Why does winter have to be so damn cold? Why the hell did I ever leave California? I hate winter! I hate snow! I really, really hate ICE! (Except in small cubes, in my whiskey) And don't get me started on ice-cold WIND! Why did the goddamn groundhog have to see his goddamn shadow? Why can't I move to Florida? IT'S NOT FAIR!

I Had a Dream

I woke up screaming, but I didn't know why! I was consumed with terror. I opened my eyes and saw nothing to warrant my panic. I was in a small, well-lit room, perhaps a hotel room. The furniture had that unremarkable, but not unpleasing, sterile look I associate with inexpensive hotels. I was lying on my back, on the floor. I sat up slowly, feeling a bit dizzy, but otherwise okay. The clock on the nightstand said 8:30. The last thing I could remember was sitting in the L.A. airport, waiting for my plane to Shanghai. Had I been shangaied? No, it couldn't be, or I would be in the hold of a ship, not on the floor of a hotel.

-

I stood up carefully, my head throbbing. I walked to the window and, with fear welling up in my chest, I pulled open the heavy drapes. The window looked out onto a courtyard that was dominated by a large, flaming pit. It was odd...it looked like a typical hotel courtyard, which ordinarily would have a swimming pool as its centerpiece. But instead of blue water in the "pool," there were red flames leaping into the air. People were sitting around on deck chairs and beach towels, and now and then one of them would stand up and walk to the edge of the fire pool and dive in. I could see several people in the shallow end, laughing and talking as the flames licked their skin and smoke puffed from their burning hair.

-

Something was dreadfully wrong. I crawled back into bed and resolved to never, ever again eat jolokia peppers right before bedtime.

"No one can get to the phone right now, so please leave a message." BEEP!

What do you mean, no one can get to the phone right now? You live ALONE! You don't even have a cat! Just say YOU can't get to the phone, dammit!

No, of course I didn't actually say those words out loud. But I was so irritated by the message that I almost forgot why I called. Oh yeah, now I remember...dinner...I have to invite her to dinner, because we're having Nick over, and it's uncomfortable having an odd number of people around the table. Especially when they're all odd, which we are. An even number of odd people evens things out, softens the edges. So, I leave a message.

"Hi Suzy. How're you doin'? I'm sorry you can't get to the phone right now, because I have an important message for you. Can you join us for dinner Sat...BEEP!"

Shit! Well, she'll call back and I'll fill in the details then. And she DID call back, but of course I was outside shoveling snow at the time, and couldn't hear the phone, or anything else except my non-stop cursing of everything about life in miserable, goddamned Pennsylvania. When I went back into the house to defrost my fingers, I saw the blinking light on the telephone.

"Zelda? When is the dinner? You didn't say. I can't answer if I don't know when it is. Call me."

So I called her again. "No one can get to the phone right now..."

"Suzy, where the hell are you? Pick up the goddamned phone! The dinner's on Sat..." BEEP!

Shit! I'd send her a goddamned letter, but there'd probably be a message in her mailbox saying, "No one can get to the mailbox right now." I'm going to cancel the whole thing! I'll just call Nick and tell him we'll do it some other time.

"Hi! This is Nick. I can't get the phone right now, so please leave a message."

I've got NEWS for you geniuses in the news media - Michael Jackson is dead!

D - E - A - D....DEAD

Why am I still being subjected to photos of his poor, old, bleached, re-formed, de-formed, make--upped pseudo face?

If I have to see photos of men every time I pick up a magazine or turn on the computer, let it be photos of LIVING men, preferably MANLY men, muscly, square-jawed, natural men. If they happen to be singers, let them be singers with deep, manly voices, not trembly falsettos.

And if and when any of them dies,give them no more than a week of tribute, and move on. Make room for the living, and stop making me dwell on my own mortality.

Pat, Pat, Pat

All the recent fuss about increased airport securtity reminded me of what happened to me a few years ago, shortly after that goofball "shoe bomber" was apprehended. I was going to fly from Baltimore to L.A. and was waiting to board the plane at a terminal in BWI. I had passed through the scanning booth with no problems that I knew of and sat down in the crowded waiting area. A nice-looking young man was sitting a couple seats down from me. I couldn't help but notice that he was engrossed in "reading" a girlie magazine of some sort. Suddenly, a person from behind the counter approached the young man and whispered something to him. They both turned to look at me and the young man stood up. First, he carefully placed his magazine, open to the place he had been perusing, face down on the seat of his chair. Then he pulled a scanning wand from his belt and spoke to me. He told me that he had been instructed to scan me and that I should step over to the side of the waiting area. I was dumbfounded! I had no idea why I had been selected, but I followed orders. He told me to hold my arms out from my sides while he slid that wand over my body. Picture this! A middle-aged woman, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, standing spread-eagled in front of a whole waiting area full of people, while a young man runs a wand over, under and all around her whole body. And then! A pat-down. Fortunately for both of us, he didn't "pat" any private parts. If he had, he would have met some serious resistance from Zelda the kung-fu-fighter. When he failed to find anything suspicious, he dismissed me and went back to his seat and his Hustler magazine.

I found a seat on the opposite side of the room and felt thankful that I had remembered to remove my diaphragm before going to the airport.

Okay, here's one more trek down memory lane. Don't worry, this trek is less treacly than the first two.

Smitten

I don't remember her name, but if I were to give her one, it would be "Godzilla." I was a puny five-year old, and she was about eight or nine. She was huge and hard. Even the boys in the neighborhood gave her a wide berth.

One day, I was innocently playing in my front yard. I felt the ground shake and I looked up. It was Godzilla. She was carrying a 2" by 4". "I'm going to hit you with this," she announced, matter-of-factly.

I was filled with a sense of the unfairness of the situation. "But I don't have a weapon," I complained.

"Well, go get one! I'll wait."

I ran into the house. As an adult, looking back, I can't imagine why I didn't just stay in the house! Instead, I looked around hurriedly for something with which to defend myself. "What are you doing?" my mother asked.

"Nothing!" I replied, and ran back outside carrying a broom, the nearest thing to a weapon I could find. I confronted Godzilla. She laughed out loud and whacked me across the head with the 2" by 4".

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the couch, with my tearful mother bathing my face with a wet rag. "Who did this to you?" she sobbed.

"It was Godzilla."

"You mean that big girl with the long, black hair?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Yes."

"Well, you show me where her house is, and I'm going to talk to her parents. She's not going to get away with this."

I lifted my throbbing head from the pillow and stood up, pleased that justice was about to be served. Mommy held my hand as we marched down the street and around the corner to Godzilla's house. I could hardly contain my excitement. We walked up to the front door and Mommy knocked loudly. One thing I should mention here is that my mother stood about 5' 3" and had a small, dainty build. No one answered the door. Mommy knocked again, harder this time.

Suddenly, the door flew open and a woman at least the size of King Kong appeared. She had bristly, black hair that stood out every which way, and her face was contorted.

"What do you want" she bellowed.

My mother looked up at Kong, trembled slightly, and said, "Nothing!"

Gripping my hand tightly, she turned around quickly and walked us away from the ogre's den as fast as our short legs could go. I felt a crushing sense of disappointment.

"But Mommy," I cried. "You didn't tell Kong what Godzilla did to me."

I'm sorry, Zelda. Someday, you'll understand."

She was right.

Well, the memoir idea went over like a lead balloon! Okay friends, no more treacly tales. Keep it light! That's my motto. How 'bout those 'sixers? Cold enough for ya? Merrrrrry Christmas!

Okay, here's the second installment. Daddy left his job with the railroad and went to work in the shipyards, in Oakland. So, we moved from the boxcar to a ramshackle place near the bay.

In the Beginning

During my first sixteen months on earth, I was the apple of my parents' eyes. I was number one, the first-born, slightly defective, but still pretty cute, brown-eyed and blond. Then, along came Judy. Judy, with her dark curly hair, big blue eyes, dimples, perfect little mouth...pretty and cute. I was yesterday's news, old before my time, consigned to the sidelines. Judy was serene, happily accepting the parental devotion heaped upon her. Strangers stopped my mother on the street, just to exclaim over the perfection of the "little doll," while I hung onto mommy's skirt, twisting my tongue into a knot.

Still, I had it better than Marilyn, number three, the third girl born in two and a half years, when Daddy had wanted a boy, and Mommy had wanted to stop the baby parade after Judy was born. Mommy persuaded the doctor to remove her overly fruitful uterus, shortly after Marilyn's birth. There would be no additional pesky kids, robbing her of her youth and freedom. Not that Marilyn made many demands. She lay in her crib, smiling happily in response to any shred of attention paid her, requesting no more than Mom was willing to give, which was very little. Mom was very busy visiting with other young housewives in the neighborhood, drinking lots of coffee and discussing the inadequacies of her husband and her life in general. Then Daddy would come home from his job in the Oakland shipyard, find Marilyn lying in her crib, with an overflowing diaper, and yell at Mom for not taking care of the baby. I remember him holding the baby in the bathroom sink, rinsing her off under the faucet. Mom would yell back at him, asking him how he'd like it if he were stuck in the house all day with a bunch of kids and nothing to do except housework. Then he would say how it sure didn't look like she had been doing any housework, and just what did she do all day, anyway?

During one of these oft-repeated discussions, I saw little Judy heading for the open front door. Since the adults were not paying attention, I decided that I should administer some much-needed discipline. I grabbed a candlestick from its holder and proceeded to whack her on the head until she stopped walking and started crying. Those big, blue eyes were overflowing, by the time Mommy and Daddy heard the ruckus. And, in the first of many unjust reactions to my earnest attempts to improve my sister's behavior, I got a spanking, while the miscreant was comforted.

Housing in the Bay area was tight, and Dad decided to make a little extra money, by renting out our third bedroom. Marge and Elaine became part of our little family. At that point, two sailors became frequent visitors to our house. I thought they were very handsome, with their bell-bottomed trousers and white caps. They were Alf and Harold, Daddy's cousins, who were stationed in San Francisco. They quickly hooked up with Elaine and Marge, and romance was in the air. Mommy talked a lot with Elaine and Marge, and sometimes there were more than two sailors in the house, and sometimes Mommy went for drives with the sailors. Mommy and Daddy fought a lot, and Daddy said that if she could go for drives with sailors, maybe he should go for drives with Marge. I just wished they would stop fighting and that someone would change Marilyn's diaper, because she didn't smell so good.

Okay, ready or not, here's the first chapter of my memoir, entitled "Born in a Boxcar." I should explain that I wasn't actually born in a boxcar, but I was conceived in a boxcar and that same boxcar was my first home. But somehow, the titles "Conceived in a Boxcar" or "Lived in a Boxcar" didn't seem as catchy as "Born in a Boxcar," so there you have it. This first chapter should probably be called, "Born in the Hospital That Was Closest to the Boxcar at the Time."
It is the story of my birth, as told to me by my father.

...

Old Doc Sullivan didn't perform episiotomies. "If God had wanted a woman to have an extra slit down there he would have given her one," he explained to my father as Daddy stood awkwardly by, watching the painful labor. So, when my big head had stretched my teen-aged mother's vagina as far as it would go without help, Doc Sullivan inserted his gloved finger gently between my head and my mother's taut skin and slowly and carefully moved his finger around and around the perimeter, stretching the skin gradually as my exhausted mother pushed and heaved. Pop! The head was out, shoulders and torso followed easily.

My father gasped. "Oh my God, what's wrong with the baby's face?"

"Hold your horses, Ken, and let me take a look." The doctor gently wiped me off and examined my mouth. "Well, it looks like she has a cleft lip." He opened my mouth and looked at the palate. "Her palate's okay. Be grateful for that. Everything else is fine. She has all her fingers and toes. We'll get this lip stitched up and you can take her home in a couple of weeks."

"What's wrong? Let me see, " Mom asked.

"Just a minute, Evie," Doc Sullivan answered. "I'll cut the cord and you can hold her." He looked again at Daddy and added, "She'll have to have plastic surgery in about a year. That'll smooth out the scar a little."

Mom was crying as the doctor handed me to her. "Oh, my poor little baby. Don't cry. Mommy and Daddy love you, no matter what."

Daddy moved next to her and put his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. All he could think of was, How the hell am I going to pay for all this?

Haiku For Now, Memoir Later

I've written a lot of memoir-type short (500 to 1000 words) stories, recalling my rather odd life. They sit mouldering away in my file cabinet, because I'm too lazy to ever try to do anything with them. It just occurred to me today that I could post one on my blog now and then. If I get even one comment encouraging me to do so, I will. Otherwise, I will continue to let them moulder, which is fine.

-

In the meantime, I entertained myself while at Starbucks today, writing some haiku. I like haiku, because it's effortless, both to write and to read. I even compose them at night sometimes, while lying in bed, unable to sleep. I don't remember them in the morning, which is just as well.

Sitting in Starbucks

Drinking my cappucino

Wanting more from life

Caffeine is a drug

A legal drug, thank goodness

Or I'd be in jail

Cool jazz overhead

Does that mean Starbucks is cool?

Or "cool" wannabe?

-

Now it's folk music

There's something for everyone

Except me, that is

Now Christmas music!

For Christ's sake, leave me alone!

I want peace on ears

Disclaimer: The photo posted above is not me, not even a reasonable facsimile. Starbucks paid me to insert it, so all the the multitudes of horny male readers of this blog will think they will find women who look like that, sipping their lattes and looking for love. Forget it, losers. It's not gonna happen.

A New Script for Johnny and Me

Zelda: But Johnny, I'm so much older than you, you can't really want me to go to bed with you, can you?

-

Johnny: Zelda, I have waited for you since I was Edward Scissorhands. I saw you in the audience and knew that you were the woman that could heal me. My soul was tortured. I was only half a man. But I could tell that you were not attracted to me then. Perhaps it was the hands that put you off. But when I made the movie "Chocolat," I thought of you again, and made sure that the movie would be shown in Lancaster, at a discount theater, so you would go see it. I watched you from the balcony as your eyes rolled back in your head during the love scenes.

Then I did some research on you and discovered that you have a secret fascination with pirates. So I persuaded the studio to make a quick movie based on the Disneyland feature, "Pirates of the Caribbean." There wasn't time to create a whole new story...after all, you were getting older by the minute. And I knew you'd love Jack Sparrow.

-

Zelda: Oh yes, Johnny! From the moment I saw Captain Jack, I knew I would walk the plank for him. He could harpoon me anytime. And when you, I mean Jack, kissed the leading lady - OMIGOD! It was so sensuous, so lascivious. I gave up my treasure right there in the theater!

-

Johnny: Ah-ha! My gamble paid off! And what did you think of the sequel, my dear?

Zelda: Well, Johnny, to tell you the truth, it was a bit tedious. And you weren't on the screen as much as that hideous octupus-thingy. So I had to go home afterwards and watch my taped version of "Chocolat" to re-kindle my Depp-lust. But now, you're here and...and...wait - I can't! I'm married, and you...you're just saying all of this because you know I'm the president of your fan club, aren't you?

-

Johnny: What?? Of course not! I'm in love with you because you're one of the famous "Harbinger 33" authors. I've read your writing and am captivated by it. Also, I'm hoping you'll introduce me to Sugar. I hear you and she are always fighting over Harry, so I'll give him some competition.

-

Zelda: I don't know, Johnny. With my luck, you and Harry will be fighting over Sugar and I'll be deep-sixed. Though it breaks my heart, I must send you back to the video store. Arrrrrr...

The Good Old Days

Oh, for the good old days - when men were men and women were subjugated. There was no questioning authority back then. The rules were simple - Might is Right! But then civilization moved in and took its toll.

Birth control was discovered and women were relieved of the crushing burden of childbearing. Morning sickness is now a thing of the past. Now the only time we throw up is if we get some bad tamales at Chico's Cafe. And once we had tasted independence, we're all in men's faces, telling them they can't go out and hunt and fight; they've got to go out and get a real job in an office somewhere. Then they get all soft and flabby and don't turn us on anymore, so we have to watch football games, where those big hunky guys go running around in their tight pants and...wait a minute...I've lost my train of thought.

Oh yeah! Our poor men! All that testosterone and no place to go. They can't kill anything with a club anymore. If they try to hunt, it has to be with a rifle, which is no contest against the unarmed animals. So the men don't even need any muscles to do it. And they can't capture territory any more - how frustrating is that? If they want land, they have to deal with a real estate agent, and half the time the agent will be a female, which is even worse, because he'd rather fuck her than listen to her drone on and on about mortgage rates and property appreciation. And then his wife is nagging him about how she'd rather have a place with a skylight, and he's thinking, all I want is a goddamn cave, where I'll be the boss and if we're hungry I'll go out and club a bear and bring it home and you'll cook it and then I'll fuck your brains out whether you're in the mood or not. Then you'll start pumping out the babies and do some gathering of nuts and berries to supplement the bear meat. And then...huh? What? Okay, okay, we'll get a skylight.

And that, my friends, explains why modern men drive gigantic SUVs, mow their tiny lawns with large, noisy power mowers, and get into fights at hockey games.

Unanswered Questions About the Undead

So, what is a zombie, anyway?

-

Yeah, yeah, I know...He's one of the undead. But I'm undead, at least I was the last time I checked my pulse, but I'm not a zombie!

How do I know?? Well Christ, I think I'd know if I were a zombie! There's got to be more to being a zombie than being undead. What are the other features?

Okay - that's good - a zombie was dead first, and now he's undead. But then, what about those emergency room cases, where a guy is brought in on a gurney and his heart has stopped, and the doctor puts one of those shocker things on his chest and the guy's heart starts beating again and he's okay. Is he going to be a zombie for the rest of his life?

-

No, of course not. I didn't think so either.

-

Ah - I get it!. He has to have been dead long enough that his flesh has started to rot and kind of hang in shreds off of his body. But then how is he going to be able to walk around? Don't you need intact muscles to propel yourself?

Oh...sorry, I guess I am being too technical. Okay - so a zombie was dead for quite a while, he's kinda half-rotten and nasty looking, but now he's sort of alive, but not really alive...he's just NOT DEAD, and he's walking around scaring the shit out of people. But what's the point? Whose idea was it to make the poor corpses have to get up out of their comfy graves and run around scaring people?

THE DEVIL?? C'mon, Jack! You're shittin' me! You believe in the DEVIL?

Why not? Because the devil is just a figment of people's imagination, that's why!

-

Yeah, I'm sure!

Hey...what's going on? Get away from me! What's that noise? Who are all those creepy guys with rotting flesh, coming across the yard? OMIFICTITIOUSGOD! I smell sulfur! And why are you laughing so fiendishly? And where'd you get that PITCHFORK?

Don't be afraid, dear readers. You don't really believe in vampires and werewolves, do you? Of course not! So how can an innocent little Halloween story hurt you? Hmmmm?

Rebel Without a Curse

"It's getting late, son. Drink your dinner."

"But Mom! I don't like blood!"

"What? That's blasphemy! Vlad! Did you hear what your son just said? I swear, this child will be the un-death of me!"

"I'm sorry, Mom. But really - it's so slimy and salty. And it stains my teeth red. All the other un-dead kids make fun of me. Even the werewolf pups! They're always saying things like, 'You suck!' And they show up every day with pieces of human flesh stuck in their teeth!"

"Oh, my poor baby! Young monsters can be so cruel. Next time, you just tell them that 'Stakes of wood can break my mood, but taunts can never kill me.' Or something like that. Improvise! You're 200 years old and those werewolves have only been around since the 1890's. And they only come out when there's a full moon, so they're loony! Ha-ha! Get it? Moon? Looney?"

"Mom, puh-leeze! But seriously, do you think we could vary the menu a little? Maybe add something to the blood to make it solid? I've heard of something the Krauts eat...it's called blood sausage. How about that?"

"Vlad! Get out of that coffin and help me talk some sense into our little batling."

"Okay! Okay! I'm coming. Hey...wait a minute...are you sure this kid is mine? I don't have a mustache! Or black hair! He looks just like...OH MY LUCIFER! It's SON OF GOMEZ!"

Okay, it's been 69 days since I posted anything on my poor little blog. And, as anyone who has read "101 Things You've Always Wanted to Know About Me" knows, 69 is my favorite number, so it's time to rev things up at bad ol' "get-your-zs."

Unfortunately, I'm tired and sleepy, so any revving up is going to have to wait until tomorrow. I've been having some sexy dreams lately, so maybe I'll get some material in my sleep tonight.

This post is all in black and white, so far. That's not very inspiring. Maybe this photo will color up my dreams.

Drink, Drank, Drunk

My husband is an alcoholic. He gets drunk almost every day, starting in the early afternoon. He's a sweetheart in the morning and an asshole (mean and argumentative) in the afternoon and evening. It is driving me crazy. Literally. Twice in the past few months I have been on the verge of suicide. Fortunately, I was able to pull myself out of the pit before actually hurting myself

I don't want to commit suicide, because I know from experience how horribly hurtful it is to the people who love you. My mother took pills to do the deed and, five years later to the day, my father blew his brains out. My sisters and I barely survived the trauma of our father's death. The guilt was so horrible, in both cases. If only we had been more attentive...if only I'd written more often, or called every weekend... or this...or that...or the other. I will not, as long as I have one shred of sanity left, ever do that to my children.

So...what do I do? Keep hoping he'll get sober? That's what I've been doing for 19 years and it hasn't happened yet. Leave him? Why should I have to leave my pleasant little home and live in some grungy apartment, when I'm not the one who's at fault (at least I don't think so)? Kick him out? No, no, no! I could never do that, because I do love him and don't ever want to hurt him. I know, I know...I sound like half the women at an Al-Anon meeting

I am considering a different plan. A couple days ago, we went out to eat. I almost never drink alcohol, but I was feeling "uptight" and the menu featured a cocktail called "Ruby Relaxer." I ordered it and enjoyed it thoroughly! It was delicious and I got relaxed as all get-out! Hubby was a bit apprehensive, as he does not like for me to get "smashed." On the other hand, he doesn't like it when I'm "nervous" either, so it turned out fine, and we had a pleasant dinner. So...last night I drank some wine when I was visiting some friends, and enjoyed the relaxation it afforded. (Hubby was not with me, since he goes to bed at 8:oo every night.)

So...what do you think? If you can't fight 'em, join 'em?? Give him a taste of his own medicine? Fight fire with fire? ______________________________ (Insert your own cliche here)

Hmmm...I'm getting thirsty...

It's Right Where I Left It, Wherever That Is

Don't ever ask me to watch your children, feed your dog while you're away, or hold your purse while you go to the bathroom. I can't be trusted. I have the attention span of a gnat and the short-term memory of a lump of clay. I would blame it on early senility, but I've been this way as long as I can remember (my long-term memory is okay, I think, but I'm not sure).

I have misplaced and/or lost countless items over the years. Purses and keys have been the victims in most of my mishaps. When I was a teenager, I once left my purse on the front bumper of my Dad's pickup, as we were preparing to drive into town. Miraculously, it was still there when we parked, seven miles later. I was not so lucky the time I left the same purse on the hood of a stranger's car in a school parking lot, while I chatted with a friend. I never saw the purse, the car, or my friend again.

I have absentmindedly abandoned my key ring in a breathtaking variety of inappropriate places. Perhaps the worst was HANGING IN THE CAR DOOR LOCK, while I toodled off to the pizza parlor for a couple of hours of eating, drinking and being merry. I didn't even realize they were missing until I was walking back to the car, looking frantically for them in my purse and pockets, wondering if I could break a window to get into the car. I was both relieved and chagrined to see them in the lock. I'm glad it was an old car, or I would have had to walk home, for sure. And then I'd have had to break the house window to get in.

I must admit that my sense of humor was not well enough developed back then to find these events amusing. Now I just say, "What the hell. You might as well laugh." So, just imagine the merriment that ensued yesterday, at the local farmers' market. I never carry a purse anymore, preferring to stow my wallet safely in my jeans' front, right pocket. So, after each purchase, I put my wallet back into my pocket, pick up my bag of produce and proceed to the next stand. I periodically pat my pocket to be sure the wallet is, indeed, in there. So, there I was, at the largest stand, surrounded by several impatient shoppers, all jockeying for position. I paid for my bags of brocolli, bananas and apples, arranged the bags on my left arm, and turned away from the stand. I patted my right pocket, checking for the wallet. It wasn't there! I tried to stay calm, checking all the other pockets. Nothing. I pushed my way back to the produce counter, and frantically looked through all the fruits and vegetables in the area I had been standing, all the while thinking that someone had stolen the damn thing and was at this very moment using my credit card to buy a new car. I called to the clerk and asked her if she had seen a small, brown wallet anywhere in the vicinity.

"You mean that one in your hand?"

There it was, in my LEFT hand, which I had thought was completely occupied by nothing but the plastic bags. Apparently, the look on my face was amusing, because the clerk started laughing. I was so relieved, that I started laughing too. And you know what? I'm laughing right now, just thinking about it.

Slow Down for Heaven's Sake!

I am beginning to be disillusioned with our fearless leader. Why on earth is he pushing for immediate passage of such a massive piece of legislation as this Health Care Bill? Isn't it something like 1,000 pages long? Shouldn't the legislators read it before voting on it? They have other things on their plates as well. Economic matters are certainly a distraction, among other subjects.

-

That Health Care Bill, if passed, will change our lives in unforeseen ways. It may be good or it may be bad. Who the hell knows? What I DO know is that it needs careful study and discussion before it's signed into law. Who wrote the thing, anyway? Shouldn't we, the people, know who's behind it? What their motives are? Couldn't we be treated to some calm debate before rushing in?

-

But no. President Obama just tells the legislators to pass the bill before they go on vacation next week, whether they've read the bill or not, and without careful consideration.

-

Bah! Humbug!

Okay, I'm determined to post something, ANYthing, even though I'm in on of my "Why am I alive, life sucks, the world's going to hell in a handbasket" moods. So, after staring at the blank screen for several minutes, inspiration struck! I'm going to think positive and come up with a list of ten GOOD things, if I have to sit here all night. Here we go...

Ten Good Things

1. Our yard looks really pretty, with lots of flowers blooming and my artful arrangements of pretty rocks around each flower bed. If I weren't so frigging lazy I'd take some photos of those flower beds and post them, so you'd believe me. Oops! Did I veer into negative territory with the "lazy" remark? Skip that part and just pretend there are some nice pictures inserted here:

2. As far as I know, everyone whom I love is healthy.

3. So far, July in Lancaster county has been pleasant, with temps in the mid-eighties and NOT HUMID! HALLALUJAH!

4. Rush Limbaugh will probably not live for more than 40 or 50 more years.

5. I can still picture that hunky waiter in Siracusa. And...it just occurred to me that someone in our group may have taken a photo of him. If that happened, and it can be found, I will post it!

6. We have plenty of beautiful lettuce, cucumbers, zucchini (surprise!), tomatoes, bell peppers, swiss chard, parsley and carrots in the garden. Wow! That's eight "good things" right there!

7. Today I did the laundry AND the ironing in the same day! Usually the ironing sits around, getting more and more wrinkled for days, sometimes weeks, before I get it done.

8. Not all the glaciers have melted yet.

9. Sex between consenting adults is not illegal in most states, yet.

10. Sarah Palin is not Vice President. (Please note that I did not add the word "yet" to this sentence.)

I Was Where??

Six days ago I was still in Italy, but it feels like six months. My memories are fading fast, but I'll try to capture a few of them. More impressive than the Sistine Chapel, the Tower of Pisa or the ruins of Pompeii were the Italian men! Oh my! Those guys know how to dress, for one thing. No baggy pants or oversize tee shirts there. Tight pants and slick, stylish shirts were the rule. While I enjoyed the "eye candy" everywhere, my favorite fantasy-indulgence was inspired by our waiter at a restaurant in Siracusa. That man had me mesmerized from the moment he showed us to our table until we left, two hours later. He had what I regard as a perfect build - well muscled arms and shoulders, flat stomach, and shapely butt, nicely displayed in tight bluejeans. He paid lots of attention to our table, probably because of my attractive daughter and daughter-in-law, so I got to pay lots of attention to his lusciousness. I had sweet dreams that night.

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Okay, enough about my dirty-old-ladyness. I won't talk about the famous sites we visited, because they are well documented in books, magazines and movies. I enjoyed seeing the various ruins, especially Pompeii. The Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel were spectacular. But there were so many tourists that I often felt overwhelmed with people, people everywhere. One of the things that I enjoyed the most was seeing wildflowers growing out of cracks in the stones of the ruins. They were undaunted by the ages.

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It was also interesting to see the mixture of old and new, primitive and modern, in everyday Italian life. For instance, the very old cities still have very narrow, cobblestone streets, designed for foot traffic and maybe horse-drawn carriages. But now those narrow streets must accommodate great numbers of automobiles. Some of the streets, especially in Sicily, were absolute chaos, at least to my untrained eye. There were almost no traffic lights anywhere, very few stop signs and the only rule I could discern was every man for himself. One narrow street might have cars parked on both sides, two lanes of traffic, pedestrians scurrying every which way, motorcycles weaving in and out and an occasional horse and buggy. Intersections were like a giant game of "Chicken." I gained great respect for my son's and son-in-law's driving skills, as well as their nerves-of-steel. I spent most of my car time curled into a ball in the back seat, trying not to scream.

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There were other archaic things I noted, such as laundry hanging outside of windows and on porches (which I liked, since I like to line dry my laundry), and injunctions by hotel managers not to put toilet paper in the toilet. We were to drop the used tissue in a wastebasket placed next to the john. I did not like this, one little bit! Telephones were hard to use and public mailboxes were very few and far between. There were other things, but I don't want to dwell on negatives, when there were so many positives.

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People were, by and large, friendly and appreciative of our efforts to speak Italian (it's amazing how far you can get with 20 words of Italian and 30+ words of Spanish). One especially fun exchange happened when we were in Sorrento. A young man approached us and asked if we were American. We said yes. He then grinned and shouted "Obama!" while giving a fist pump. The hospitality was great, everywhere we stayed. The food was delicious and interesting (especially interesting when the menu was all in Italian, the wait staff spoke no English and we decided to "wing it"). The wine was intoxicating! And did I mention the tight pants?

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But now I'm back home in boring Lancaster, the memories fading fast and wondering if I'll ever travel abroad again. Probably not, but I may visit Cucamonga sometime.