival in Honobia, Okla. was up in the air almost right to the last minute.   Due to some extenuating circumstances, it was doubtful that the old gang would all be able to make it, but at the last minute, the stars aligned and the trip was on!  We gathered again at Chip's house, took off in the mini van and after a mere 30 minutes on the road, our sides hurt from laughing.  Who wouldn’t laugh with Chip, Greg King and Jack in the car?  The annual stop at the Oinky Doink Pig Joint in Henryetta, Oklahoma was excellent as usual. I managed not to accidentally feel up any local farmers this time, and we left the Oinky Doink in relative peace.

That beeatch named Garmin thinks she is so smart!  She kept telling us to drive south when we should have been driving east, but you just can't argue with her because she thinks she's all that and a bag of computer chips.  At one point she recalculated and we ended up taking Mr. Toad's Wild Ride down some steep country road and a river crossing -courtesy of moi! Mimi contributed major production value with the "Theme from Deliverance" blaring from her I phone speakers.  That was actually one of the craziest moments and worth every sore rib I had from the ride and the company.  Garmin and her owner were not as amused as we were, but it was classic all the same.

WE decided to stop at The El Nino Supper Club BEFORE going to our holiday abode at A to Z Guest ranch.  If you haven't read my prior notes about trips #1 and #2, El Nino Supper Club is neither a supper club nor a bar.  It's really just Anita's living room in a trailer from the 60's.  Located in the deep, dark woods down an old dirt road, the only hint that it is a commercial establishment is the sign painted on a big rock that says “BAR” with an arrow pointing east.  That's it!

In order to fully enjoy a trip to the Bigfoot festival in Honobia, Oklahoma, one must be willing and able to do certain things.  A healthy suspension of all prior beliefs is always helpful - coupled with the ability to go with the flow (in this case maybe flowing backwards?)

Having said this, our trip to El Nino was no less entertaining, frightening or charming then the last visit we made.  To see is to believe, and the 2 members of our party who had not visited Anita's fine establishment were a little taken aback at the ambience.  We greeted Anita and got down to ordering our drinks.  Since we were familiar with Anita's secret for keeping costs down and profits high (can you say Margarita Mix from Sam's with no alcohol in it), we wisely ordered beer from a can.  Greg ordered just plain soda and since he's so darn cute, Anita treated him to a Scotch Buy Root beer from her own personal stash.  Ahh, that Greg.  The ladies love him- especially 83 yr old Anita.  I think she was just hoping he'd buy her another round like he did last year.  Greg being Greg, he offered and she accepted.  Anita belted down a nice vintage rose and charged him $8.  He is such a peach!

And speaking of peach, there were 3 genuine Choctaw Indians in da' house de Anita.  They were drinking shots out of plastic salsa cups like you buy from Sam's.  One of them had a special affinity for peach brandy shooters.  They were speaking Choctaw, trying to convince us they were speaking Italian and were keen to discuss the philosophical, cultural and historical impact of the Dawes Commission with Chip.  But Chip was in no mood to cooperate and insisted on spouting out useless bar trivia to his captive audience.

One of the less sophisticated members of our party called upon Anita to make him a Seven and Seven.  "A 7 and who?’ Anita queried.  Sadly, Anita's liquor purveyor (Still #7 in nearby Hocahtown, Okla.) had not delivered the Seagram’s that week, so all Anita had was Canadian Mist.  She had no Seven Up, but she said, "That don't matter.  I can make some!" And with that, the enterprising Anita dug out a glass from some distant cabinet, took some sweet and sour mix, doused it with soda water, poured in the Canadian Mist and mixed it with a spoon that probably also served as the mixing spoon for the various animal meals served to the local dogs and cats.  That spoon has probably not seen water and soap since The Land Run of ’89.

We were laughing so hard we could barely breathe.   Remember my statement 'bout a successful trip to Honobia?  Prior belief systems regarding the availability of premium liquors and their accompanying mixers in a trailer living room bar should have been suspended about the time we encountered the words 'BAR" and an arrow written on a boulder on the side of the road. Although our friend was highly disappointed in the drink selection, I do believe that was one of the most amusing moments of the trip. I think I saw Mimi snort beer through her nose but don't tell anyone.  Go with the flow, peeps!!!!!!

Anita also shared that her cabin was available for rental that weekend, but after sharing with us that she “Almost had all the dog hair out," we declined.   When Mimi asked what the special dish of the day was and Anita informed us that it was white chili, we really decided that the white chili in this dish consisted of the last party who rented the cabin.

On to A to Z Guest Ranch and our huge cabin in the woods.  Located in the middle of nowhere, the cabin included a huge sleeping loft, 2 nice master bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and a huge living room.  Butch, the caretaker, greeted us with friendly charm and made us feel very welcome.  We met the camp dog-named Buckaroo and some of the resident horses.  Butch also gave us a 3 pronged weenie roaster for any campfire cookouts we may have had planned.  Chip was quick to notice that Butch had part of his fingers missing on a couple of his hands, which will be play a part in this story a little later.

We attended the annual Bigfoot Campfire Storytelling event, but it was boring, so we packed up the van and headed to The Boondocks-a local bar and restaurant.  Sunny the dog was the hostess and led us to a table.  I went to the restroom to wash my hands.  Since I was not “doing business, “ I left the door to the single seater restroom open.  In walks a girl.  She says, “Hey,” and plops down on the toilet to unload.  As I hastily dry my hands, she says, “Oh, can you shut the door on the way out?”

After settling in for the night, one of the Bigfoot Queens entertained the others up in the sorority girl loft with a joke about the difference between Titlelist golf balls and a woman’s “love button.”   Chip decided the sorority loft was so much more fun than the couch, so he joined us.  We spent the rest of the night asking him about guy stuff.  Like I always wondered if guys look at each other’s junk at the urinal.  Chip’s answer?  “Only if you want the crap beat out of you.”  Not willing to let it go, we asked if it was the same if the dude next to you was your friend.  “Same thing applies, “ Chip advised.

We awoke early the next day to “run” the 5K.   A certain member of the party decided to “go local” and do the 5K in flip-flops.  Loser!  Mimi, Greg and Kelly put forward their absolute best in the 5K while certain other slackers gave up the ghost and rested their weary bones at the defunct Clancy’s bar while waiting for the others.

We were entertaining Jack with tales of hoe downs past at Clancy’s, when the dusty glass door opened and out walked the proprietress- Kirby Ladd.  Now Kirby is married to Tommy Ladd-one of the finest and most talented citizens of Honobia, Oklahoma.  Although Tommy and Kirby have moved on to the city, they had come home to host another Bigfoot Hoe Down, so we were really blessed that we were at the right spot to hear the news.  See!  Doing a 5K in flip flops turned out to be the right move for Miss Bigfoot 1980!   Fashionistas live more interesting lives and give and give of themselves in order to secure social opportunities to improve the lives of others. (wink, wink).  It was actually my plan all along.

Since I had to work so hard in securing the entertainment for the evening, I was hot and sweaty, but Jack and Chip urged me on to the finish line-where we waited for Mimi, Greg and Kelly to FINALLY cross the line.  Don’t know what took them so long!  They were sweaty as well, but I’m not sure why since all they did was run a 5K all the way.

We then made a quick run of the festival environs and scoped out which corndog booth offered the best value for our hard earned money (READ which corndog was the longest?), which booth held the most interesting merchandise (confederate flag bikini) and which local had the best live animals for sale (Hands down favorite was the two for one huntin’ dogs).

 We had to advise Kelly, Miss 1979, that she needed to see ALL the wares offered before goin’ and spendin’ her money on the first bikini she saw.  Mimi also proved hard to convince that the bikini top made out of beer cans and crocheted yarn would be there at the end of the day, and we would go back and purchase it then.  Greg feared he would have to lug around our impulse buys all day thereby precluding the opportunity to sing in the Bigfoot Karaoke Contest.  By the way, if you have not heard his rendition of “Feelings,” well, you simply must ask him to sing a bar or two next time he comes your way.

Bigfoot Queens must also vote in the annual Bigfoot Art Show held at the festival.  This duty is VERY, VERY important and a highlight of our day.  They also make it really, really easy for us since the same person painted all the entries.  Not sure if that is a comment on our intellectual capacity or just one of those small town local “fixes.”  Anyway, congratulations for Myrtle Suggs for the hauntingly realistic portrait of Bigfoot giving Miss 1984 a hickey.    It was stunningly magnificent!

Mimi, Kelly and Greg were anxious to get back to the cabin for a massage.  I hadn’t heard it, but earlier in the day, the owner of the A to Z had mentioned that massage services were available upon request.  Those 3 quickly reserved a spot and were happily dreaming of relaxing bliss when I mused:  “Wonder how they can keep a massage therapist on call waaaay out here?”   Chip replied.  “I am sure it’s just Butch, the nubs on his hands and use of that 3 prong weenie roaster.”   Strangely, those 3 cancelled their date with serenity.  I did see them later using self -massage techniques by rubbing their backs up and down against the cedar trees.

After Chip and I played ball with “Buckaroo the dog who won’t bring the ball back” and the others finished up their various afternoon relaxation techniques, we piled in the car and drove 35 miles to Hochatown for an actual real restaurant experience and all the Seven and Seven’s you could drink.  The food was magnificent, and we were especially fond of the moniker for local lake that supports the area:  Beavers Bend, population 500.  Saaaaluute!

On the way back, Miss 1980, who was the designated driver, could not figure out how to turn the lights on to the van.  After 5 minute coaching from Jack and hilarious advice from Greg- who has no need for a vehicle and is madly fit from riding his bike everywhere- we finally left the parking lot.  Out to the winding, twisting, roads of Honobia.  About 5 minutes into the drive, Miss 1980 told the story of the last time she drove a van and observed in her high pitched little voice:  “Driving a high profile vehicle in the wind was surprisingly hard and I almost went off the road.”  She also took that time to mention, “ I usually drive by myself and having others in the car is weird for me.”   It got quiet after that.  Not sure if that was praying going on or if everyone just decided to give up and hunker down for the inevitable.

Later, we went on to Clancy’s, partied with the locals, drove back to our cabin in the woods and decided to have s’mores under the stars.  Chip demonstrated his fire-starting prowess by lighting the match in the strong mountain wind 6 feet from the wood.  We can’t really blame him since his camp counselor days were spent making out with the 16 year old campers instead of learning fire -building skills.   Somehow, the fire was started, marshmallows were roasted, Hershey bars melted and dessert was enjoyed.

It is said that the way your roast your marshmallow reflects your attitude in life.  We had hot and flaming, slow and slightly brown, major meltdown into the fire and everything in between.  No matter how you do it, the result is the same:  Sweet, undeniably good and memorable.  Same thing applies to our time in Honobia…………

Ya'll come on back now, ya hear?

Pantyhose, Chic Filet, Body Scrub and Other Random Thoughts

My thoughts on pantyhose (and other random things, which result from a restless spirit wide awake at 3 a.m.):

Who wears them?  I am thinking possibly the stuffy crowd looking to flash mob Starbucks because they employ gay people.   90 Year old women living in Alaska where nothing grows; even yeasty little microbes which require an embarrassing trip to the doctor, or for the hardy do it yourself crowd, a furtive, nonchalant stroll down that "special aisle" dedicated to women at the CVS.

Come to think of it, why is it that strange men seem to populate this aisle on a regular basis?   WHY ARE YOU THERE?  LEAVE!  Let me buy whatever it is that I don't want to broadcast to the world that I have in a semi secret state of anonymity.  There is NOTHING  on this aisle you need.  You are not pregnant, ovulating, menstruating, yeasty or menopausal.   It's bad enough when the dope at the check out can't scan to save his life and asks for a price check on the loudspeaker.

And have you BEEN down the pantyhose aisle lately?   What used to take up a whole row is now reduced to a sad, single little display of plastic eggs begging to be harvested.   And they are seriously UGLY!  And expensive!  So you want me to plunk down $5.95 for a pair of hose in "Natural."   Seriously?   I don't recall ever seeing skin on any woman that is so shiny it could be seen  by astronauts looking down on Mama Earth from the space station.

Why is that strange men populate coffee shops?  Seriously!  "NO, I HAVE NEVER SEEN A FLYING SAUCER.  Thanks for inquiring.  I do sort of wish one would appear right now and beam me up.  Save me, Captain James T. Kirk! (The young maverick from the 60's, please!  The current version schilling cheap hotel rooms for Priceline need NOT apply.)

And old guys who can be my grandpa.  Ya'll are SO cute when you flirt.    I don't mind.  It makes me smile.  To the old dude in Encinitas who said he felt lucky he missed the light and schmoozed me with, "Honey, you have the most beautiful green eyes I have EVER seen. "  Well, that was just sweet.  Never mind that they are blue; it was still cute.  No, I won't go to dinner with you, but I appreciate that you still work your skilz, playa'.

And adorable fireman?  Yes, I did blow it the other day.  I am a dork.  My  25 year old cousin (twice removed ) who works at the coffee shop called me on it!  He shook his head at his 3rd cousin as he witnessed the following exchange:

AF: " It's REALLY hot."
Dorky Susie:  "Yes, it IS.  Well, see ya later."

You notice I wrote Chic Filet?  I did it on purpose!  Cuz this is MY blog!  That's how I roll.  Seriously, though....  Being fashion forward is taking a beating lately.  It's a chic filet of another kind.   Open toed shoes?  I AM A FAN! 

Open toed shoes are fashion forward, show off the $30 pedi we just had to endure while trying to ascertain whether the chick doing our toesies is talking about us in another language and are sooooo fun to wear.  That's all I gotta say about that. 

I HATE Chick Filet.  No, not the restaurant serving up crusty chicken sandwiches with a side of hate spew,  although you will never see me dine there.  I hate Chick Filet where mean females gang up on the innocent like rabid little chimpanzees in a Jane Goodall documentary.  Not all of us practice this cannabilistic display, so it distresses me when I witness it in all its rabid glory.

 May you a sprout gnarly, twisted hair from your left nipple 5 minutes before a date!  And STOP being mean!  Life can suck hard enough without your little contribution.  And stop picking on people who are different or less than perfect or frail and weak!   Be nice!  Resist peer pressure to act like vapid morons!  Go hang out and eat chicken with the pantyhose wearin'  haters and revel in how beautiful it is to be "normal.". Have a great, yeasty old time!

 I bought into to it for juuuuust about a second until I pulled back and remembered a little thing called loyalty and respect. And I remembered who I am.  Daddy Clovis always told me to remember the people who got me to the dance and make sure I stick with them like glue.  So I did.  I have to honor people and history and time.  And love.  Because love is important.   Love comes in a million different ways.  Honoring your past with someone is love in its purest, most beautiful form.  You Remind Me Who I AM!!!!!!

If acupuncture is really just the placebo effect, does it still work?  I mean, if you know that, does that negate its effectiveness?    What if the needles are dirty?  What if the needle sticker dude is just a washed up heroine addict pretending to be an accuprofessional?  These things keep me up at night!

Finally,  thanks for sticking with this rant all the way to the end.  I apologize.  Let me leave you with something useful.  Best body scrub ever:!!!! -  Kosher salt, olive oil, peppermint, vanilla and a dash of cinnamon. Your beautiful skin will be soft and feel great -  except if you have a papercut.

Ode to Bernadette

I am bad when I am supposed to be good (and good when it is time to be bad).   The key to life is to live it balls to the wall without regret.  Ummmm, yeah...  About that regret.....There are always things we are not proud of.  I am going to admit my part in one of those times...

On Sunday, I came across a vendor at the Hillcrest Farmers Market selling old typewriter keys made into jewelery.   She had an old Smith Corona on the table and my mind immediately jumped to the thought of Miss Bernadette Cunyon.  And the regret sank in.  Is it just me?  When I feel remorseful, I get this funny feeling in the back of my teeth and a weird taste in my mouth.  (Guilt Spit, a course of remorse,  a shot of rue stew, a lament mint.)

Miss Cunyon taught typing to EVERY recalcitrant, smart ass, full of piss and vinegar 15 year old entering the hallowed halls of Mount Saint Mary Academy in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.   Perched high upon a hill, the oldest high school in Oklahoma also served as a convent for The Sisters of Mercy.  Although not a nun, Miss Cunyon lived at the convent. 

Miss Cunyon was old.   She was pretty deaf.  She always looked just so with a bouffant 'do and an eternal  little smidge of pink lipstick.  She had a croaky, smokey little voice and hardly ever smiled.  She seemed kind of joyless.  I wonder how it is that she ended up living in the convent.  Did she ever have a lover?  Was she content and happy and fulfilled?

Shit!  I think back to the torture the poor woman endured and feel bad that I added to it.  Bernadette held court in the oldest room in the building.  It had linoleum floors,  an old steam radiator heat system and held about 40 students at a time.  It was long and narrow and had a raised platform where her desk sat, the strategy being that she could see everything and quell any possible teen uprising.

Each morning after prayer, the boys would roll pennies across the floor into the radiator.  We would all laugh when we heard the familiar little tinny rumble of those pennies rolling and the ultimate clank they would make as they crashed into the hissing radiator.  Miss Cunyon would look up, screw up her aged, wrinkly, lipstick encrusted puss into a frown and ask why we were laughing.

Since she was deaf, we would answer her- only we would not vocalize.  We would only mouth the words.  She would then turn up her hearing aid and approach.  We would continue to mouth the words until she got close.  Then we would shout really loud and blast her poor little ears to smithereens....  I KNOW...  How horrible we were.  Oh man, I HATE that I took part in that.  I only did it once -to be cool.  Truth be told, I did it once and felt so awful....  It didn't sit well with me then and it feels even worse now.   What a little monster!  My mom always taught me to champion the underdog and I usually did.  But the chance to be cool overrode my heart.

 I am sorry, Miss Bernadette Cunyon.   You've haunted me all week.  It's like you came back to DEMAND your due.  Okay, I wrote it.  I wrote about you and for you.  Actually, I TYPED it.  I typed, using techniques learned long ago by a fifteen year old wise ass.    And may every student you taught to type pause at one point or another and remember you fondly.    Here it is...
 

Oh Bernadette Cunyon,

your name rhymed with bunion.

You held the keys

to shift characters with ease.

With your bouf hair so purty

you made order of Qwerty.

You were deaf to click clack

and all teenage attack.

Lived your life with the nuns.

Did you ever have fun?

Did you have a secret lover

hidden under holy cover?

What would you say to us now?

We place our heads down and bow

to a keyboard god so small.

And we watch words and world glow

across a tiny glass window.

Class began with reflection

ending high on correction

made of fluid and time tests

to increase our perfection..

(Can I mention the classmate with the eternal erection?)

Oh, Bernadette,

Would you now fret?

We’re fast and furious with our opposable thumbs

texting anything, nothing, numbers and sums

Thank you, Cunyon

for teaching the young ones

about letters, position and carriage return

Sleep eternal, dear Bernie,

sweet rest you have earned.

Earthquake Glasses

In this Photoshop world of perfectionism in images, I found myself recently admiring a friend who had a really, really honest, unretouched, wild -ass hair, “I’ve just rolled out of bed,” photo tagged on Facebook.  My friend expressed surprise when I stated that it was my favorite photo.  I explained that the photo captured my friend’s true personality:  A charming blend of brutal truthfulness, slight cynicism and ornery stubborn, desperately trying to hide the chewy marshmallow center.

"I like it because you look as if you are challenging ANYONE to have a problem with your look.  It’s as if you are saying, 'Yeah?  So I just got out of bed.  Fucking deal with it!  This is ME!'"

In addition, it got me to thinking about my earthquake glasses and how my inner dork is revealed in the ugliest pair of glasses ever created.  It made me think of the reasons I own the earthquake glasses in the first place and the evolution of how a pair of glasses meant for shaky times came to represent my deepest fears and true self.  And how I haven’t worn them for awhile…..

READ the FREAKING California Earthquake Preparedness Pamphlet, people!  It gets you ready for THE BIG ONE.  Yunno, the BIG O!  No, no, no, not  THAT Big O ( yes, I am DEFINITELY a fan, but that’s another blog).   I’m talking about the huge ass mutha’ of all earthquakes - the one that’s gonna split California in half and send us packing into the cold, cold Pacific. 

To wit:  Section1234.56A states that one should pack an extra pair of glasses in the old earthquake kit.  God forbid that your personal stash of contact lens cleaner ends up in the totally demolished bathroom  while your sorry ass sits in the pup tent outside hoarding water, matches and Beanie Weenies - blind as a bat because you FINALLY had to rip the dry, crusty contacts from your eyes after 3 days.  Why not just pack contact lens solution in the preparedness kit?  The pamphlet helpfully pointed out that these products expire and hard plastic glasses do not.

Made sense to me!  And since control, worry and fear were my favorite companions, I made a beeline to Costco, found the CHEAPEST pair of ugly ass glasses on the wall, gave them my prescription and waited for the friendly Costco peeps to call me when they were ready.

The day arrived, and I cheerfully arrived at the Costco.  I patiently went through the whole sitting with the technician routine, even though I didn’t care a fig about proper fit, blah, blah, blah.  The technician hemmed and hawed, readjusted, fidgeted and then FINALLY pulled back and looked at me, clearly distressed.

“Ummm, have you looked at some of the other frames we have?  I have to be honest.  This look is not a good one.”  

I then explained the purpose of the glasses and she breathed a BIG sigh of relief and gave me a sheepish grin.

“Oh, I feel so much better!  I just COULDN’T let you walk around wearing these.”

We both laughed, and I happily (And carefully) drove home to complete my official CALIFORNIA EARTHQUAKE PREPAREDNESS KIT. 

Only the glasses did not stay there.  Weekends would roll around, and putting on contacts to schlep to Vons seemed so silly when I could just slip on the dorky earthquake specs. .  And pretty soon, I started wearing them the whole weekend. Seriously, I wore those ugly, freaky glasses out in public!  What?  Yes, really! 

One week, I even brought them home on vacation to Oklahoma.  I wore them in front of my lifelong friends!  They all laughed at my dork glasses - especially when I told them how it came to be that I was wearing the world’s UGLIEST glasses.  Yet, because they were my friends, they actually grew to love me in my scaredy cat dork glasses.  They actually complained when I stopped wearing them!

 I DID stop wearing them.   Because they represented control and fear.  I started to realize that those two things needed to go away in my life; that shedding those negative qualities, like the glasses, was an important step in being a better person….And I stopped worrying about things I could not control.  Well, mostly!  I fight hard to make that part stay under wraps..  I don’t EVEN pretend that I have an earthquake kit.  Stupid, I know, but for me, necessary to just roll with it and hopefully dig out to the other side.

  Hey!  I’m gonna’ get my dork glasses back out.  And I’m going to rock that dork look HARD!  Deep down inside, I STILL have a tiny bit of the controlling,  fearful dork, but I can pick and choose when and where I let my little freak flag fly - just like the glasses!

Here’s to my friend, for teaching me that confidence in who you are is what matters most.  ….No Photoshop, no retouching, just honesty and reality.   It is then that you are truly beautiful…