Did This REALLY Just Happen?

After a lifetime of writing and telling stories, my first short story has finally been e-published. The story, Gilda's Locket can be found at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/169055 and is free. It will also be distributed to Barnes and Noble, Apple, and many other retailers, and will be available for almost any form of e-reading from Kindle to Nook. Needless to say, I am very excited! At the end of the short story is included a sneak preview to my first full length novel, The Dradon Project, slated to be released in the very near future. Thank you all for your support and encouragement and I truly hope you enjoy!!

Toast Is Good a.k.a. Attack of the Killer Bra a.k.a. Food, Glorious Food

   Dogs are funny people. I know this because, as I have mentioned before, I live with two of them. They thrive under routine and I swear they wear little watches. I don’t know where they keep them, (suddenly I realize the thought is too ill-considered to fully conceptualize- SCARY). Or maybe some portion of their brain actually acts as a sundial… That’s a theory I have to work on.  Unfortunately, their clocks are not always in sync with each other’s, or mine, but that’s beside the point.

    Their routine has changed a bit after my father-in-law moved in. Now they get up early each morning (even slug-a-bed Ellie who used to lie in bed long after ten and give you a one-eyed grumble when you got out of bed as if to say, “No, I don’t wanna get up yet. I’m tiiiiirrrrred.”) But now there is a reason to drag her sorry butt out of bed. As the saying goes, ‘The early bird gets the worm,’ or in this case, the toast. My FIL, who gets up anywhere between six and eight every morning, has the same breakfast every day. Milk and toast. The entire time he eats this, he has two dogs sitting beside him, staring up at him with big, googley, watery eyes. They are waiting to partake of the toast, which is especially good since he uses not only butter, but also grape jelly, and they have discovered that grape jelly is DE-LI-CIOUS!

    Which leads me to my first tangent. The other day I was partaking of some toast, or rather bruschetta. Tomato basil bread, sliced thinly, toasted crisp, and adorned with kalamata olive spread, feta cheese, and a roasted red pepper. A culinary delight. Ellie (who we still call Ellie Bellie from her pudgy puppy days and I also often call Ellie Bean- tangent #2 I know- a tangent inside a tangent- I have pretty awesome tangential powers….); as I was saying, Ellie, who navigates her world primarily by smell, but almost as often by sound (which is how she knows when you are eating raw carrots- one of her favorite treats- because if you are crunching it MUST be carrots- not raw red peppers (blech!) or radishes (ew!)- see there- I did it again- tangent 2.5). Okay, so where was I? Oh, YEAH TOAST, (thank you Heywood Banks and my son who made me LOL over that….), SO back to toast, and Ellie. Ellie, hears the sound of someone munching toast; Maddie is of course oblivious, but she has learned to trust Ellie’s instincts, and therefore is quite willing to follow her partner in crime to the kitchen, whereupon the two of them seat themselves beside me and proceed with the googley, watery eyes.

   Now let me tell you, there is just no explaining to a dog (or two) that there are differences between kinds of toast. They’re not having it. Pretty much the conversation goes like this:

   Me: You two won’t like this; this is not like Grampy’s toast.

   Them: Give us the toast! Give us the toast!

   Me: You don’t understand, this is not toast, it’s bruschetta.

   Them: Whatever. Bruschetta, schmuschetta, give us the toast lady.

   Me: For the last time- bru-sche-tta! Not toast!

   Them: Fork over the toast lady and no one gets hurt!

   Naturally, in an effort to convince them this is NOT what they are coveting, I break off a small piece for each of them, removed the pepper, feta, and olive spread (by way of licking- they’re dogs they don’t care), and pass it over. Ellie, who is determined never to chew anything, sucks it up like a vacuum and in less than a millisecond it’s gone and she is none the wiser. Maddie, of the more discerning palate, not to mention actual mastication, almost instantly spits it out onto the floor. Her expression is clearly disappointed and a tad bit miffed. She was expecting butter, a little grape jelly, sweet rapture with just a touch of salt. She got vegetables. Like any small child she was not happy. (Try giving a kid Brussels sprouts in lieu of a cookie and see what I mean.)

   No matter, Ellie the vacuum had already sucked it up and by the time Maddie considered giving it another go, it was already long gone.

    Okay, current tangent over, now back to the routine. After a leisurely breakfast with Grampy, Ellie immediately crawls back into bed until a later time. Somewhere between seven and nine I get up (more often than not, Ellie still gives me the one-eyed grumble and falls back onto the bed). I start my day, which of course begins with coffee. When the dogs hear the clanking and thumping of coffee preparation, they begin to get antsy. They know this means deck time. I will take my coffee and laptop out onto the deck (spring, summer and fall anyway) and commence to peaceful, uninterrupted writing time. With the exception of the two nitwits gallivanting all over the yard, thundering across the deck, and barking at the birds.

    Maddie, who everyone knows is a complete, unadulterated coward (if you haven’t read Maddie vs. the Grill, it’s a must read on the background of the epic proportions of Maddie’s cowardice- go ahead read it, I’ll wait….Da de dum, da de dum, da dee dee dum dum dum dum; done yet? Okay, moving on). Maddie, who is afraid of everything including, but not limited to, inanimate objects, suddenly becomes a ferocious beast when confronting birds. Especially robins. (I am still waiting for the day when one of the Hitchcock birds comes up against Maddie, I only hope to have a video camera available when it happens.) Now keep in mind, this is a dog that quakes in terror at the sight of a: other dogs especially puppies, b: the grill, c: thunderstorms, d: fireworks, e: anything (and I mean ANYTHING) that is out of place in the house ie: a pair of shoes where they don’t belong or the sleeve of a jacket rippling in the breeze when the a/c or furnace comes on.

    Which brings me to yet another tangent. One night Ellie (who is generally fearless, but somehow this night was channeling Maddie), was sleeping at the end of the bed which is her habit. At some point she picked up her head to turn over and saw something that scared the living heck out of her. All of a sudden, she jumped up, ran to the head of the bed plastering herself against me, growling and shaking all over. Naturally I assumed she had seen something outside the bedroom window (which she can see from her position on the bed). I went to the window and looked out, half expecting a boogeyman or a peeping tom, but found neither. Nor did I see a robin. While I was busy looking for whatever it was that had startled her, Ellie was quickly degenerating into a full on panic attack. She was walking in circles, still growling, still shaking, and still staring at the end of the bed.

    Finally, I turned on the light, trying to see what it was that was freaking her out. Her panic in no way decreased, but as I stared at the foot of the bed and the blanket chest just beyond, it finally came together for me. Normally, each night when we go to bed, I lay the bed spread over the blanket chest. This particular night I had added something extra out of pure laziness. The clothing I had removed. On the top,  sat my bra, a minor mountain in silhouette. I picked it up to show it to her saying, “Is this the problem?” She practically fainted. I thought I would pee myself laughing so hard. I was tempted to throw it at her, but as I had no desire to clean her pee off my pillow, I held back. The bra went in the hamper, Ellie cautiously made her way to the foot of the bed, eyeing the hamper suspiciously every so often, but order was restored.

    Okay, tangent over (worthwhile one though, right?), back to the birds.

    So there I will be, calmly sipping coffee, trying to get my competing thoughts focused into one general direction, and there’s Maddie, yanking and pulling on her leash, barking, growling and foaming at the mouth. It’s distracting. It’s annoying. It’s what Maddie does. And naturally, Ellie, who is the quieter of the two and not much of a barker, inevitably follows her idol’s example. Now I have two nitwits screaming up and down the yard, in an otherwise peaceful venue, (the neighbors must love me), while the birds, oblivious to the fixated behavior of the dogs, hop about the yard, pecking at the grass and doing whatever birds do. QUIETLY.

    After a few hours of this, (no I do not have that much patience, but I really do love to be outside, regardless of the idiocy of the two canines I share an abode with), I head back inside. The dogs find a spot and collapse for several hours (hey, barking at random birds for three hours is hard work, you don’t believe me, try it sometime). This is the only peace you will know in a day; when the dogs are sleeping. Of course this is generally accompanied by doggie dreams: the foot kicking, spine twitching, muffled yips and occasional growls chiming in. I think they’re still barking at birds…

  Eventually six o’clock rolls around, dinner time. Somewhere around five thirty Maddie will start getting antsy. I think she is convinced that this is the day I will finally forget to feed them. She paces neurotically, and you can tell she is worrying, stewing about how she can get the stupid human into the kitchen and help her find the food and show her where to put it. She paces from the living room (or the office depending on where I might be), to the kitchen, and back again. Over and over and over. She has worn a track into the carpet. I can almost hear what’s going on inside her brain.

    Maddie: What if they ran out of food? What if she forgot it’s supper time? What if she doesn’t remember where the food is? Or my bowl? Oh my God! How can I tell her? HOW can I tell her? She doesn’t speak dog… What’ll I do, oh woe is me, whatever will I do! I shall starve and then who will protect her from all those birds!!

    When I finally do cave in and feed them, often a few minutes early because I can no longer tolerate Maddie’s incessant whining and pacing, there is much rejoicing, leaping and spinning. Celebrating with interpretive dance. And the Hallelujah chorus is sung. The routine prevails. All is right with the world.  Life is good.

I'm Baaaack!!! a.k.a Viruses a.k.a. A Word to the Wise (dom Teeth)

   So, I finally got my laptop back, life is good. Who knew how dependent I, of all people, could become to a computer? Ten years ago I would have scoffed loudly at the idea. Now here I am thanking the gods of technology, or rather the guy my husband works with, for returning my baby to me unscathed. Well, definitely less scathed than it was when I gave it to him.

   Turns out, for those of you who are interested, (for those of you who are not stop reading now!) that I had a virus. Actually, four. Four viruses? Really? How in the heck did I get FOUR viruses? And one especially nasty virus that ate the brain out of my computer…

   So I reviewed my activity on my laptop. Let’s see; I don’t do much. Ummm, between downloading hours of pirated material such as videos and free music, I watch a lot of porn. Then there’s my email. Don’t do much on that; but I do like to accept, read, open, and download as many attached files as I can from emails with subject lines like: “Free Money!” and “Triple Your Income In One Week- This Is NOT A Scam.” You know, little things like that.

   So far I haven’t tripled my income. I also haven’t been sent that check I was promised from that missionary trapped in Ergistan, or someplace like that. Nor have I prolonged my life. And that Granny’s Gone Wild thing was just too scary for words….

   So, as you can see, I’ve been relatively cautious, so what possibly could have caused these viruses? I may never know.

   On to more important things; since I have been on my forced hiatus, I have experienced two things that seem to be completely unavoidable in life. The first, I had my wisdom teeth removed (explains a lot doesn’t it?). At this very late stage in life, twenty plus years past the time when they are normally yanked from a teenager’s head, this chicken had no choice but to give in to the procedure. My theory, why put off until tomorrow what I can put off for twenty-something years?

   Long story short, I know, too late, this has been by far one of the most miserable experiences of my life. To begin with, the oral surgeon, who I have to point out, was a very competent doctor and a nice enough man, was completely convinced I was off my meds. It didn’t help that I had prefaced his consultation with the words, “Whatever drugs you got, bring ‘em on. There can’t be enough. This girl’s a coward.” Somehow, that gave him the impression that I was at the very least neurotic, and at the most a hypochondriac.

   Of course, now I felt obliged to disprove his theory. The more I rambled, the more convinced he became that I was both and possibly schizophrenic as well. His bedside manner turned from comforting and confident, to placating and pensive. He backed his chair away. A few inches. Seriously. Then a foot. Or two.

   Part of my brain was screaming, Shut up! Shut up! You are NOT helping! But, naturally, I could not stop… ‘Cause that’s me. The Overcompensation Queen. By the time I left the consultation, I’m fairly certain the doctor was more afraid of seeing me again, than I was of seeing him. I made a mental note to check the IV line to make sure he wasn’t self-medicating the day of my surgery. Who could blame him really? I was half convinced I was nuts too. And really, there is just no taking that back. Once you’ve convinced someone you are batshit crazy, that’s pretty much what they will believe until the end of time. No matter how sane or stable you may appear in future interactions, they will assume you are just well medicated on that particular day.

   The day of my surgery came and went with little to no fanfare; my wisdom teeth popped out like a dried out cork on a cheap bottle of wine (not that I have ANY experience in that theory, it just sounded good), and voila, before I knew it it was over. And I wondered, why, oh why, was I ever so terrified of this before?

   A week later, with the pain in my jaw demanding ibuprofen every four hours around the clock, I now understand why I had dreaded this. I like sleep. Uninterrupted, pain free slumber is what I crave. I have not known this in a week, and judging by the comments at the follow-up, I will not know it for at least another. (The doctor very patiently reminded me due to my age I would heal much slower than say, an eighteen year old. Of course, this advice was given from two feet away. Out of arm’s and foot’s reach…) The other night I had a dream, no exaggeration, that I was drinking rum and then vodka straight from the bottle in an effort to kill the agony in my mouth. I don’t drink and have never partaken of these particular substances which explains why in my dream they tasted like water, which I’m fairly certain they don’t….

   To add insult to injury, I went to the eye doctor and was fitted for my first pair of bifocals, and as I sit typing this, peering through my stylish new frames, I am amazed by the clarity I have been missing. However, having said that, bifocals? Really? I just had my wisdom teeth removed, how OLD do you think I am??!!

Blog Pause a.k.a. My Laptop Bit the Dust a.k.a WAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Pretty much, the title says it all. Due to unforeseen circumstances, (my laptop bit the dust, kicked the bucket, went off to that cattle ranch in the sky, croaked, crapped out, flatlined, and otherwise bit the bullet), I am currently at a blog pause. I will resume writing as soon as the laptop is repaired/replaced/given a spanking it so richly deserves... Until then, bear with me.....

Maddie Vs. the Grill a.k.a. Attack Of The Killer Grill a.k.a. They Always Come Back a.k.a. The Grillinator

     So far I have covered many of the human DTRJH? moments I have experienced. This time, I have to cover some of the dog moments. Because they have these moments too, whether or not we realize it. Dogs are people too, just in furrier bodies. And then, mostly just 'cause some of us wax. But that's another subject. (My daughter does this for a living and the stories I could tell...) Tangent over. Moving on.
     So I have made mention in the 'About Me' that I currently live with two dogs, one is my daughter's and one is my own. Maddie, my daughter's dog, in human form would be Pee Wee Herman and Lou Costello's love child. No, I'm not sure how this would work either, but trust me, if you ever met her, you would believe me. She is the most hyper dog I've ever been around (though thankfully some of that has finally ebbed with age). She used to act as if she'd just eaten a giant bag of Skittles and chased it with a 32 ounce Red Bull and Mountain Dew chaser. It's awesome. Her response to everything is, "You wanna play?"
     Me: Maddie, Do you want to go out?
     Maddie: You wanna play?
     Me: Are you hungry? Do you want dinner?
     Maddie: You wanna play?
     Me: Maddie, sit. Sit, Maddie. SIT!
     Maddie: What's that? You wanna play?
     Me: Maddie, who did that on the carpet?
     Maddie: Dunno. Here's the rope. Wanna play?
     You get the point. Combined with this vivaciousness and effervescent joy, is the sweetest spirit you ever met. Overall, she's a nice dog. A nitwit and a lamebrain, but a nice, loving, kind, dog. And a coward. With a capital C, that rhymes with the pee that she just took on the rug...
     So, think, 'Hey Aaaaabbooootttt! Th-th-there's a ghost!!' mixed with, Pee Wee's Playhouse and you get the drift.
Now, having set you up, I will proceed to tell you the story that, if I hadn't witnessed with my own eyes, I NEVER would have believed. Though I laughed 'til I peed, then Maddie said, "Mommy, who did that on the carpet? Here's a rope, wanna play?"
     One summer day, I let Maddie out and went about my business in the house. A few minutes later I heard her barking. Not the, 'I'm bored, can I please come in, so I can ask you to let me out in another ten seconds,' kind of bark I am used to. This was a panicked bark. A call for help. For the police. The National Guard. The MOMMY!
     I raced to her assistance, whereupon I found Maddie standing in the middle of the yard, all her fur on end, a look of terror upon her face, but still attached to her leash. The problem was, her leash was attached to the charcoal grill and every time she moved, the grill (which was on wheels) moved with her. Now, I instantly realized what was going through Maddie's tiny little terror stricken brain. 'The grill is chasing me. The grill is chasing me. MY GOD, THE GRILL IS CHASING ME!!!'
     Naturally, I hurried toward her with the intent of rescuing her from said grill. But sadly, that was not to be. Maddie, who now saw The Mommy, saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and she fully intended to embrace it. With every ounce of her will, she struck out towards the deck, madly racing. Meanwhile, the grill, still tightly clinging to her leash, bumped and rattled after her, keeping up with her, every step of the way.
     Okay, even I was amazed. What I wouldn't have done for a video camera at that moment. And, if I were to be completely honest, there are times when I have considered resetting the stage and reenacting the moment, if only to record it, but I don't think poor Maddie's heart could take the strain.
     Okay, so back to the Dog Eating Grill.
     Maddie raced on, casting glances over her shoulder every few steps, only to find to her ultimate terror that the grill was still hot on her tail. (literally: hot grill, her tail, hahaha, I kill me....) She looked again, and this time I think she was convinced it was gaining on her, because she then put on a burst of speed and agility I never thought her capable of. She flew the last few feet toward the deck, then leaped, like a gazelle I might add, over the steps and landed (SAFE!) on the deck.
The problem was, the grill by this point had already picked up some momentum. It bobbled and jerked the last few feet, smacked heartily into the steps, and with a resounding BANG, crashed onto the deck, whereupon the lid flipped open, just barely missing Maddie.
     I'm still surprised she didn't faint like one of those highly entertaining fainting goats. If you haven't seen one, let me tell you, you are depriving yourself of a deep belly laugh.
Instead, she plastered herself against the door and pleaded with me to please, please, PLEASE, let her in. Which of course I did.
     For two years Maddie would NOT exit the domicile if the grill was even in her sight. Every time you opened the door, she slowly moved outside, looking left and right, waiting for the menace that was THE GRILL to come back for her.
I think she must have seen too many scary movies during my daughter's teen years. She knows how it works, Jason, Michael, Freddy, THE GRILL. They ALWAYS come back.
     On a side note, my father in law recently moved in with us, bringing with him his gas grill which has taken up residence on the deck. I thought Maddie would be fine with it since it looked so different from the charcoal one. And she was. To a point.
      One day, my husband went to get the gas can re-filled or whatever it is they do (I use charcoal, what the heck do I know?) and unthinkingly left the grill slightly askew on the deck. And I mean slightly. A few inches crooked from its usual position.
      I let Maddie out. She took one look at the grill and said 'OH NO! We are NOT having this!' All her fur on end, she growled, yipped, and made a beeline straight back into the house.
I'm sure she was convinced, that not unlike the Terminator, THE GRILL had come back in a new, more advanced, liquid metal, shape-shifting form: The Grillinator. And she was having no part of it.
     Apparently, you CAN teach an old, though slightly addle-brained, dog new tricks.

Johnny Loves Hair a.k.a. Janie Loves Karate a.k.a. Jujubee Coif a.k.a Mustard Lockdown a.k.a Other Various Randomness

     Kids. Gotta love 'em. Illegal to kill 'em. Even when they deserve it. Not saying that mine ever did. But really, haven't there been times, when everyone has felt the sudden compulsion to beat little Johnny or Janie to death with his/her own parent? Like for instance when you are in the supermarket, and little Johnny is screaming up and down the aisle that he wants Candy! CANDY! CANNNNDYYYY!!!
     Or while in the waiting room of your doctor's office and little Janie (whom you just met) is asking you incessant questions in her garbled tongue while wiping her snot bubbles on you and loading your lap down with books, blocks, and other paraphernalia she finds about the office, all the while your head is pounding with a raging migraine caused by the Asiatic flu turned pneumonia, and Janie's mommy is too busy texting her friends to take any note of what her little darling is doing.
     Okay. Having said that, I will now continue with my Did This Really Just Happen? And yes, to answer the question, yes it did. I was at the theater, with my family, sitting back and just waiting to get through the three dozen commercials (By the way, when did they start playing commercials at the theater? I thought that was reserved for television? You mean with the astronomical ticket prices, not to mention the fact that you have to take out a second mortgage if you want a coke and some popcorn, the theaters STILL aren't making enough money and have to rely on commercials to keep the lights on?? Come on!), anyway, tangent aside, awaiting the end of the three dozen commercials and previews (by which time I had forgotten what I had come to see) so that the movie could start. Meanwhile, the theater was starting to fill up with all the late-comers. By fill up, I mean, the original twelve or so people that were initially present had now doubled to twenty-four or so. Not exactly a blockbuster movie, as you may have guessed.
     Now, personally, I think there is a certain etiquette to seat placement regarding movie going. I know that I am probably the only one who thinks this, judging by all the experiences I have had in the past, but to me, if the theater seats a couple hundred people, and there are only twenty of those seats in use, there is absolutely NO reason to sit directly beside, behind, or in front of someone. In a half empty (to mostly empty in this case) theater, one should place a minimum of three rows between other theater-goers. And it's first come, first served. If you lost your preferred spot because you were late, too bad. Move on. Maybe that's just me, but that's how I feel. Spread out folks, there's plenty of room.
For whatever reason, the little family that then entered the theater, mommy plus two, felt compelled to sit directly behind us. Now I would like to say I was magnanimous enough to not have any reservations, but past experiences led me to believe that this was gonna be a problem. And I was right. At least I was prepared.
     Little Johnny and Janie were placed in the seat directly behind me. Two of them. In the same seat. Squashed together. Behind ME. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Whoopee!
     At first everything was fine. There were occasional murmurs from J1 or J2, with mommy properly shushing them, then silence for a few minutes, before the murmuring began again. I was just starting to get adept at tuning them out, (motherhood prepares you for all things) when I suddenly felt a tug on my hair.
Certain that this was an accident, I ignored it. Until it happened again. And again. And again. After the fifth time, I leaned forward and made a point of pulling my hair (which was as usual bound in a ponytail) over my shoulder to prevent any further invasion of my personal space.
     There it was again. Tug. Tug. Tug. TUG!
     Still, unwilling to make a scene, most especially one that would involve a poorly reared small child of approximately five years of age, I leaned forward, and this time tucked my hair into the back of my shirt.
     Slllliiiiip. There went my hair. Pulled from captivity, back in the sticky, melting Milk Dud laden, fingers of the five year old. Not certain if this was J1 or J2, and not particularly caring, I merely turned to make eye contact with the mother, while at the same time, tucking my hair back into my shirt.
     Seconds later, my pony tail was once more in the sticky grasp of one of the J's. (By the way, in case anyone has their doubts, up to this point, there is NO exaggeration in this story. Sad but true.) I turned once more to make eye contact with mommy, removing my hair from its gooey prison a second time, then pulled a melted milk ball out of my head and handed it to her. (Okay, slight exaggeration there, there was no milk ball, just the sticky remnants of one, therefore, nothing to hand to mommy, but I think she got the hint in my glare and the fact that I was attempting to pick the residue out of my hair.).
     Mommy smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. He just loves hair."
     I get that. Lots of kids love hair. And it's perfectly fine for them to love mommy's hair and grandma's hair and sister's hair. It is NOT okay to love stranger's hair. And this might be an appropriate time to give little Johnny that life lesson.
But not so.
     While little Johnny continued to celebrate his hair fetish, my up-do was quickly becoming a repository for all of his candy, not to mention, his slobber...
      I wanted to say, "Rename him Francisco, buy him his own salon, and tell him to get his sticky fingers out of my hair! Just a suggestion." But of course, I said nothing.
     So J1 continued to molest my mane, while mommy continued to ignore it. That's when J2 got bored and began swinging her feet. Bam. Bam. Bam. Right in my tail bone. Bam, bam, BAM!
     Bam! Tug! Bam! Pull! Wham! Yank! I must have looked like I was having seizures to the other patrons, because every few seconds I would leap up in my seat or my head would suddenly jerk backwards or sideways for no apparent reason. I was having soooo much fun. And mommy said NOTHING.
     Because after all, little Johnny loves hair. And apparently little Janie loves karate.
     I don't even know what was on the screen. But I do know what size shoes J2 wears, and exactly how many times J1 has "brushed" my hair. Worth the seven dollar matinee fee, wouldn't you say?
     When I finally left the theater, my tail bone was screaming and I had Twizzlers, Jujubees, and Milk Duds sticking out of all angles of my head. I guess I should be grateful there were no snot bubbles.
     On an entirely different topic, and because I just LOVE being random, I had to laugh, because I just saw one of the all time best Did This Really Just Happen? moments on FB. My step-daughter's high school reportedly went on lock down because, "the Fed Ex guy spilled a 'hazardous material' in his truck while he was parked at the school... which turned out to be middle eastern mustard." WOW. After I finished laughing (especially about all the predictable but still hilariously funny mustard gas comments posted after), I realized, maybe Jujubee Coif isn't so bad. Middle eastern mustard lock-down has GOT to suck. With any luck the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile is on it's way!!
     And lastly, because I am a random type person, and I found this to be a random type day, I must include the news highlights that were on my homepage. "Coach bites off winner's ear," (when did Mike Tyson become a coach?) followed by, "Lesbian gets denied communion," (there are way TOO many untouchables in this particular story, so I am just going to say, you could kinda see that one coming, right? I mean, it reads like, Jewish man denied membership to the KKK, just one of those things that you read and go, 'Well, duh.' ) From a source that advertises itself as 'first in news and analysis,' I was expecting something more earth shattering, or enlightening, or maybe even less obvious. This was the most compelling story they could highlight? I mean, I'm not saying that it's not important, but with everything that's going on in the world right now, I'm not sure that this is what I would call headline news. I was hoping for something bigger, something that might affect everyone (like the gas prices... don't even get me started on that one). Instead, I got, "Now your breath can charge your phone." Really?? THIS is the important news of the day? REALLY??
     This is why I used to text my kids on their birthdays (which I really need to start doing again), telling them the most random things that had occurred on their special day. The winner (so far) was the day some idiot tried to hold up a local gas station, and while on the way out the door, tried to play mister cool and shoved the pistol down the front of his pants, scarring him for life. And I DO mean Lorena Bobbit type scarrage. This occurred on one of my son's birthdays. SOOOO much fun texting him that one....
    So, in conclusion, I guess it's fair to say, that we all have our crosses to bear, be they made of middle eastern mustard, ears and communion and breath-charging phones, or Jujubee hair. It's all good.

AA For Donkeys a.k.a Spelling For Dummies a.k.a. Leering Jeering Clowns (What Were They Thinking??)

     First, let me apologize for my disappearance over the last two weeks. Blog ideas have been rambling about in my brain, but life got in the way of my actually getting them from brain to keyboard. That and a cold from hell which left me blind on one side for several days... I blame that on my son.... So, please accept my apologies, (and his), and read on, MacDuff....

    I have a very quirky sense of humor, and sometimes even the slightest things can make me laugh. For example, when I'm driving down the highway and see a huge sign advertising, "Donkeys For Sale," this really tickles my funny bone. Don't know why. But then, when months later, I am traveling down the same highway, and find the same sign, though this time with the 'S' missing, I REALLY have to guffaw. Whole new connotation here. "Donkeys For Ale." This instantly brings two thoughts to mind. The first, the donkey farmer (rancher?) must be really hurting for a good drink when he's willing to make such and upside-down trade. The second, the option that had me giggling, chuckling, and chortling for at least the next mile, was a twisted version of Orwell's Animal Farm, in which a congress of donkeys are sitting around huge plank tables and voting on the merits of ale. Nine out of ten were for it, (thus the sign). The last abstained from the vote as part of his twelve step program.
     Then there was the day I walked into an elementary school classroom and happened upon a hand-made sign, created BY the teacher, which stated, "Classroom Schedual." Apparently, there would be two activities occurring simultaneously throughout the day. Just try and keep up. To me, this would only have been funnier had it read "Classroom Scheduel," in which we could have employed pistols at dawn in order to determine the duration of recess. Awesome! (If you think I am being too critical, let me remind you, she is TEACHING the elementary students basic math, grammar, and spelling- I would think the word "schedule" would be part of this. Maybe they hadn't come to that page yet....) (And further, in my defense, once I had gained control over my snickering, I very discreetly pointed out this mistake to the teacher, whose only response was, and I quote, "I was never very good at spelling." The sign remained until sometime later in the year, when I could no longer stand it, and I replaced it myself.)
     Speaking of homemade signs, (and just a disclaimer here, if you KNOW you suck at spelling, then STOP making homemade signs- your magic marker does not have a spell check,) I recently saw another one that caused me some tittering. The sign, found mounted over the toilet in a doctor's office, read, "Please Do Not Flush Anything Down The Toilet But Tissure Paper, It Will Clog The Toilet." Tissure? What the heck is tissure?? Did I drive further south than I thought and land someplace where even the signs have accents? And before you hate me for the southern jokes, please remember I COULD stoop lower than that. After all, "tissure" is awfully close to "fissure" which opens up a WHOLE lotta crack jokes. And I didn't go there. I want credit.
     Then there is the strip club in town which is famous (or should I say infamous?) for the weekly signs the 'exotic' dancers put out. It's one of those light up signs that you put the letters on, and every week or so they change the sign. One of my favorites was, "Highly Educated Intelligent Grils Will Dance For You." Of course, aside from the obvious fact that none of the clientele cares about whether or not these "grils" have a diploma, there is the oxymoron of the message itself, "intelligent grils." Evidently they employed a dictionary when it came to the big words, but overlooked the fact that they were going to struggle with the little words as well. Apparently, when it came time for the graduation tassels, they asked for two for a reason...
     But my twisted sense of humor is not limited to spelling errors and signs. Restaurants bring out their own grand version of humor for me. Like the day I pulled up to the Burger King and saw a hearse parked right at the entrance. Immediately my brain chimed, "The king is dead! Long live the King!" (That was a horrible mascot anyway. Really, who didn't get nightmares from that scary-ass man? Whoever created the "King" has got to be out of a job, they are obviously not even bright enough to work on the line flipping burgers.)
     Or, the time I saw the tractor (think farm tractor with engine removed) being hauled by a pair of horses, parked outside a local pizza delivery joint. Apparently, they had hired a new driver. You get your pizza in three hours or less or the next one's free.
     More recently I entered a restaurant and saw, behind the counter, mounted directly above a pyramid of stacked chocolate syrup cans, a wooden carving of the face of Jesus, complete with crown of thorns. This struck me as completely hilarious, and I wasn't sure if I was being blasphemous, or the restaurant was. I had to wonder, was the restaurant endorsing their particular religious beliefs, or was the Lord endorsing this particular brand of chocolate syrup? What are you trying to say here? This syrup is heavenly? Even God loves chocolate milk? For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that we might have syrup? My husband simplified it this way; Jesus: Got milk? He makes me laugh.
     My all time favorite, was the time I was at an antique store and found a baby's bassinet. Not the pretty little white woven, lacy little frou-frou number you are no doubt picturing in your head. No this bassinet was made out of wood and built identically to a crib but smaller. It had been hand painted to mimic a hideous hobo clown, complete with footboard feet with the toes sticking out of his shoes. The headboard was a giant clown's head with big oogey-boogey eyes looking down, no doubt at the poor little tot who was trying to sleep, but instead was given a world full of nightmares. Has NO one read Stephen King's It? WHO would do this to a poor defenseless baby? The kid had to have grown up to be a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from chronic insomnia. Now we know what happened to baby Jane... Anyway, I took pictures of the thing and sent them to my kids as a visual reminder, that no matter how bad my parenting might have been, I never forced them to sleep cradled in the arms of some menacing, misanthropic, leering jester.
     And I thought the Burger King was scary...