Taking Dottie on Her Dream Ride- August 2, 2009
Today I am taking a 90-year old on a ride as a passenger. It has been her dream t go on a Harley for many years, but she was afraid of balance issues. My good friend Beverly thought my trike would be a perfect answer to her quandry. I hope to interview her before and after to get her reactions.
The First Annual Threedom Days- June 19-21, 2009
(my partial excerpt from Thunder Press Magazine's August 2009)
Our small group (Randy, Terry, Kim and I) parted from a misty morning in Arroyo Grande, California ending up at a warm, breezy parking lot in Westminster that afternoon. When we pulled in to the “The First Annual Threedom Days 2009”, we were thankful to see a hot dog and beans, courtesy of Westminster H.O.G., awaiting our hungry guts. Greeting us with welcoming smiles there was an even combination of trikes and bikes, the bikers supportive and non-patronizing towards the trike-riders.
Craig Franz, owner of Westminster Harley-Davidson and Surf City Harley-Davidson (the other owner being Rick Jelke) explained that the idea for “Threedom Days” was inspired by the trike conversions and the new Harley Tri Glide that reach out to a wider demographic of riders.
Franz ardently stated “…there is a need to make people aware of the three-wheeled option, and realize it is available locally as well.” He said his enthusiasm for trikes, “…stems from the fact there is a huge market for people of shorter or smaller physical stature, physical disabilities, women who may be intimidated by a two-wheeled motorcycle and for more mature riders, who may not want to deal with the weight of a conventional bike.”
Sitting on his Ultra Classictrike conversion, Jim Vecchio was gregarious and rascally. Vecchio razzed a young man who had arrived on a Yamahaand jovially offered to tell me his ‘bike to trike’ story. About three years prior, Vecchio had been in a serious bike accident, and was pronounced dead at the scene. His ribs and legs had been broken, but more shockingly, he had cracked his skull open. He showed me his scars on his forehead and recalled his 6 month hospital stay at the VA.
Vecchio had been riding since he was a teenager and never thought he’d give up riding, though it took him three years to get up his gumption to ride again. He felt due to balance issues and less strength since his debacle, riding a trike made sense. Last year he triumphantly took a four month road trip, and this year he plans to take a trip in July all over the country. He no longer lives day to day, but minute to minute. Not only does he ride a Champion, but he IS a champion!
“B” Bacerra opened up to me about her tale. Bacerra owns both an ’06 Road King Classic and an ’06 Sportster. She was recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a difficult to treat disease that attacks the immune system. Sensitivity to pain is the main symptom, but one also has to deal with balance issues, lethargy, vision problems, cognitive impairment and sleep disorders just to name a few.
Bacerra’s doctor told her to stop riding because of the fibromyalgia. Bacerra said, “I was crushed and felt my therapy had been taken away. The idea of getting rid of my bikes…I just stood in my garage staring at my bikes for hours with tears in my eyes.” When asked if she would be interested in a trike conversion she said she wanted the Tri Glide. Even though she prefers to ride a “regular” bike, she was glad to see there
was a possibility of riding- even if it will be for short distances only.
“B” and the others began to wrap things up to go to the main focus of the first of the three “Threedom” days- the exclusive Champion Trike & Sidecar Factory Tour, graciously hosted by Jim Pinto, General Manager and Vice President of Champion, himself.
The independent suspension was the highlight of the tour, with many questions regarding the wider body (by 2.5 inches on either side) and the differences in ride-ability. It is mainly a feature added for comfort, especially for those towing trailers or riding two-up. Pinto mentioned that over 40% of trike-riders tow trailers, demonstrating the spirit of longer voyages.
The tour was chock-full-o valuable information, suggesting that it would be worth the time to make a stop in Garden Grove to educate your selves about the construction and advantages of a trike.
The “First Annual Threedom Days” second day began at the dealership, a rainy and hazy morning, perhaps diminishing the amount of poker-run participants. Pinto showed up on a trike, geared up in his doo-rag and leathers, ready to lead the group. The trike to bike ratio was about two to three. The unwavering support from the biker-community was unexpected and a pleasant take to the trike riders who are often teased about their “training wheels” and exclusivity from requiring an M1.
Huntington Beach had allowed the trike riders to park right before the pier in a place of honor. The city’s events took place on the first three blocks of Huntington’s Main Street in conjunction with the “Father’s Day Weekend Chili At the Beach” event, benefiting Children’s’ Hospital of Orange County (CHOC). The chili cook off was sponsored by local restaurants, and for only $15 one could taste the fiery delights on Saturday during the event. The trike prize trophy, made of V-twin pistons, was for the “Best Trike” and the other, a custom painted and mounted gas tank, for “Best Paint” was courtesy of Spade Bros. Ryan and Shaun Spade.
Sunday, day three, the winners of the trike competitions were announced: “Best Paint” trophy, “Best Performance Trike”, “Best Outlaw Custom”, “Best Special Construction”, “Best Old School Custom” and a special award created just in honor of my friend, Carlana Stone, the “Live to Ride…Ride to Live” Award for her passion and “nothing gets in the way” attitude. Carlana rides despite the incident that took away the use of her legs in a car accident when she was 17 years of age.
There was a profound difference between the usual bike show and the “Threedom Days.” Most of the riders were over forty years old and there were no hired “hot chicks” or crazy partiers of the bunch. Most were casual and laid back, either previous bike riders who had faced injury, physically challenged, shorter in stature, women or folks that wanted some balance in their lives. The occasion was small, but a good chance for anyone with interest in trike ownership who would like to learn more and test-ride a few of the bikes. Franz believes once the word gets out, the “Threedom Days” will grow into a formidable party.
Scientific Studies of the Sexes- June 16, 2009
There are things in this world unknown to mankind, such as the mystery of the Bermuda triangle, the pyramids and Easter Island. None are as mystical and completely unfamiliar as this thing called “Laundry Basket”. It starts at a tender age, about five, when a young man is learning responsibility and how to survive in the real world. It’s the Freudian “cleanus envy” where the child is obsessed with having his mother clean up after him. Soiled garments can be found conspicuously scattered around a laundry basket and furthermore, this custom can carry over to the garbage can contents. The squirreling away of pennies, gum wrappers and receipts in dresser drawers is universal practice. It seems that boys growing into men rarely abandon the “cleanus envy” stage of the psyche.
Let me show you around the many curious items of a human dwelling. The first thing that may flummox even the most advanced adolescent, is a thing called the “alarm clock.” The function is discovered out of necessity after the said adolescent wakes up at six o’clock to the delicious smells (of dinner) coming from the kitchen.
Applying to all stages of the male growth; the puzzling “dish towel” is only understood by man as a tool for sopping up water on the floor. This may be a deposit derived from the refrigerator dispenser being used carelessly. The modern man still has not completely grasped the use for a dish towel, though the name indicates its use. Occasionally, in the event that a male in a rare moment of sexually driven nature, may attempt to do the dishes, he will rely on the miraculous dish rack. It is believed that the Dishrahgi (God of Cascade) will magically dry the dishes.
A common meal ritual for the male is quite upsetting to the female and can lead to a squabble. Ranch dressing, ketchup, hot sauce and copious amounts of salt are not tolerated by the female, though the male will insist upon using such condiments. Typically, this ruins the chances of the male mating that evening, resulting in the woman doing a sort of disturbing stomping pattern. This is an anomaly to scientists because the calories do not seem to affect the weight or fat percentage of the male, while the female can gain as much as six pounds with a tablespoon of any of the above mentioned edibles.
When the mates dine out, the male ritualistically spackles his 50 Club cracker with butter and uses a whole bowl of sour cream in his baked potato. The female’s feathers ruffle rapidly, and she squawks in a manner that may be heard as a warning to all the other females in the feeding den.
During this bizarre interaction, napkins are ceremoniously thrown under the table. The female hunts for the napkin, in an unusual dance with her feet; while the male smears his fingers into primitive pictures on his Levis during the hedonistic Butter Orgy.
As a general scientific observation, one can see that the male’s nesting instincts are lacking and the females are exaggerated in these types of interactions. Additionally, the male does not groom himself to the extent that a female does. The male is oblivious to the extraneous hair growing from his face. Though shaving with a razor is common, eyebrows growing into a universal brow, bristly nostrils and long-enough-to-braid ear hair go unnoticed. Tweezers are utilitarian to every female and she will often impose her grooming habits on the male by painfully pulling out his quills while he is in a trance-like, television-induced state.
Present day man has the ability to write extensive novels, proposals and newspaper articles, yet has not quite mastered the phone message and balancing a checkbook. The phone presents great distress in the male, much like the remote control gone missing, and he will avoid picking it up upon ringing at all costs. Furthermore, if the female is conversing on the phone, the male will make growling noises and often chant loudly over her communications. Again, mating rituals can be delayed as a product of this behavior.
When the male is forced to take a message, if a writing implement has run out of ink, he will give up writing the message and will promptly put the useless pen back in the drawer. Drawers in the wild have been known to have up to twenty pens and it is commonplace for archeologists to discover only the rare pen still containing ink.
Other superstitious habits of the Cro-Magnons : keeping Q-tips away from the ears, using any type of tissue near the nose, never replenishing toilet paper rolls, and a uneasiness about warm, soapy water contacting flatware.
Summing up my research, there are not many opportunities presented for the male to successfully woo the female into sexual interaction. These skills have yet to be developed and he is only successful when efforts are accompanied by Her Shekiss, the Goddess of Womanly Bliss.
My research leads me to believe that males have no idea what to do without the female. Pardon me while I go to See’s Candy for a caramel turtle and Office Depot for pens. I’m in the mood for love.
Let me Get Something Off My Chest-
June 14, 2009
About seven years ago, after being well-endowed all my life, I lost an enormous amount of weight. I went from a size 24 women’s size to a 4 petite misses. Unfortunately, I was left with the “rock in the sock” look, and had to be careful not to belt my nipples when I got dressed.
I was about ten years old when I was informed by a teenage neighbor, Tommy, (whom I had a colossal crush on) I needed a bra. Tommy then rudely tweaked my “mosquito bites” and my crush, as well as my ego, was pulverized. I was as humiliated as a rabbi caught eating bacon.
I told Mom I thought I might require a bra. She gushed, “I’ll take you shopping, right away! I can’t believe how fast you are growing up!” No, Mom, I was growing out.
A well-rounded individual was I; I was on the Hormone Honor Roll and getting an A. Maybe I’d get a B, hard to tell, production was still in the development stages.
I examined my new ‘friends’ in the mirror, veiled in my favorite yellow t-shirt with the daisies embroidered along the neckline. I concurred with Tommy (the nip-tweaker) I needed support--support worthy of a sagging expansion bridge.
In the 5 grade, the “ladies” were separated from the “gentlemen” to view a film shown by the school nurse. It was an enlightening cine called, “My Growing Changes.” The feature had cheerful, animated blue jays and yellow finches flitting about Snow White’s bosom. I did not possess the slightly convex chest Snow had and I certainly wasn’t warbling along with any aviary chorus. I was more like Ethel Merman belting out a Broadway number, with big breasted Perdue chickens and Butterball turkeys. I had transformed overnight into a dirty blonde Lonnie Anderson; except I didn’t have to stave off radio station geeks chasing me around the office. Instead, I had Tommy the Tweaking neighborhood critic, voluntarily reviewing my show business.
I had made up a riddle after I saw the movie “Nine to Five.” “What animal does Dolly Pardon like the most?” I would quip. I’d wait a beat then, lay it on them, “A ‘Z-bra” of course!” Little did I know that karma would come back and bite me on the, well, not the…maybe the chest? My current brassieres may be more accurately named “over the shoulder boulder holders” or after the famous German adaptation, “Gestappen Fromm Floppen.”
I was glad Mom picked me up from school to accompany me to the well-known Bra Bizarre, aka, Ye Ol’ Department Shoppe. Our saleslady/consultant was Kay, a librarian-like lady sporting an eyeglass chain with the mandatory bifocals. The chain made her appear as if she had jowls. “May I help you?” she inquired, tilting her head forward to look over her spectacles. Mom said, “Yes, my daughter is here to buy her first bra! Isn’t that exciting?” It was that moment, that I realized I had made a, mammoth, mammerical mistake. Why didn’t I just bind my chest with an Ace bandage, like my Granny had done in the Roaring 20’s?
Judy Bloom, famed for her teenage novelette, “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret,” could shove her puberty glorification up her shirt. No, Margaret, God wasn’t there, because he had more important things to do than worry about your growing boobies and first period. “Hey, God? It’s me, Molly, and I’m in Hell. My mother is making me strip down in front of her and I am being groped by a Bassett Hound sales woman,” I pleaded. I got His answering service.
Back to the dressing room, with straight pins lodged in the berber carpeting. It was a dirty, gray laminated cubicle with two closet hooks and an ashtray shelf that hadn’t been used (or cleaned) since Truman was president. The military physical began. “Turn around,” Kay Nine said. “Put your arms up,” she barked.
I thought Kay Nine was going to feel me up, but thank God (maybe God was there Maggie?) she was only reaching around my back with the tape to measure my band size. “Thirty-two,” she announced to the dressing room. Mom sat there on the corner bench smiling, her head bobbing up and down approvingly.
The sales hound stood back and lunged at me again, this time pulling the tape around my Red Hots. I restrained from jumping out of my skin during this exploitation. Mom was still nodding like her neck had become a slinky. Kay stepped back and looked at my chest, gazing at it like an artist might visualize a picture. The only things missing were a velvet beret and a curly moustache, of which she had a pretty good head start. She confidently pivoted on her orthopedic shoe and walked out into the Bay of Bras.
Mom started to do her “Hoover whistling,” a blend of breathing, humming and whistling without moving her lips. This meant Mom was enjoying her self. Bully for her.
I modestly reached for my shirt and shocked myself on the carpeting. "Ouch!” I yelped as the Tesla experiment surged through the berber carpeting, traveling up, making my eyelashes crackle and blink sparks. Mom said, “Are you nervous, Honey?” almost giddy. No, I wasn’t nervous; I simply hadn’t enjoyed the Jowls squeezing me like cantaloupes in the produce section.
I rolled my eyes, “God! Pick it up!”as Kay Nine returned with an armload of white “training” bras. I already knew they were a waste of time. I didn’t understand what the heck a “training” bra was in the first place. What are we training our bazoombas to do? Sit-up when we offer them a biscuit? Roll over and beg? Speak? Shake hands? Sheesh.
Kay instructed me to link the eyes and hooks in front of my midriff first. That way I could see what I was doing. No big deal, I had just completed a Holly Hobby hook rug just a week ago, this was beginner stuff. “Turn the hooks around to the back,” she commanded. I rotated the strap too fast and gave myself a bra-burn.
At that point, Jowls left, apparently satisfied that I could handle the rest of the fitting with Mom’s assistance. I pulled up the straps and looked at the new Molly in the dingy department store mirror. The small triangles of fabric were cutting into the upper part of my breasts, my flesh bulging above straining cotton. “Shake ’em in, Honey!” Mom shouted. “Bend over and shake ’em in: they’ll fill the cups,” Mom advised, still broadcasting for the benefit of any audience outside. Fill the cups? We weren’t talking about fruit punch and Dixies here, we were talking about my cleavage’s future!
Bent at the waist, I tried a little Gypsy Rose shimmy. I stood up but my boobage was still being strangled by fabric. Mom enthusiastically called out to Kay, “She needs something bigger. Much bigger!” and began the Hoover- whistle again.
Kay came bustling in, swept away the ill-fitting torture devices, and delivered a new set of booby traps. These were prettier, with lace and underwires. I hooked, I rotated, I bent, I shook and I looked…well “Hello, Molly!” The reflection was precisely what I had envisioned! Mom quickly stopped her happy hooter sounds and looked a little shocked. “Are you sure a training bra wouldn’t fit her?” she implored. “No ma’am, she is in a 32 B, almost a C already.” I gulped. I was wearing a B? As in Big Boobs? I might need that Z-bra after all.
Mom doggedly selected three unadorned bras in my size: one in standard virginal white, one in virtuous petal pink, and a third in “racy” nude. (I think she underestimated me, hoping I wasn’t street-wise enough to know what a sexy bra could do. I figured I could spend my clothing allowance later on one bra in black lace and another in red mesh.)
In the car heading home, I asked Mom if we could stop by Frederick’s of Hollywood and buy some patent-leather stilettos and a whip. She told me to quit being a smart Alec and keep my comments to myself. I couldn’t wait to get home and model my grown-up Milk Buckets in front of my snotty sister.
At school, the boys snapped up the new opportunity. By the time lunch rolled around, I had a bruise on my middle back and had earned a fabricated reputation from the jealous, ironing board-chested girls. It was a bittersweet time in my life: one I was happy to leave behind.
…And speaking of behinds, let’s return to the not-so-distant past. After my weight loss, I was such a pancake that they could have filmed “The World’s Fastest Indian” flat track scene on my salty chest. I never thought I’d see the day that I had to get artificial knockers, but it seemed unavoidable: every time my breasts brushed my knees, I was reminded of my formerly perky twins. I submitted my temporary solution of a “brelt,” bra + belt to “As Seen on TV.” They politely rejected it and suggested the name of a good plastic surgeon.
So I got a lift and refill, complete with an extra “D” bonus by my over-zealous surgeon. Now they are “enhanced and restored,” residing on my chest like two bowling balls on a platter. I can no longer reach my armpits to put on deodorant, but so what? No one cares if you smell like Pig-Pen when (or as long as) you have huge ta-tas.
These days, I call “the girls” Franchestka and Melon-ee. It seemed only “natural” to give them proper names, since everyone talks to them instead of to my face. Is it a scientific fact that there are hidden magnets in my fun bags attracting the magnets in men’s’ pupils? I try to be understanding and be a good sport.
I occasionally ask the girls “How’s it hanging Fran-chestca? Are you abreast of the new developments, Melon-ee?”
Having been on both sides of the mountains, I have to admit, jugs have more fun. I might not be able to swing a golf club, jog or shave my arm pits, but I am satisfied with the remediation skills of my doctor. Thank you to all my supporters, and, flat or sassy, thanks for the mammaries!
The Pharmacy Fiasco- May 25, 2009
I am at the pharmacy, waiting to pick-up my prescription. I have my size 6.5 tootsies dutifully placed within the borders of the foot-shaped decal on the floor. These stickers are installed to keep nosy people from hovering near others picking up their prescriptions. I can relate, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable having some stranger hear about my pre-colonoscopy colon cleanser and the instructions that accompany.
I am standing here trying on the non-prescription reading glasses because they have fun and funky frames; giving myself a terrible headache and mild case of motion sickness from the intense magnification of the lenses. I can’t even see what they look like on me in the mirror, I can only see a blur of auburn
and some pallid blob underneath it. Oh, that must be my face.
Even at the designated distance, I can hear the pharmacy technician ask if the elderly man if he wanted a consult on his new medication. He is sporting dark, tinted, post-glaucoma exam glasses. He looks like a geriatric spy for AARP. “Yer darn Tootin’- I’ll take that consultation,” making a gesture that one would associate with “Take Me Out to The Ball Game.”
I am now humming the ball game ditty incessantly in my head. I try to arrest the madness, and then the song “Manah manah” begins doot-dooing in my head. This is swell.
I hear about his fascinating bocce ball game and his wife’s spoon tapping orchestra, the Sweet Clackers (or is that the denture support group?), and I “Manah manah doot-do-dee do” crazily to block out my future getting on with age. He sucks in his dentures, sluuurp, and moseys to the consultation counter like Hoss Cartwright at the Ponderosa.
Speaking of getting on with age…Double-Oh-About 85 tosses me a quick leer over his shoulder, following with, “I just love red heads. My first wife was a red head.” I want to say, “I can’t hear you, I am in the Privacy Zone!” Unfortunately for me, I do hear every gory detail. The pharmacy technician hollers, “New prescription consult- Viagra!” So much for due privacy. Double-Oh-Eighty-five turns around, gives me a lecherous wink, and I have now barfed in my mouth a little. I search for some Altoids and find a restaurant pillow mint with lint all over it. Despite the lint, I eat it.
Manah, manah…BUMP. I turn around and a 7 year old brunette with freckles and gap in the front of his top teeth, has bumped my butt with his elbow. Excuse me, no really, excuuuse me! Mom gives me an apologetic look and tells her angelic child that he needs to watch what he is doing. Too bad she doesn’t take her own advice. Mom instructs “Bumpy” to hold her place while she gets some important things. I go back to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” again, thinking I might like to go there right now.
I am still glued to my spot, mercilessly listening to Double-Oh-No discuss his erectile dysfunction. I feel a bit guilty about my blasphemous behavior, yet I am standing next to the contraceptive and sexual health section. Which is more embarrassing, standing next to an array of lubes, condoms, yeast infection treatments and the like, or having someone know I use wart cream? You be the judge. I’m like the intercourse monitor, standing there on my shoe appliqué.
Plastic crackles and I turn to see what is happening behind me- one never knows with an unsupervised child. Bumpy has now acquired a box of ribbed, extra sensitive Trojans and is opening a single packet with his teeth. Mom has stopped at the end of the next aisle over and is looking at clearance Wet N’ Wild eyeliners. I clear my throat loudly, hoping to get her attention. Bumpy has now dumped a box of pregnancy testing dip sticks on the floor and is saturating them with Kama Sutra Pleasure Potion like a bottle of maple syrup.
“Do you think you should be doing that?” I ask in my most adult voice. He grins like Al Pacino did in the “Devils Advocate.” Mom comes scurrying over with a fist full of eyeliners, poking out of her fingers like a handful of colorful quills. “Billy! (Bumpy was close), what are you…” and then it happens. Like a well-oiled banana peel machine, she slips in the “right to privacy” aisle on the fore-play lubed linoleum. She writhes around on the floor like she is competing in a Wesson wrestling ring. I think she would do better in a hot dog eating contest from what I am seeing.
Bumpy Billy begins to “skate” around in the Astro Glide, spreading it throughout the aisle and impressively staying upright. Even if the pharmacy was giving out Red Vines with my prescription, you can not get me to move from my station. This is too entertaining.
Bumpy Billy puts on a pair of purple and red reading glasses and has sleeved each of his fingers with colorful condoms, much like I did with black olives when I was a child. He wiggles his prophylactic phalanges while proudly announcing, “Look Mommy, the box says they are flavored!” He proceeds to put a pink-veiled finger in his mouth. That’s when the grown-up in me awakens. I grab the Devil’s Spawn’s wrist and firmly said, “E-nough,” stressing the E for some reason.
A miracle, Mommy gets up, though obviously injured, limps towards me. I am ready to accept her gratitude when she says in an uppity manner, “How dare you man-handle my child!” My mouth drops open like a Cadillac glove compartment and it is suddenly stuffed with wild cherry “edible undies” and I am practically choking from astonishment.
Mom continues to berate me. Thankfully, I see a kid, about 100 pounds dripping wet and adorned with more zits than a 7 grade class of boys eating French fries approaching our Contraceptive Carnival. It’s about time someone did something. Pimpleton says, “I’m going to have to ask you to pay for the items and leave.” I fold my arms self-righteously and restrain myself from saying, “Yeah, take that!” Pimpleton picks up the empty box of edible panties and hands it to me. “Please, or I’ll have to call security.” I stand here like a cigar store wooden Indian. He touches my arm, as if to lead me. “Wait a condom-pickin’ minute! This store has seen more action than a Texas whorehouse and you are asking ME to leave?” I rage. I shove the +955 magnification glasses back in their plastic rack and blink while my eyes adjust to the anti-reality. Angrily, I sarcastically say, “No, allow me, really.”
I march down the aisle full of flip-flops, garden stakes and other items that have no business being in a drug store.
“I want to speak to management,” I demand of the cashier. She rolls her eyes and picks up the overhead microphone and says, “Manager to cashier two.” Pimpleton Stridexes up to me and says, “You wanted to speak to me?” “No, I don’t want to talk to you, I want to strangle you.” I growl and spin on my oily heel. I get to my car and find I didn’t even get my damn prescription. All that for freakin’ wart cream.
As I look in my rear view mirror to back up, I see something frighteningly familiar. There, in my back seat, is Bumpy the Bastard and he is waving his rainbow hued right hand at me. In his left hand, he holds brick-red, tiny pills. I see an empty box of Urinary Tract Infection Relief on the seat next to him. Bumpy is popping them into his mouth like M&Ms and I begin to laugh madly. I can tell I am scaring the kid. “Get out of my car!” I screech.
I hear, “Where’s my baby? Oh no, my sweet, sweet baby!” and I see that I could be going to jail for kidnapping if I don’t dump the kid quickly. I tell him I am going to strangle him with a tampon string, stab him with a wooden garden stake in the heart and hit him with a rubber clog if he makes one peep. He nods at me, understanding I meant it, terrified and wide eyed.
I pull up to the Starbuck’s that happens to be in the same parking lot and give him $5. I tell him very specific instructions, “Order a triple espresso with extra whipped cream, and drink it as fast as you can.” He eagerly gets out and sprints into the coffee den of addiction.
I burn out of the drive and narrowly miss the Statue of Liberty dancing around with a sign for cheap income tax returns. I giggle as I picture little Billy peeing cranberry red all over the living room until 3 AM. Revenge is mine and it tastes wild cherry.
I wait until I see Mommy and Billy leave, Billy already jumping up and down with his empty espresso cup in one hand, and a Frappaccino in the other.
In order to avoid another confrontation with the Manager Puss Pocket, I use the drive through to attempt my pick-up. The pharmacist voice says, “I’m sorry Ma’am, your doctor hasn’t called your cream in yet.”
Manah manah, doot doo, dee doo doo…I’m not listening, I’m not listening…I scream and beat my steering wheel. I hear the intercom click off.
Now, in the mood, I drive to the nearest parking space and dial 1-976-SCREWME and for 98 cents a minute tell off a heavily breathing transvestite that sounds like an 85 year old man on Viagra. He probably loves red heads too.
Conservation Conversation-May 25, 2009
My mother is a very generous woman. Whether we meet for a quick lunch, or I visit for a BBQ, I never leave empty handed. Gifts are traditionally transported in a plastic, oversized, handled bag. Mom covets those bags. When she gives me a treasure trove filled sack, she tells me, “That’s a nice bag. I want it back when you are done.” At least she is keeping up with the times, eco-friendliness and less junk for the landfills; I get the junk the dump does not.
After taking the re-used bag home, she folds it up and puts it back in a bag, large enough to carry a coffee maker, a burro and Juan Valdez himself. If it is a puny, plastic, shopping bag, (the kind you get at the grocery if you don’t opt for paper) it gets shoved into another bulging bag just like it, with 200 other bags, cannibalistically devouring its own tribe.
These bags are reserved for dog doo pickup and also serve as convenient receptacles that can be hung from the bathroom door knob for Windex-soaked paper towels. I admit I have begun saving those in my pantry as well; the mother bag hangs from a wall screw and is stuffed to capacity. When my step-son pulls a bag out for his backyard fecal treasure hunt, about 10 bags will fly out like wispy ghosts. Of course, no one picks them up and puts them back. They float around on the pantry floor among the other lost souls of white vinegar, a red plastic stool, the broom that fell over two weeks ago, a leaking bottle of corn syrup and a mouse trap that no one has checked in a month (what’s that smell?).
Depending on which bag Mom brings, I can almost guess what she might have in store for me. When she brings the red, double handled Macy’s bag, there is usually a lot of clothes (some I had previously given her), some relics from my childhood, like my Donny and Marie Shower Microphone, and some food item from my birth year, like a vintage 1970 Hershey’s cocoa tin.
The powdered cocoa is a good example: that container was so old that Mr. Hershey’s autograph was on the bottom. I unsuccessfully pried on the lid with the edge of a spoon because the top had rusted shut. I went in the garage and came back armed with a flat headed screw driver and forced it off. Just out of curiosity (and sheer stupidity) I peered inside the cocoa tin. It looked like the inside of a coal mine and I could have sworn I saw canary feathers at the bottom. I found my spelunking helmet with the head light. Mom gave the helmet to me a few years ago, saying it would come in handy if I couldn’t find something in my closet. I set the cocoa aside for the Antique Road Show.
The day Mom showed up with a doo doo pick-up bag, I had a roiling in my stomach. My instinct said to look for another bag and put it over my head. It was too late. She ambled in and reached inside the sack. Mom ceremoniously unfurled the gift as a feast for my eyes. “I thought you might like to have this. I wear it with a blonde Dolly Pardon wig to my exercise class for Halloween. Nobody knows it’s me! I feel so sexy and mysterious in it, and I am happy to pass it along to you.”
A movie of a 5ft. 1 inch woman in her mid-sixties, sporting purple stretch pants and orange tennis shoes flashed through my mind. She wore a long, platinum, Frederick’s of Hollywood wig and a smug look no her face. “Dolly” strides into a gaggle of 70-year-old plus women, and they all inquire, “Who is that woman?!” She struts around to the front of the class, her voluptuous figure airbrushed onto a long white t-shirt, complete with skimpy bikini and flesh-colored neck. Mom, who usually looks like a cross between Shirley McClain and Carol Burnett is transformed to a sassy country icon, with a noticeable, white, 4-inch border around her “figure.” Does she really think, after the first year she wore that get-up, that no one knows who she is?
It was difficult not to treat the shirt like a dirty diaper I found in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I gingerly picked it up and said, “Oh yes, I was looking for this very shirt the other day.” Mom did not notice the sarcasm syrupy enough to drip down my chin. She beamed as if she had given me a piece of my Granny’s prized jewelry. I speculated if the shirt was flammable.
I forced out a “thank you” and absentmindedly twisted it into a noose.
Mom continued to pull things out of another bag she had snuck in. This was a bag from Trader Joe’s, full of various kitchen items, a ceramic pendant of a cat’s head the size of an Oreo cookie, and a pound of pumpkin cardamom coffee. Mmmm, good to the last drop. Drop dead that is. I was afraid to look at the so-called “foods” she had cleaned out of the cupboards. I carefully lined the containers up on the counter. I knew the majority of the provisions would give us botulism if we ventured to taste them.
I gave her back her bag and she gave me a hug. I checked the calendar to see when the garbage pick-up was coming. I didn’t think they took nuclear waste, but it was worth a shot. I put on gloves, a HazMat jump suit and a Nixon mask (she had saved for me because I was born during his presidency) and began my lab work. My husband walked in from work and almost threw his lunch box at me. “What in Sam Hill are you doing?” I struggled to peel of the sweaty latex mask. “Mom brought some stuff over,” I explained. He glanced at the counter, looked at my sweaty Richard head, and turned on the television.
As I picked up a box of unleavened bread, I saw it had been personally blessed by Moses and imported from Egypt. Inside, the matzo (Jewish flat bread) had been reduced to a box of stale crumbs. I dumped it in the dog’s dish. Fanny sniffed it, and brought me a plastic bag from the pantry.
Next, was a jar of pimentos, floating like blood clots in water. I think Mom saw the olive tree by my driveway and felt it was a practical gift. This vintage jar of pimentos had a pull date of January 1967, the year my sister was born. She must not have had the opportunity to use them at her baby shower. I like to live on the wild side, so I tapped the metal edge of the lid and mightily wrenched the lid. The stench, even through my mask, was that of rotting fruit, with eau de cow patty. I put the jar in a dog doo bag and threw it in the trash.
I reached in the bag and extracted a familiar blue box. It was the cheesiest. I thought to myself, this can’t possibly be bad? Dried macaroni with a packet of powdered cheese, vacuum packed, was an everyday, non-perishable pantry item. Still, I knew something wasn’t right. I carefully cut open the silver packet. It was a petrified, electric-orange brick. I tossed it in the trash where a powdery explosion ensued. Thankfully, my husband came to the rescue with a fire extinguisher.
The meal replacement bar stuck to the foil when I tried to open them. The bar looked like dead ants rolled in oatmeal. At closer view, it was infested with moth eggs. The bug bars got double bagged and taken to the neighbor’s trash.
Then it happened. A box of Triscuits that were sure to be stale and damp took me by complete astonishment. I slipped my thumb under the tab. I tugged the unopened wax paper bag out of the box. I pulled both sides of the bag outward, and there was a “whoosh!” of air, revealing FRESH wheat crackers. Yes my friends, these were unsullied, crunchy crackers!
I called Mom to tell her “Thank you, thank you, thank you for the fresh Triscuits.” I remarked that I would enjoy them with the Baby Bell cheese rounds she had put in my fridge. Mom said, “Triscuits? I didn’t put those in there, did I?” (UH-OH) I have only had those for two years ! I want them back! I meant to give you Ritz.” I should never have said anything. Triscuits are only ready for consumption after they have lain on their side, in a temperature controlled room for 6 years or more after the pull date. Mom likes her Triscuits with caviar that was bought when the Tsar was still in power.
I tried everything to get the bag to reseal with grainy apple butter (also courtesy of Mom) or to fit the crackers back into the box without making the sides bulge. I gave up and handed them to my step-son to use for a school project. I told him to use the apple butter from Mom’s last visit to glue the sides and he could decorate it with the old macaroni and a tube of black frosting.
I panicked and jumped in my car to go to the nearest store. I mustn’t dawdle – this situation was life threatening. I’d rather eat the 42 year old pimentos than face the wrath of Mom. I had no cash, my ATM was at the ready, and I swiped it quickly, feeling a sense of relief. The cashier gave me a nervous smile and said, “Manager to the front. Code red!” she cried over the store speakers. I felt sweat drip from my brow and inhaled the overwhelming scent of a balloon. That’s when it hit me, I had never changed out of my science experience get-up.
Two cop cars screeched into the parking lot. Uniformed officers jumped out in a SWAT team stance. Guns drawn, they surrounded me before I got a chance to take off my mask. I would not go to jail over a yellow box of crackers. However, I would be going to the nuthouse. I screamed; “My mother gave me pimentos! She sent me fresh Triscuits instead of stale Ritz!” I manically blurted, “Bikini shirts, Baby Bells, cocoa and macaroni!”
Mouths agape, the patrons and cashiers were staring at me clutching the box of Triscuits and a pack of Orbit gum. The head policeman replaced his gun in the holster. “Hey, aren’t you Georgia’s daughter? Lives out in the canyon?” he grinned. I knew my goose was overcooked. Mom would learn of my ruse, and I would never make it to my 40 birthday.
I begged, “Please don’t tell her you saw me buying Triscuits. I will pay you not to tell her.” Offering to bribe a police officer was a dumb idea, but I was in a tizzy.
Sergeant Keebler told the employees everything was all right; he knew my mother and had heard all about me. What was that supposed to mean? I sheepishly returned to my car with the booty. No paper or plastic, I didn’t want to waste.
I thought of gift-wrapping the Triscuits. I wanted her to know I cared for her crackers properly while being their temporary custodian. I was raised to believe fresh crackers deserved proper respect.
I opted for my best reusable handled bag and prepared for BBQ at Chez Mom. I handed the bag to her like a baton in a relay race and scurried off to say hello to my step-dad.
Mom grunted, “Hmph.” I heard her refold the bag. I felt my Degree deodorant kick in - the heat was on. As I tentatively walked back into the kitchen, I knew my hoax had crumbled. She was peering at the embossed pull date on the bottom of the box. She looked up at me and I twitched. Quietly, she put the box in the cupboard where its parking space was still reserved. She looked at me again, lips pursed in anger. I jocularly said, “Okaaayyy, what are we having for dinner besides ribs?”
Mom took a Tupperware out of the fridge. It was an already dressed salad, soggy and brown from the last BBQ a month ago. She was back to her old practical ways, and for that I was thankful.
I thought I’d wind down with cup of tea from a tin that said, “Pilgrim’s Choice.” I micro waved the water, steeped the tea and sipped. I dropped a saccharin tablet in the mug from the bottle that was always on Granny’s table. I had hoped to sweeten the distinct taste of moldy mushrooms in the brew. I bet Betsy Ross had a cup of this very tea whilst sewing stars on the American flag. It may have even tasted like tea then.
As I left for home with a paper bag, (just incase the tea gave me food poisoning) she asked, “Could you bring back my bikini shirt the next time you come over? I need it back.” I pretended I didn’t hear her and jumped into my car like Luke from the “Dukes of Hazard.” I yelled to my getaway driver “Go!” and we narrowly escaped. Mom’s effort to re-use turned into a ruse for me. Where am I going to find another bikini shirt?
April 4, 2009
Steel Thunder Weekend
It is difficult for me to put on paper what a terrific trip we had. I can’t go into many of the details, they are classified and I’d have to kill you.
The trip was a last minute venture to Mazatlan, Mexico, hosted by our buddies Billy Chapman, Jr. and his lovely fiancée Magahli (I sure hope I spelled that right!), Steve and Kim Babbage and “Chappy,” Billy’s son. The minute we stepped off the plane they treated us like royalty.
Our hotel room was lovely, overlooking the ocean and pool area, no better view could have been produced by a television location expert. The weather was practically made-to-order, about 78 degrees with mild, oceanic breezes.
We enjoyed several lively conversations with other guests, including Chris, from “American Iron” magazine. I immediately felt kinship with Chris, and loved hearing about his adventures as a writer and a rider. We laughed until we were holding our sides, exchanging spirited banter. I had a moment to speak to the reserved, and very talented, Dan from “Thunder Press” Magazine. His career in writing, starting as a teen, was inspiring and encouraging for us fledgling writers. Klaus, the general manager of the Sunspree Holiday Inn, cruised his territory making sure everyone was happy and being treated right.
That evening we were introduced to more of Billy’s family of friends, sharing a VIP meal at his condos. Top rate chef, Giovanni, treated us to his gastronomical genius, a meal of fiery Mexican heaven.
After a peaceful sleep of tidal lullabys, we awaited for the Hogs on the High Seas ship to dock and let all the passengers migrate to Billy’s bash.
Things ran like an oiled machine, Magahli orchestrating every nuance of the event. There were plenty of beverages, food, souvenirs, and contests.
Several beach glass blue swimming pools, shoreline access and plenty of umbrella seating were pleasantly available to both hotel guests and cruise visitors. Billy, Chappy and Bear all made sure everyone was content and emceed several goings-on that included; a bass grabbing contest, greased pig wrestling, and donkey riding. Gleaming Harleys cruised through the party with Jell-O shooters while hitching scantily clad women, many adopting the traditional European bathing suit style (sans top).
Sentimental romance was not to be overlooked. The anniversary couple, Bill and Regina, who tied the knot last year on the cruise, received a custom facial, courtesy of Billy. The newlyweds with their frosting make-overs and cake stuffed nostrils concluded their celebration with wobbly burro rides.
My husband had been asked to make a sample of his BBQ-ing abilities, the main reason for our trip. We had brought our secret mix and were ready to grill. Sammy Wow (I like to call him) and I believe it was Raul, made sure we had all the supplies. Randy had access to the grilling area of the suspicious, reluctant chefs. Giovanni assured them it was bueno, and the grilling gringo soon won their approval.
Randy’s talents made a rough cut piece of meat taste like “buttah.” Party- goers was grabbing juicy samples in handfuls. We finally got the cubes of steak to the proprietors after hitting the predators with large sticks. They approved of Randy's "Q" as he likes to call it, and knew it was to be added to next year's party.
After the guests went back to the Mariner of the Seas, things quieted down, the clean-up seemed as if it were a blip on the screen. The fun didn’t end at that point for our little group, continuing into the evening (me being a little woozy from too many margaritas) as Billy and Magahli, hopefully relaxed for a bit.
Departure the next morning, breakfast and banter, then a bon voyage to the people going up to the lodge for some serene bass fishing at Billy's Angler Inn. We had the precious opportunity to have the undivided attention of our ever, on-the-run hosts before we loaded into a taxi back to the airport. "Thank you," does not suffice for all their generosity and the first-class festivities they provided during our stay.
We know this isn’t the last time we will enjoy a stay with STO. We’ll be trying his fishing outfitter and hunting forages in the near future, and of course, we’ll be BBQ-ing whenever we get the invitation. Over all, we packed in the quality of a three week vacation, into three days, and made friends for life.
-March 15 2009
It's In the Bag
I think it was 1978, Shaker Heights, Ohio, when I broke my wrist jumping off my brother’s bunk bed. It happened the day before summer camp started. I wore a waterproof cast throughout the summer, so I could still swim with my little friends at Oakwood Day Camp.
In our family, eating isn’t just a necessity, it is an activity. A simple, every day occurrence is treated like a celebration. You tied your first shoe? Let’s go to Baskin Robbins. You got an “A” in school? That was worthy of steak.
Getting off my cast was a big deal. Mom asked if I wanted lobster, and honestly, it never occurred to me to have a pet lobster. Were they were more friendly than they looked?
The place to get lobster was Ted’s Cloud Room in Cleveland. I had my favorite, white, patent leather mary-janes on, with matching tights and some kind of dress. My hair was tightly pushed back, like Eva Peron, in a white plastic headband. The headband was some kind of torture device that Goody had produced. I now think it was a conspiracy that the beauty industry thought up. They were preparing young girls for all the other abusive beauty rituals they would self-inflict as adult women. I already had a head ache and dents behind my ears that were probably affecting my balance.
Everyone kept talking about how good lobster was, so I had plans to really spend a lot of time training my lobster, petting him and maybe even swimming with him in Granny’s pool.
The first thing we did was go to a murky, rectangular tank. “Go ahead and pick your lobster, Molly.” Oooh, which one? There were so many! I didn’t know that lobsters weren’t bright orange and was disappointed that I was going to have to paint my new pet.
The lobsters had wide, blue rubber bands around their pinchers, much like the ones my mom forgot to remove from the asparagus one Passover. This had resulted in a glob of gray vegetable mush and hysterics in the kitchen from Aunt Betsy and Mom.
In the Lobster Lounge, many were just sitting there schmoozing on the bottom; others were floating around, swimming with their little, twig-like legs. I saw a snappy looking one with lots of spots and pointed at him by tapping on the glass and smearing it with my fingerprint. A black man in a white tuxedo came over, pushed up his right sleeve, and put his arm in there! I was entranced as he picked up “Lobby the Lobster.” Lobby pin wheeled his feelers, legs and craws as if he were falling from a sky scraper. The man smiled at me and said, “Oh, this is a big one, are you sure you can handle him?” I emphatically nodded my head and hoped Mom had brought a leash to walk him home.
We sat down, overlooking the city through the expansive glass window. I don’t remember much of the activities leading up to the meal, I just wanted to get home and show Lobby around.
Then the main course came on a large, round tray. The lobster wrangler set it down gently on a luggage stand and began to gingerly lift a plate. The delicate China was adorned with curly kale, halved lemon wrapped in cheese cloth and paprika artfully sprinkled around the edge. As the waiter set down my plate, I smiled. They had brought Lobby right to my place at the dinner table, no less! AND, he was appropriately orange! I was thrilled and saw that everyone was going to have a pet lobster. What a creative way to deliver a pet!
Then the waiter brought over a bucket of silver tools that looked like the ones we used to crack walnuts. Ooh, I liked walnuts! What a memorable dinner we were having. He reached over and picked up Lobby, without the previous squirm or struggle. Lobster Wrangler took the cracker tool and put Lobby’s craw between the ridged clamps. Oh, I see, he was going to permanently close his claw so he wouldn’t pinch me.
Then, there was a sickening “Crack!” as he deliberately squeezed Lobby’s pincher, splitting it wide open, revealing white, tender flesh with fuchsia, steaming edges. I was mortified as he took a sharp, dentist tool and began digging in Lobby’s claw, dumping the lumps on my plate and grinning.
I looked at my Mom horrified, yet there she was doing the same, running her knife down his spine like a laboratory project; digging, pulling and dipping, butter glistening on the corners of her mouth. They were all barbarians and fiends! I came to the conclusion Lobby was no more, and I sulked and mourned. It was frustration by crustacean.
Mom encouraged me to eat my pet carcass. I would have no part of it. The waiter removed my plate, obviously realizing I had no clue what “having a lobster” was going to be like. He returned with a plate that had cut up pieces of just the meat. I felt obligated to take a bite after Mom said, “You said you wanted lobster, Molly. It’s very expensive.” I knew anything that was “very expensive” was not to be wasted.
I reluctantly took the miniature pitchfork, feeling confused but very hungry, and picked up a tidbit. I dipped it in the drawn butter, brought Lobby to my lips, and in he went. I forked another piece and didn’t dip it in the butter, and it still tasted delectable. Soon I was stabbing and gobbling up Lobby, butter in my fingers, in my hair, dripping down my chin; I think it might have even gotten into my eyebrows and lashes. I was a tornado, whirling and obliterating all in my path. I think I even sucked on the cheese cloth covered lemon. I was feeling both evil and decadent. Lobby was no longer an issue; I was all about gastronomical hedonism.
We finished up dinner, followed by orange sherbet (as pronounced by my grandpa as “shure-bit”). The Lobster Wrangler brought me a doggie bag. He said, “Congratulations on your healed wrist. This is for you “and he winked. It felt strangely light, as if there was nothing in the bag at all. I thought it might be a joke, like the ones I would play on my little brother. I got distracted and didn’t bother to open the bag.
We walked towards the elevator, passing the crustacean nation. I felt instantly guilty and slowly approached Lobby’s family, handed off my bag to my brother, and pressed my nose and buttery hands to the glass. I tried to make contact, but their eyes were empty, onyx gems. I wondered if they were crying under water.
My big sister asked me why I was so upset. I told her I wanted to take Lobby home-not eat him! She said, “Oh, you are taking him home!” My heart jumped, did I not eat Lobby? Was it another lobster? Maybe the lobster I ate was a terrible, mean lobster they were going to send to the Neptune Prison anyhow? I felt so relieved. I reasoned they would only serve criminal lobsters, it made no sense to waste a perfectly, pet-worthy lobster. My sister said, “You know, you eat cow, pig, lamb and other animals all the time.” Okay, she had that one on me.
I settled into the vinyl, Volvo seat and held my bag. I always got the hump seat, but tonight I didn’t care.
My little brother, only four or so at the time, said, “Do you have a lobster in your bag?” I unfolded the top and yes, indeed, there was Lobby! Mom turned around in her bucket seat and growled, “Don’t you dare. Leave it in the bag until we get home.”
It was pure torture to have Lobby suffering in a bag. I opened the top so he could at least breathe. I knew he needed water, so I mentally urged my dad to step on the gas. It seemed like an eternity until we pulled into the garage.
I un-clicked my seat belt, leapt from the seat, ran into the kitchen and plugged the sink. I turned the taps on full blast, grabbed the salt shaker, and shook it like a spray paint can into the sink. I thought Lobby would be more at home in salt water.
David said, “What are you doing, Marwy?” “Look!” I said, and slipped Lobby into the water. David said, “Can I put Shelly in there too?” I nodded and he opened his bag, and “plop” Shelly was floating alongside with Lobby. Floating and floating. Mom came over to see what the fuss was. “Why aren’t they swimming, Mom? What’s wrong?” David inquired. That’s when she understood my confusion and gently explained it all to my brother and me.
I was crushed, yet David simply shrugged his shoulders and went and got his Stretch Armstrong doll. He generously offered it to me, purple gel seeping out of his chest where we had stabbed it with a fork. I nodded and said “No, thanks, Nuttbutt.”
I sat at the kitchen table, feeling crabby about my lobster. I began reciting a funeral Kiddush. Though I didn’t know how to speak Hebrew, I knew “Shalom” and “bah-rook-a- tah auto-noy” from Sunday school. I silently repeated them, figuring it would help Lobby get to Bottom Feeder Paradise.
Mom comforted me with apricot fruit leather. I unrolled it from the stiff cellophane, expertly peeling it off with the sound of duct tape being yanked from a piece of linoleum. I achieved this feat in one intact sheet. I scraped the pulverized apricot on my bottom teeth like an artichoke leaf. I got impatient and finally stuffed the whole thing into my mouth.
Chewing and uncontrollably drooling, I dragged myself up the stairs, exhausted from the whole trauma. I sat on the floor digging at the back of my molars with my index finger to remove the fruity goo, and wiping it on my blue, shag carpeting.
Our basset hound, and my liver-eating accomplice, loped over and gave me a slobbery kiss. I hugged her and warmed my hands in her neck folds. “I would never eat you for dinner, Babo,” I announced protectively. I watched her obsessively lick my molar muck off the carpeting and was soon putting my loss behind me.
I cheered my spirits with my new album, balancing it on the record player spindle, putting the crooked arm over the top of the platter and anticipating its drop onto the turntable. Danny Zuko and his greaser buddies sang “Greased Lightening” while I enthusiastically worked up a sweat, dancing my talent show routine about my room.
Dad said, “Go to bed.” I obediently brushed my teeth vigorously with Aim gel toothpaste, the latest thing in oral hygiene. I donned my Holly Hobby pajamas, crawled into my Star Wars printed sheets, and tucked in my stuffed Grover along side.
Dad tucked me in and turned out the overhead light. I reached under my pillow and took out my flashlight, shining it on the ceiling. I loved how the chandelier-like crystals reflected on my walls and ceiling, creating a magical disco in my very own bedroom.
I dreamed of Lobby in a tank, wearing a sky blue leisure suit, performing the Hustle to the song, “Rubber Band Man” by The Spinners. He seemed so happy and peaceful, and it comforted me.
While I was asleep, Mom threw Lobby and Shelly in the trash outside. The next day, I crayoned a drawing of Lobby on a piece of cardboard saved from Dad’s dry-cleaning. I colored him bright orange and added a yellow sun, complete with rays in the top right corner. I drew a rectangle around him and made water with the blue-green Crayola, being careful not to color over him and turn him muddy green. I took a purple crayon and wrote across the top, “Lobby, He Was a Lovely Lobster.”
A lobster tale turned tragic; resulting in a new taste for seafood. To this day, whenever I partake in lobster dinner, I feel a little pang of nostalgia for my friend Lobby.
Had I been shellfish? We shell sea.
-March 10, 2009
I'm On a Roll
Today began at 5am. I forced myself out of bed while my husband was already taking his morning shower. I sauntered into the bathroom and took my myriad of vitamins, “sip, gulp, sip, gulp,” and threw out my empty Dixie cup. I slipped on my monkey printed pajama bottoms, Ugs and an oversized hoodie that looks like a lavender Cookie Monster with a zipper.
Down the quiet, dark hallway to the smell of brewing coffee and the chill in the living room. Courtesy of the dog letting herself out, leaving the French door gaping open.
As I lovingly packed my husband’s lunch with leftovers; plus a fresh apple and a yogurt, I remembered I had bought a special something for him and myself when I went to the store yesterday. I opened the cheese drawer, knowing that the carefully folded paper bag would be undisturbed and both of us would savor the jalapeno and cheddar bialy. My plan was to lightly heat it in the microwave, just the way we order it at the coffee place. The flakey, croissant –like crust, the melted, sharp cheddar with rings of fire hot jalapenos was heaven from the Yeast gods.
I need to back up to the beginning. The Earth was inhabited with dinosaurs…Fast forward to my newly single life in 2003. After two failed marriages I was on my own, and oddly enough it wasn’t that different. Both of my previous spouses were never home and being alone was the norm. This time I was enjoying it because it wasn’t wrought with worry or disgust. I didn’t have to clean up after anyone but me.
A few weeks later I meet the love of my life and my vow to never marry again is broken. Also dissolved, was my decision not to have any kids in my life that weren’t covered in fur. My new husband came with a big package. Okay, not the kind of package many of you gutter-minded folks may be thinking. This package came with two boys, six years apart, now ten years old and fifteen. Not anything like the “Brady Bunch” I so loved to watch as a girl. No matching set of my own kids that enjoy playing football on a 5X5 ft. lawn and schmoozing with Alice the Maid in their burnt orange kitchen. This was reality.
My sitcom is a dusty two acre lot in the country, with a relatively small house for four people, and three boys (one an adult) that believe cleaning is meant only for janitors at school. I have all but given up trying to keep the house clean, not smelling of dog ear wax, dirty shoes, mildewed towels and log jam pollution from the bathroom. My only solace is going to Starbucks a couple times of week and drinking a soy latte worth it’s weight in gold, okay, not that much, maybe it’s weight in silver.
It probably wouldn’t surprise most women when I say there are little treats that we must have about once a week (and sometimes more) that give us the satisfaction of knowing we matter too. My bakery morsel was in my plan for the next morning, as my husband and I deserved them for our hard work.
The day before was insanely busy for me. I got up and did my morning rituals and then made several phone calls, paid bills and made the bed. Then I was off to my volunteer position at the animal shelter to do office work. As I walked down the rows of kennels, saying hello to all the sweet and innocent hairy kids, I thought, “What a great idea. Cages! Small, easy to clean and food distributed as I see fit. Any mess is right were they sleep; so there is profound appreciation when the adults scoop or swab their “rooms.” Brilliant!” I couldn’t wait to get home and try it when I realized their grandparents wouldn’t follow-through with the new set-up. So the day continued.
I went to the bank, filled my tank with gas, zoomed to the grocery for milk (which was used up and neglected to be signified on the list) and bought about three times as much food as I had originally planned to pick up. Feeling a bit more mommy-like, I purchased some bulk bags of various snacks: crackers, nuts and chips to be put in the newly implemented snack barrel. The snack barrel came to be out of a desperate attempt to not only limit the snacks, but to keep me from losing it every time the kids said, “What can I have for snack?” while standing with the fridge agape looking at a drawer bursting with fresh fruit.
I looked at my watch and realized I only had a half hour to get home, unload, change into my interview clothes and take off. I ran back and forth between two refrigerators and a freezer, putting away all the things I bought for my family of savages.
As I sprayed the heck out of my frizzy hair, I realized I was going to be late. I flew down the road to my appointment, only 10 miles away, feeling confident I would get there exactly on time. No go, an accident about two miles from my destination, not to be circumvented. I use my car phone to let the interviewer know I might be a few minutes late, shouting into my rear view mirror so she could hear me.
Amazingly, at 3:33pm the interview went well and I arrived back at the ranch about 4:30pm. Before I even changed my clothes, I was flying around the kitchen whipping together a dinner of unhealthy, fat-laden foods that I would never cook for myself and talking to my friend who had now called me twice and no one bothered to give me a message.
Dinner was met with great zeal from my husband, and the tell-tale look from the boys that they weren’t very hungry. The staring at the plate and slow deliberate bites were a dead giveaway. I have become an expert at telling the difference between being disgusted with what I made and no appetite.
Half the food was put into containers, adding to my library of leftovers. I gently asked, “What did you guys have for a snack?”There was some muttering about something from the snack jar and something else I couldn’t understand.
The boys have lately taken to eating quesadillas in a ritualistic way similar to how I take my daily supplements. In a week’s time there are no tortillas left and more cheese has been used than a busy pizzeria. I knew a small bag of chips from the snack jar, especially when I wasn’t home were not the only snack. I twitched as I held back the urge to check on my rolls. I knew that the thought of stapling them shut was ridiculous, or was it? No mention was made of my treats, so I assumed they pigged out on a pork roast or something.
Back to this morning and my preparation of the King’s breakfast. I open the drawer, pull out the paper sack and slide out a roll. The bag is now empty and I gape in disbelief. I run back to the drawer and look to see if the other one fell out. I sprint to my receipt folder and find the itemized list of purchases, and yes, it states “Bakery Items, {space}, 59 cents, {space} X 2” and I know that my items have been filched! Looted! Abducted. I fly into a rage and start shouting about what a liar, what a cheat, what a little a-hole that kid is. Only one was left and now the joy was gone.
I broke into tears and my husband tried to shush me, all the while thinking I had gone mad and needed to call the doctor for hormone replacement therapy. I knew he didn’t understand and thought I was over reacting. I was singing a Devil’s version of “Ring of Fire” at that point. .I wanted to give my step-son the other bialy and make him use it for toilet paper then force him to eat it.
There is more to this story than “just a roll.” Ever since I moved into the house, the very few items I brought with me have either been torn, broken or treated so badly they are unrecognizable compared to their original form. The only things of mine that have been left untouched are my clothes, jewelry and cosmetics, and I know if they had been step-daughters I would have nothing sacred.
My roll being pilfered was a symbol of disrespect. A symbol of a lack of empathy for my sacrifices. A personal assault on my privacy and sense of “mineness”.
I angrily heat up my roll in the microwave and sit down at the table ready to read the kid the riot act. The table is covered in crumbs and buttery smears. He shuffles out for his five bowls of overflowing cereal.
I take a deep breath and retreat to my room to write this rant and get it out of my system. As I chew the cheesy, spicy goody, it doesn’t taste as good as I hoped. Perhaps it is because I am bitter and it has spread to my tongue. Perhaps it’s because it now represents resentment and disappointment.
Husband suggested I go to the store and buy more. I have another very busy day that would only overwhelm me with a another freakin’ stop at the damn store. His day, though I am sure trying at times, is fairly simple. Get up, go to work, come home, eat and watch TV.
The bakery isn’t worth it and I don’t finish it, refusing the sour grapes. Besides, last I checked, the grapes had all been eaten and the only thing left in the drawer is empty, mini branches and rotting tangelos.
I furtively go to the snack jar for my recon mission. I crush up all the chips in their little wasteful bags. I feel elated and clever. Chew on that you piggy creeps!
I move on with my frantic day.
-February 26, 2009
Should Liver Be a Requirement?
I am not a lover of liver. Not even a sliver. I will not eat it here or there, I will not eat it anywhere. I will not eat it with onions and sauce, not even if I was told by the boss.
When I was ten years old, I was initiated into the world of dieting. My mother was a lecturer at Weight Watchers, which back then had a very strict regimen. Every meal and day of the week was planned so that the losers (sorry, had to say it) would be nutritiously rounded. I wasn’t that overweight, maybe portly or sturdy at that age, but my mom, through her own struggle with her weight, wanted to nip this problem in the bud before I suffered many years of food issues.
The part of the diet that stands out in my memory like a sore thumb is the day of the week we were required to eat liver. Supposedly it was the only formidable source of iron. I would rather have sucked on a rusty anvil than eat a meat that had the consistency of a wet suede moccasin.
Mom was determined we were going to follow the plan, someone who actually enjoyed eating a junk filtering organ. That doesn’t say much because she would be delighted if Bryer’s made a flavor called Coriander Szechwan Mint Chip ice cream.
I sat at the table with my special plate while jealously watching my Brooke Shields look-a-like sister shovel Kraft macaroni and cheese with medallions of kielbasa. “It’s just like steak!” Mom reassured me. I took my first tentative bite. My mouth filled with saliva and I resisted the urge to gag. I skipped chewing and swallowed it whole, like an aspirin.
I wearily looked at my plate, the wretched pasty piece curled up at the edges like a malicious tongue. I could see it expanding to twice its size as I watched, as if in a bad horror movie. I calculated the number of bites, divided it by pi, graphed the slope and found the ratio and median number. No amount of complicated trigonometry was going to spare me from this problem.
Could I roll it into a tight cylinder and sword-swallow it, never to touch my taste buds or require chewing? I know someone would have noticed, so that idea was quickly discarded.
The answer came in a warm, gooey, desperate chin on my knee. Babo, our basset hound, was more than tantalized by the piece of offending meat. I cut a two by two inch piece and eagerly placed it in my mouth, immediately faked a sneeze and spit it into my cloth napkin. “Bless you!” said Mom. Yes, indeed, I felt very blessed. Babo to the rescue! That pointy headed, drooling, canine goddess was my life jacket in a treacherous sea.
I returned my napkin to my lap. “Special de-livery!” I thought. Babo enthusiastically gobbled the morsel. Down the gullet like a starving pelican.
Now I was cooking with gas. So as to not cause any suspicion, I knew the next bite had to be discarded in another fashion. I cut off a Tic-Tac sized bite, picked up my glass of milk, and while I had a sip, I surreptitiously deposited my liver particle into the opaque liquid. Brilliant!
I continued with my routine, a sneeze, a spit, napkin, dog, sliver, milk, sliver, sneeze…yet, the liver continued to be the size of a Dr.Scholl’s odor-eater and smelled like one too. Then everything fell apart and I was a helpless lamb.
Babo began to whine and slobber so much my leg was a saliva waterfall. As I put my napkin down, using the system Babo and I had agreed on, she began wagging her tail furiously and grunting. Thump, thump, thump...it was obvious to everyone something was going on under the table.
Then I saw the recognition in Mom’s face. She knew a ruse was taking place. Babo, as if cued, snatched my liver-smeared napkin, settled quickly on the Oriental rug and began chewing and licking it like a rawhide.
“Molly! What do you think you are doing?” My dad snickered trying not to laugh. “Nooothinnngg!” I indignantly cried. She picked up the now fouled napkin and waved it threateningly like a spooky, greasy, ghost. “Now you really stepped in it. You are not leaving the table until every bite has been eaten. I am going to watch you eat it, so no funny stuff.”
Babo went outside, looking longingly through the sliding glass door. I mouthed, “Thank you for trying,” and went back to my assignment. I chewed frenetically, like a gerbil and grabbed my milk to wash it down. Then I stopped in my tracks. I had a mouth full of milk, contaminated with floating bits of soggy liver. I dropped the glass of liver-milk on the table. Mom’s eyes were shooting fire and I was desperately stuffing liver in my mouth like Lucy did with the chocolate in the factory.
I think the pitiful sight of me eating pea-size liver niblets from my cow-organ milkshake finally drove her to pardoning me from the punishment. “Okay, enough, you ate more than half. Clean up your mess and go do your homework.” I sopped up the mess with the “quicker picker upper” and tossed the soaked paper towels to Babo when no one was looking. She ate them with glee and was constipated for a week.
That evening, I had a nightmare. A cow resembling Elsie, from the can of evaporated milk, was standing upright, wearing my mom’s glasses and nightgown. She began, “How dare you…” her voice that of an angry Jewish mother from the Bronx. “After all I’ve done for you! I gave you a piece of me, my liver for God’s sake, and you spit it out. Oy Vay!” I ran away her voice berating me and swearing in Yiddish.
I awoke, sweat-soaked and nostrils being assaulted by an offensive odor. My eyes adjusted to the dark and a hovering presence breathed liver into my nose. I mustered up my courage and forcefully shoved the entity away, only to receive a handful of saliva. “Babo, go away!” I harshly whispered. She lumbered away, license tags jingling down the hall.
I lay in bed panicking, only a week before I would be forced to be in the macabre predicament again. That night and every night I prayed that there would be an indefinite liver recall, and Weight Watchers would rethink their program and replace liver with See’s candy. No such luck, come Wednesday, the game was on again.
I concocted a strategy that was sure to be a success. I would feign illness and tell her I thought I had an allergic reaction to iron the last time. That was the ticket, she wouldn’t force me to eat liver if it made me sick, would she? That would be abuse, plain and simple.
I ran upstairs as the rancid stench began to fill the house. I found my sister’s eye shadow pallet, and without permission, smudged her violet shadow under my eyes. I powdered my face with talc and rubbed my eyes until I looked like a zombie from “Night of the Living Dead.” Even I was convinced I was looking pretty bad. I practiced my Bubonic Plague mannerisms, deciding a cough was a going a little overboard and then, the death knell chimed. “Dinner!” I sauntered into the kitchen, really playing it up.
“Mom, I think I might have the flu. I feel like I could throw-up! I almost did at school today, and it got worse while I was doing my chores. Maybe I’ll just skip dinner and go to bed tonight.” I had already stashed some Ritz crackers and peanut butter in my night stand earlier. As if I was really going to go to bed hungry? PLEASE.
Mom looked concerned. “Okay Hon, go on upstairs. Too bad you aren’t feeling well, you guys were going to have spaghetti and garlic bread. I made banana bread this morning for dessert.” Huh? “What about the weekly liver?” I whined. “Oh, that,” she said casually. “It’s for me and Dad.” I was incensed and it made my face turn red and hot. Mom stepped forward to feel my head and said, “That eye shadow isn’t a good color for you, and by the way, usually people put it on their eye lids.”
I was humiliated and refused to drop the sick-act, climbing the stairs while the magnificent aroma of tomato sauce and garlic filled my sinuses.
I washed my face and looked into the mirror, and to my horror, realized the eye shadow had more sparkles than a disco ball. I had failed miserably with my clever Hollywood make-up, and Mom had caught me.
I would show her! I retrieved my peanut butter and Ritz stash and scarfed down two rows of the buttery crackers and half the jar of Jiff. Exhausted from my queen’s feast, I went to bed, not even brushing my teeth, cracker meal and Jiff still stuck in my molars.
I had another disturbing dream. Mr. Peanut appeared at school, singing “Puttin’ on the Ritz” complete with the tip of a top hat, a tap dance routine and his monocle popping out during the finale.
I woke up at 3am moaning. I treaded down the hall to my parent’s room. I shook Mom and said, “I feel like I am gonna…” and then it was all over. Literally. I had let loose on Mom’s head, and she ran to the shower screaming she was going to murder me between gags.
Mom never made liver for me again. I think I made my point.
-February 24, 2009
Menopause- The Journal of a Mad Woman
The change has arrived, almost as scary as PMS but more unpredictable and all-encompassing. I knew I was already having pre-menopausal symptoms before my surgery. Now, they are in full-blown swing and I am stunned at the swiftness of the different changes my body is experiencing.
The night sweats are the first joyous visitor. The Sand Man has now traded places with King Neptune. All hours of the night, I wake up after having some bizarre dream, like pulling a raccoon out of my washer and putting a bunch of bananas in my sock drawer. My hair, neck, back, arms, even my butt crack are soaked! The sheets are sticking to my body and as I pull them down to cool off; I am suddenly covered in a film of ice and have to get back under to start all over again. I slip around as if I were a contestant in an oil wrestling competition but instead of wearing a string bikini I am wearing an old t-shirt that says "I'm puzzled" and matching pajama bottoms with crossword puzzles all over them. Sexxxxxy!
So I wake up frazzled and crabby in the morning, barking orders to the kids, Tourettically muttering to myself and drinking gallons of strong coffee to get my blood pumping. I misplace my coffee cup about 6 times, and find it later that day in the microwave where I forgot I was heating it.
I get ready to shower, totally unmotivated, but know I have to wash off all the night sweat and debate whether I ought to change my sheets for the third time this week. As I walk out in the hallway to get fresh linens I forget why I was in the linen closet in the first place. I stand there like a clueless teenager staring into a fridge, looking for a 6 course "snack." I get towels instead and carefully place them on the bed.
I flip on the bathroom light and begin my morning exam. I lean over the sink so my face is about an inch away from the mirror. I can see every pore, spot and hair, I can even see into my pupils and my brain is waaaay in the back, shrinking into a walnut as I sink further into PDI (progesterone deficient insanity).
My skin is no longer oily and sprinkled with acne. No more artistically laboring for 10 minutes, skillfully covering blemishes with concealer. It's now dry for the first time in my life. Its "aging skin" as the magazines so bluntly put it. I can see taut, stretchy areas with strata-resembling lines. Around my eyes there are crinkles, just like Santa has, and I want to stuff them down a chimney.
Furrows start from the corners of my nostrils and go down to where my cupid doll lips turn down. I resemble a basset hound, but with more whiskers. Woof. I pull up my jowls to see what I used to look like. Now I look like a Mortimer Snerd, but with some improvement. I roll my eyes side to side and tell a bad joke. Definitely thinking about filling those trenches in. In a moment of brilliant inspiration, I stuff cotton between my lips and teeth to try and get the fill effect and end up doing my best impression of Brando. I forgot, why did I stuff cotton in my mouth? I spend the next five minutes trying to get soggy cotton off my gums and the invisible, yet terribly irritating, wisps’ of fuzz off my sparse eyelashes.
Over all, if I step back a foot, I look pretty decent for a 38 1/2 year old. If I wear a really tight pony tail high on my head, I might take a few years off. However, I step forward again, as if I am in a cruel line dance, and go back to my scrutiny scorecard. I keep trying to blink out eye cotton.
I am distressed (pardon the pun) about my hair. I began taking 5000 mcg of Biotin a few weeks ago because I noticed the floating cluster of kelp on the shower floor was my hair. It does seem to be working so far, much less of it coming out, but I am sure I'll look like my Grandpa Herc by the time I hit 50 at any rate.
So the biotin works, but it seems, and I am not sure if it is the biotin, that I am suddenly pulling hairs out of my face at an alarming rate. Lucky for me I have very fine blond hair, so I am probably the only one who can see it. I look like a pink kiwi. Owwww, those hairs are anchored to my cranium, if I pull one it makes an eyebrow twitch.
Speaking of brows, I move upward to the golden arches. There is no longer a tweeze here and there. No, I need to wax my entire eyelid. The hairs are taking over and I am preparing for the worst. I look like a pre-pubescent Yeti with small feet.
I discover other bristly offenders. I swear, someone must have implanted pipe cleaners, fine gauge wire and porcupine quills in my sleep. I check my pillow for puncture marks. I put band aids on my bloody fingers and remember I just had a tetanus shot last year. I look for pliers and wrench them out and am left with open pores that need drywall and spackle repair. I'll have to call a handyman later; I have much more to do.
I picture myself lying in the salon, a masque of wax over my entire face and a Velcro-like sound repetitively scratching the air over the din of hairdryers. I am paying a cosmetology dominatrix to inflict pain with the equal determination of a priest during the Spanish Inquisition. Hardly the facial I imagined to treat my "aging skin."
Yank, gasp, yank, gasp, yank, awww screw this! I start fishing around for a razor and the Barbasol. I lather up, looking like the rabid mad woman about to be unleashed. I smell like Grandpa. I can't bring myself to do it. It’s not really that bad, as always, I know I am hyper focusing on something no one else notices.
I wipe off the cream with an old washcloth and cuss like a trucker as I eat a dollop that definitely does not taste like Cool-Whip. Gag! So what else can I do to myself? And where IS the Cool-Whip? I shuffle into the kitchen and get a string cheese, roll it in bran, eat, then consume a vanilla tablespoon-sized container of intestinal regulating yogurt. Calcium, fiber and protein-starting the morning off right.
I finally shower, imagining I am washing off all the "aging skin" and replacing it with supple, "youthing skin." My glasses steam up. When the heck did I put my glasses on? I reach up and put them on top of the shower door. Later, I can't find them. I slide the door open and realize I have no towel. A blurry stack of Downy fresh terry cloth lies on the bed mocking me. I drip dry and run to the bed, collecting dog fur and some of my own hair on my feet, cursing all the way back. I spot my glasses and sing "There they are!" I put them on top of my head.
As the steam leaves my mirror, I resist the urge to re-examine. I get to my usual routine of slathering my legs, arms and neck with lotion which is sucked up like a sponge by my vintage derma. Next, I do not know what to put on my face. I opt for Preparation H under my eyes (don't say ewww, it's not like I put the tube on my butthole) and wait for the miracle of shrinking puffiness. I see no difference. Now I feel like a butthole for putting hemorrhoid cream on my face.
I get out the alpha hydroxy goop and begin rubbing it vigorously into my tanned hide, concentrating on my newest furrows. I pray the last article was true. It claimed massaging your skin with lotion reduces the lines by relaxing the muscles. I walk away feeling like someone attacked my face with stinging nettles. Oooh, that's good, isn't it? It must be working!
I put on underwear, cotton crotched, like a good hygienic girl, and go back again to apply eye cream. As I pat it around my ocular socket, I sneak closer and closer to the dreaded glass. I resist and boot scoot boogie back to a normal distance. My face has now become the color of a pomegranate. Its working, the alphy hydroxy tingling and fire ants. Oy vey, I don't own any moisturizer to stop this chemical torture! The things we do in the name of vanity.
Still not dressed, I go to my computer and spend over an hour reading up on post-menopausal skin. I read reviews of various products, and scoff at recommendation to rub a mixture bacon grease and lemon juice all over my complexion. Who are they kidding?
Next, I look for coupons on the Jimmy Dean website and wonder if crushed up Lemon Heads and sausage would also work? I'm pretty sure I still have some candy from Halloween and grease from breakfast.
Then I remember the Mecca of skincare junkies. Sephora.com, a virtual cosmetic warehouse lures me with the promise of free shipping and gifts with purchase. I enter the lion's den, clicking madly on the best sellers tabs, taking suggestions of "people that purchase this product also purchased this" and finally find a product from a well-regarded line. It's a kit with nothing but rave reviews. I can't wait to receive it. I order it, and delight at the free gifts added to my final order recap. Forget the fact that it costs as much as having a facelift; I am worth it (said coyly). I will look like Jennifer Aniston in a few weeks! Wooo hooooo!
Ten minutes later I look outside to see if my order is here. I feel anxious as my skin is quickly aging. I am about as patient as an 8 year old kid waiting for his cereal proof-with -purchase Sea Monkeys. It should be here by now. No, still no UPS. I call the 800 number to complain, she hangs up on me. I check again, it's now been 15 minutes. Whatever happened to customer service?
I get dressed and put on my make-up and meet a friend for lunch. She looks older too, and in the sunlight through the window I see fur. I see lines. I see someone I really love as a beautiful person and tell myself I am being ridiculous and self-critical. In my car, I check my lipstick in my rearview mirror and pull another urchin spine above my lip. I cry and a piece of cotton finally releases from my lashes.
Tonight in bed, I tell my husband that I need his help. "If you notice I have a five o'clock shadow, you better tell me! I can't see all the hairs!" I whine. I look at him as pathetically as I can, staring at his hairy ears that resemble a rabbit and his Gorbachev eyebrows that look like tarantulas waiting to crawl into his eyes.
Ironically, I think nothing of it; he always looks like an adorable Chia pet. He inhales through his thatched nostrils and says, "Well, I didn't want to say anything..." I yank his earlobe sprouts. He laughs and turns over. I pinch his butt and pull a hair out. "Ouch! That's not funny!" I think it is hysterical. I want to put Velcro in his crack and see what might happen when he farts in his sleep, he should suffer too! Instead I make shadow puppets on the wall with my book light that is clamped to my crossword puzzle book. I see my silhouette and it looks like a cactus. I shut off the light and rub cotton wisps’ that are making my eyes itch.
A new morning and I manically start over again. As I brush my now thin hair I see a glint. Noooo, say it isn't sooooo! I swoon and need a potty break. I sit down to do my business, and as I look down I see another glint. Great mother of God, are you kidding me?
I reach for the pliers, now hidden in my make-up caddy and perform the trichoectomy. When I pull the offender, my remaining ovary comes with it. I examine the hair-is it blond or silver? I lay it on a square of Charmin for comparison. I can't see it. Where are my damn glasses? As I run my hands through my hair in a despair-ridden gesture, my glasses fall into the toilet. Sigh. Here we go. I shake them off, can't find my towel and defiantly wipe them on my husband's towel. Serves him right, I don't know why, but I am sure I'll think of something.
I am now on-line researching genital hair color and pricing out weedwackers. I think I hear UPS and run to the door. He doesn't stop at my house and I call the 800 number and complain. She asks me if I am on medication or feel like harming myself? I hang up.
Another morning. I smell like IHOPS and Country Time Lemonade. I put chamomile soaked cotton balls on my eyes. I hear a motor. I pull the cotton off and run to the window, all the while, dripping sausage fat and Lemon Head grounds all over my bathrobe. It's here! I shout with glee as I try to pull cotton wisps’ from my eyelashes.
I run to open the gate. The UPS guy flings my package like a piece of steak to a savage coyote, jumps in his van and zooms away. My magic kit has arrived! I eagerly tear at the package before I get back in the house. I throw the packing peanuts and invoice on the floor and find two small bottles of scented lotion. I turn the box upside down and see nothing else. The grease smeared invoice clearly states, "Items on backorder. Will ship when available." I drop to my knees in anguish and ask, "To be or not to be?" I call the dog to lick off the Lemon Head Jimmy Dean gloppage from the floor. She sniffs it and runs out her doggy door.
I call the 800 number again and hang up before someone answers. I call my mom to compare menopausal stories. I decide she's crazier than I am and toast a piece of whole wheat, flax seed and omega fatty acid bread and daub my face with it. I take a bite-it isn't too bad. I scrape the rest off with a spatula and put it in a Tupperware.
I shower, weed my face and prank call the 800 line. Menopause, the new PMS. I still smell like Mel's diner.
-November 12, 2008
Hogs on the High Seas
Just got back from the Hogs on the High Seas cruise to the Caribbean, which included Haiti, Jamaica, Grand Cayman and Cozumel, Mexico. What a blast!
Found out there are a lot of trikers out there too, very much an up and coming trend these days.
We met the coolest people and I want to recognize all of them for making a lot of money and donating it to the Kidney Dialysis Research Fund. Bill and Regina, Laurie and Dan, Billy, Bear, Kim from Steel Thunder, Sam and Dennis from Keyboard Shipping, Skip and his crew from KlockWerks, Steve from American Bagger Magazine, The Leather Lady, Doc Bailey's leather treatment folks, Nightmare Customs...all new and wonderful friends that made the trip very special for us. Too many to mention! My goodness, many names are a blur, but I remember all the faces.
Debbie and Dean headed up and arranged the event that allowed dialysis patients to enjoy a cruise, some with family, and provided on-board dialysis and nurses so they could have this opportunity. Not all the patients were bikers, but they soon were in love with our "Hog" family. Many of the cruise guests were not with our group. I think we have picked up a few new hogs since then! We aren't so bad!
The weather was pretty good, some rainy and cloudy days here and there, but it didn't dampen our spirits- just our clothes!
Too much to tell, but the highlights for us were the costume parties, the belly-flop contest, beard contest, Treasure Chest contest and the various excursions. We rode a zipline from the top of a giant structure down into the ocean and parasailed in Haiti, rode a bobsled and tram in Jamaica, and had the unique experience of going to Hell, the Tortuga rum factory, a sea turtle breeding facility and a swim with the stingrays at Grand Cayman!
Partying abounded at several Margaritavilles at each stop. We also were hosted by Carlos and Charlie's, wild tequila shots (not me, I'd barf) and dancing. The ship was a lot of food, hot tubbing and chatting.
I can't include all that we did, but I assure you we'll be on another cruise soon with the hogs.
-October 14, 2008
Biker Entertainment You May Never See
Movies:
- "My Fairing Lady"
- "The Road King and I"
- "The Shining- starring Dee Taylor"
- "A Side Car Named Desire"
- "Twenty Thousand Degrees Under My Seat"
- "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Sturgis…"
- "Bikers of the Carabineer"
- "Fiddler on the Route"
TV Shows:
- "Jake and the Fat Boy"
- "The Jerry (Softail) Springer Show"
- "The Braidy Bunch"
- "Different Two-Strokes"
- "FLHST In Cincinnati"
Childhood Songs:
- "How Much is That Hoggy In the Window?"
- "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little V-Star"
- "The Hokey Poker Run"
- " Had an Old Lady That Swallowed a Fly"
- "The Wheels on the Bike Go Round and Round"
Bedtime Stories:
- Little Red and the Riding Hoods
- Helmet Locks and the Three Bears
- Sweeping Beauty
- The Road King’s New Clothes
- Pearl White and the Seven Tours
- The Three Little Hogs
- Where the Wild Things Park
- The Little Sportster That Could
- The Cat in the Helmet
- Horton Hears a Hog
- Charley and the Chopper Factory
- Peter Panhead
-September 23, 2008
Ahhh, These Are the Days My Friends
While working on a marketing plan for my latest project, I found out that there is a way to promote your business by finding a holiday that coincides with your product or service. The McGraw Hill Professional Guide lists “Chase’s Official List” of holidays every year. You have the opportunity yourself to submit your own holiday ideas, so as you can imagine, some of them are a little bizarre.
There are the valid and important awareness observances, like “Breast Cancer Awareness”, “American Red Cross”, “Child Abuse Prevention” months, and others of the like. There are also valid and lesser-known causes to be highlighted by this source like, “Youth Sports Safety Month”, “Adopt-A Pet Month”, etc…
However, as I read through the list of special months (mind you I am omitting days at this point because there are too many to go over at this juncture) I feel that there are many worth mentioning and commenting on for your entertainment and contemplation.
Let’s start with January, shall we? I didn’t mean to, but I read about “Be On Purpose Month.” It is also “Clean Up Your Computer Month” and “California Dried Plum Digestive Health Month” (why don’t they just call it Prune month?), which makes me ponder if one should keep some toilet paper handy near their workstation.
If you “Resolve to Eat Breakfast” this month, you should pay homage to “Oatmeal Month” and have a bowl with your “Coffee Gourmet International Month” morning wake-up mug.
February isn’t just for lovers. You should "Get to Know Your Independent Real Estate Broker” because this month, they are all over the place, tapping signs into the grass, driving SUV’s with their smiling faces magnetically stuck to their doors. Why not get to know them? After all, if they’re good enough to have an annual tribute, then darn it, people like them!
One cannot ignore that February is commonly thought of as the Valentine’s month, but did you know that it is also “Library Lover’s Month”? Maybe that’s why it makes sense that it is also “Spunky Old Broads' Month”. Is there anything spunkier than an old lady making senior citizen whoopy among the dusty tomes? If the ‘Old Broad’ happens to be a realtor, well bully for her! She can amalgamate several holidays.
Wake up and smell the coffee because if you don’t know about this one, maybe you should find out what all the brew-ha-ha is about “Caffeine Awareness Month”. Cheers will abound for those that recognize Chronic Fatigue Syndrome Awareness Month, for those that did not know the benefits of drinking coffee and tea.
Those of you that do not need to see anymore, you can do something very philanthropic by donating your eyes, as it’s “Eye Donor Month”. I won't be participating in the drive for eyes, because it is also “Save Your Vision” month, and that would just be downright hypocritical and somewhat confusing.
I just adore this March observance, “Mirth Month.” Need I say more? Luckily it isn’t the same month as “Speech Impediment Month” or you might draw some pitying stares.
April brings more than spring flowers and showers, it seems that the powers took hours to come up with “National Poetry Month”.
I can’t figure out why “Prepare Your Home to Be Sold Month” isn’t in February’s “Get to Know Your Independent Real Estate Broker Month” I am guessing that it takes a while to get to know your broker and decide if, indeed you want to sell your home in the first place.
“Informed Woman Month” is the polar opposite of “Twit Award Month”, so I am speculating that the ‘Twit’ did not inform said ‘Woman’ that they would be sharing the month. Someone call a meeting and get this straightened out, after all it’s “Workplace Conflict Awareness Month.”
May will cause you to sit up and take notice of “Correct Posture Month” as you “Prepare to Buy a Home”. Does anyone else feel like the realtors are taking over the asylum?
If one is health conscious and wants to get the daily five, may I suggest observing May’s “Salsa”, “Sweet Vidalia”, “Vinegar”, “Hamburger” and of course “Salad” Month all at once with a taco salad?
June brings weddings and from what I gather, some dissolutions as it is, “Celibacy Awareness Month” “Lady Lawyers Month”, and “Rebuild Your Life Month”. Oh, the irony of it all. More disturbing is the timing of “Men’s Month” running parallel to “Effective Communications Month”. Where is “Living in a Fantasy Month” when you need it?
Chase's List launches into the summer with the natural nuclear pairing of “Bikini Month” and “Bioterrorism/Disaster Education and Awareness Month”.
Call me if you want to know about “Blondie and Deborah Harry Month” and one way or another I’m gonna get ya. Don’t ring me during lunch, as it is “Cell Phone Courtesy Month” and I’ll be munching on my tribute to “Sandwich Generation Month”.
I hear August is “Inventors’ Month”. I wonder who came up with that idea?
September welcomes “ADHD Month”…where was I?
It’s “Chicken” AND “Biscuits” Month, separately observed, and if you like “Coupon Month” you might be able to get a deal on a pot pie for the occasion.
I see a significant connection to “Self-Awareness Month” for the guys, because if they try to bring up “Pleasure Your Mate Month” during “Menopause Awareness Month” he’ll be looking up “Strategic Thinking Month” festivals whilst she is at the “Subliminal Communications Month” seminar. She’ll learn useful information like, what you really mean when you say you “don’t mind a few extra pounds on a woman.”
September hosts “Library Card Sign-Up Month” you might be able to get one and save it until February for “Library Lover’s Month” when the “Spunky Old Broads” migrate to the Read Light District.
In October they advise you to “Communicate With Your Kid” which is naturally followed with “Family Sexuality Education Month” and appropriately brings us to “Talk About Prescriptions Month.” Oh yes, you’ll definitely want to talk about those and explore the many possibilities after you have communicated with your kids about sexuality.
I don’t really see the need for “Liver Awareness Month” because if there is liver cooking in a hundred mile vicinity I am very aware of it and am looking for lavender spears to stuff up my nose. Don’t tell me that “If it’s cooked the way my mom made it, you’d love it. Trust me.” Yes, I’d love it as much as having ice picks jammed into my tear ducts. On that note, isn’t it funny that it is also “Sarcastic Awareness Month?” I didn’t know that. I just took a wild guess and my spirit guide typed that without my conscious knowledge. Amazing.
I will definitely look forward to celebrating “Empty Nesters Month” with “Peanut Butter Lover’s Month” because since I inherited two step-sons, I can’t open a jar of Skippy that isn’t down to the bottom of the jar. A sad little jar, where only a skinny spatula can reach the last few teaspoons of the Butter of the Gods, covering the back of my hand with the stuff and forcing me to lick it off because its “Crime Prevention Month”. I would consider it a real crime to waste even a gram of peanut butter.
Ahhh, we finally come to everyone’s favorite month, December! Yuletide, the New Year and “Bingo’s Birthday Month”. I don’t know who Bingo is. I’ll have to wait until April and ask the ‘Informed Woman’ who will probably think I’m the ‘Twit’ of the month for asking.
Here are my top ten submissions for the next year:
1. “Let’s Not Talk About Brittney Spears Month”
2. “Teenager Cell phone Confiscation Month”
3. “National Foil Wrapped Butter Intervention Month”
4. “Muffin Top Awareness Month”
5. “Laundry Basket Awareness Month”
6. “Spray After You Go Month”
7. “Say Excuse Me Month”
8. “Take You Platypus to Work Month”
9. “Blue Eye Shadow Intervention Month”
10. “Pick Up You Dirty Diaper from the Wal-Mart Parking Lot Month”
, - August 21, 2008
Biker Games-Keeping Busy on the Road
The mind is an infinite playground that can take us anywhere we want, even if our motorcycle is going straight down a road that consists of tumbleweeds, dusty plains and an occasional stop for radiator water (ha, ha.) I have some games you are able to play, no competitors required, just your imagination.
The first one I like to play on a bumpy road is called, “vibrato.” I start out by singing a random Stevie Nicks’ song and using the bumpy road to produce the lamb-like bleating sound she is known for in the pop culture. “With a love so pre-e-e-sh-uh-uh-uhssss…” and “If you s-e-e-e my reflection in the sn-oh-oh-oh covered he-e-ills, the landsl-I-ide’ll pull you dow-own.”
I usually move on to some Roy Orbison, an aria from Mozart’s “The Magic Flute”, and little bit of Edith Piaf, if I can remember my French. I change it up with some Johnny Cash “When I hear tha-a-t whistle blowi-i-ing, I hang my he-e-ad and cri-I-ey..” and call it quits when I start making up Japanese kabuki songs. The rules dictate one must cease immediately if you have stop near another biker. Trust me, there is a penalty if you don’t stop singing, and it’s humiliating.
Then on to the Alphabet Game. I shuffle through my mental file cabinet with a simple category like names of candy, and begin with the letter A, as in Abba Zabba, then B, for Babe Ruth to the finale-Zots. If you can think of a name that has alliteration, like Goo-Goo Cluster, or rhymes like Mike & Ike, you get to buy some at the next rest stop. Another version: names of products followed with a bonus round if you can remember the slogan or commercial: Body on Tap Shampoo, “Made from real beer. But don’t drink it!”
I also play “Name It, Sing It Then Sling It.” It plays like this: for the letter M, I opt for “Mares Eat Oats” and then I must sing the song as far as I can remember the lyrics. I think the last time I did that it took me from Lake Isabella to Gorman to get to Z. I could not think of a Z song! Could not think of a Z song. Not one! Nil, Zilch. Zippity-Doo-Dah. …ahem,..Zippity…DANG IT!!!!
Then my fave, adapt as you wish, Mollywood Choppers. I create a motorcycle theme then imagine Paul and Paul Jr. are going to build it, but I am going to design it, complete with heated arguments, which I inevitably win. The last trip, I had a Red Vine bike, because I happen to like Red Vines and I was munching on them at the Shell Station before the opening ceremonies of the Schizoid Olympics began. I envisioned twisted spokes of chrome, red lace, whip-stitched trim around the saddle seat, throttle grips of shiny red plastic with licorice-style grooves, blue and white diagonal stripes, just like the package design…you get the picture.
Did my co-riders know when they were riding behind my big blue trike that there was a nutty professor at work? Did they have any idea that had I a pad of paper I would have run out of ink by the time we got to Utah? I hope that by writing this I didn’t frighten you into avoiding rides with me. Feel free to consult with me if you are getting bored during any leg of a trip, I am happy to provide entertainment tips-for a bag of Red Vines. I can guarantee you haven’t had this much fun with the alphabet since you were in kindergarten. Just don’t eat the paste or run on the sidewalk.
- July 23, 2008
Mom and Me, Imagine
I took my
mom for her first ride on my trike and her first motorcycle ride of over a few miles-ever- yesterday. Imagine.
I was astounded that she even considered this because anytime we have taken a trip in my car (and I consider myself a pretty safe driver) I believe she has downed a pot of espresso and watched the last scene of “Thelma and Louise” when they go sailing off a cliff over and over again before we went on our trip.
Mom comes equipped with a set of invisible brakes for the passenger side, an invisible tape measure that apparently pops out from my grill and tells her how many feet there are between the car in front of me and my bumper. She has her own personal radar gun, though I have never actually seen it. I am sure that it is somewhere at the bottom of her purse underneath the crumpled up Kleenex and the half-eaten roll of wild cherry Life-Savers. By the way, it is calibrated
exactly to the highway patrolman that she is sure is waiting to ticket me around the bend.
She also has a GPS navigator between her wallet and her make-up bag (where she also keeps extra packets of Sweet-N-Low and vinegar for hiccups) that tells her where every clean bathroom is within 30 miles of where we are.
Mom is a self-contained 5 foot 1 inch, AAA and CHIPS ware house with red hair.
Mom is truly amazing and annoying all at the same time.
If you don’t like the sound of snakes, you don’t want the Mummy sitting next to you in the car. She makes the sound of a rewound cobra as she sucks in the air to stop herself from screaming when she thinks you are about to make a fatal driver’s error. Most of the time I am just turning on the radio or taking my hand of the steering wheel to scratch my nose. I know, terrifying. “FFFFfffffffffffhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
So as much trepidation as I had about taking her on the trike, I also had hope that she would enjoy it and possibly relax, although I figured it would be a miracle if she didn’t grab me every two minutes and make “the reverse cobra.” I got her as prepared as I possibly could, giving her an ill-fitting leather jacket, gloves, a full-face helmet, my old boots and a warning that it probably would be a lot cooler then she expected. She didn’t seem nervous, but I figured she was displaying imaginary courage.
Well, I think we better start sending wool sweaters down to Hades because she never once made a peep. She didn’t produce an imaginary brake lever or clutch. She didn’t even bring her imaginary radar gun or her projectile measuring tape. She just sat there and faintly smiled. I saw it in my rearview mirror. I barely noticed she was even there! When we made our first stop, she proclaimed, “This could become an addiction!” I wonder if she was going to start riding an imaginary trike? I could only imagine.
