Hey what's our infatuation with Lance Armstrong?
The guy has been caught doping, lying, cheating. And that's just the stuff we know. I mean, who dumps Sheryl Crow because she has CANCER? Like he did...and now he's missing a one of his two digits.
LanceStrong left something behind back when he thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. It's called humility. I think he was under the impression that his doping really made him Super Man. And forcing his team to do the same gave him the power over the little people.
Let me tell you who is hurt the worst by LanceStrong's antics. The people who benefit from his LiveStrong Charity. Much like Komen for the Cure's stumble (I'm a former local Board member) the folks that depend on Lance's good name to raise money will now see it dry up. That's fewer mammograms and other types of cancer screenings that poor people (see 47%) can't afford.
I guess when he was Tour de Doping around France, seeing all those crowds of people cheering, throwing yellow roses and wearing yellow ribbons, he thought he was invincible. And his elaborate scheme to dope, carried about by his minions terrified to lose their jobs and access to LanceStrong, was acceptable because why? He had cancer? He needed just a little "push" but was going to win anyway? Trying to score a date with Tory Burch?
I never liked LanceStrong so maybe I'm hard on him to begin with. I remember an acquaintance who was going to fly to France, leaving her three kids behind, to cheer him on because she was a cancer survivor herself. I'm sorry...where your husband and kids not there for you when you had cancer?
Our priorities are a bit skewed when we fly three thousand miles around the world to cheer a world-class doper. A tip for you fellow reader. If you need a hero--I'm sure you can find one who is a) clean b) within a five mile radius c) unsung.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
When You're A Jet...
Last weekend I tested the waters and attended my first game as a new Jets football fan. Apparently no one told me I needed Kelvar and an M.D. on standby.
What a weekend! Where to begin....I arrived in Lauderdale-by-Sea to torrential rain and lightening. I was meeting a number of my fellow Jets fans from Tampa and any borough that is not Manhattan. JETS METS! The gang were all huddled underneath our hotel's abandoned pool shelter drinking Bud from a can. They immediately quizzed me on my lineage to size up what ethnic slur to use with me. I was a "Mick with a side of Spick." I wasn't imbibing which was a surprise to everyone and clearly an insult to my Mick ancestry.
To keep track of the main cast of West Side Story characters:
Stephanie - my Alabama sorority sister. Daughter of the FBI agent who arrested "Goodfellas" main character Henry Hill.
Tommy "Queens"- cousin of Stephanie, 6'1 and weighing in at 342 (but going on a diet after Super Bowl). Consumed 35 beers in eight hours.
Tony Macaroni - real last name unknown. Known profession: Chef. Unknown profession: son of a Mafia made guy, Desert Storm vet. Recently pistol whipped, wounds on face and head. Represents rap artist JoJo Pelligrino.
To continue our story, let's return to the pool shelter. I noticed that it had areas for but no TVs. The ceiling fan paddles had been removed. The bar was empty. The pool deck was missing tiles. While the hotel was beach side, signs were posted about no lifeguards and strong undertow. However, Jets fans are real troopers because they sat in the rain in bathing suits trying to get tan.
I decided to drop my stuff in our room. Apparently the name "Smelly Crackhouse with Bad Air Conditioning Hotel" was taken so it was called the Beachfront motel. My third floor hallway smelled like...well let's not go there except to say I think this hotel does some banging hourly business. The door to our room would not open unless Tommy Queen's weight pushed it open. There were no bath towels. Luckily, had I checked Trip Advisor and discovered our hotel had zero stars and did not provide towels so I brought my own. I did forget my black light which was a good thing because there was enough DNA for a full season of CSI:Miami. The one wall hanging was drilled into the wall. There was a floor safe but the white powder at the bottom could have been rat poisoning or coke so I left it alone.
Tony Macaroni, whom I had just met, was kind enough to walk me across the street to Publix to get some snacks. To get you in the correct frame of mind, he has a striking resemblance to the very handsome Uncle Fester from the Addams Family and the personality of Academy Award winner Robert De Niro's character in "Taxi Driver." Tony shared with me on our short walk that he "wanted to take it to the next level" with Stephanie, divorced his wife because she got fat from Dunkin' Donuts while he he had to sew and wash her clothes, and his dad was a made guy from the Lufthansa heist. So much information!
We all decided it was time for nighttime football and "chow." After a 20 minute cab ride to Pompano we settled on Packy's Pub. Tony shaved his head for the occasion, which only left 10-15 cuts. After wings and Tater Tots, we took a hilarious cab ride to downtown Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, which consists of a Packers bar (Brady Sucks!), a snotty bar that serves boxed wine (a-holes!) and the Aruba. Now the Aruba was fancy stuff and Tony saw some lovely ladies who were very interested in his Jacob the Jeweler watch. Tony wandered off to dance to "Come on Ride the Train" by himself.
At 1 a.m. Steph and I decided we had enough and made the guys walk us back to our hotel. It was about a quarter of a mile so Tommy Queens thought it was such as nice night he would walk back without his shirt on. What a tummy! I don't think a Spanx has been made yet for a stomach that big. A quarter mile walk that would I would normally do in a few minutes took us a half-hour. Tony, see ya' after Super Bowl!
After Steph and I went to bed the guys went to a bar next across the street. For $60 they could buy a girl with no teeth a drink and get some action in return. Apparently she had no takers. I told Tony later that was a mistake.
Bright and early the next morning I jumped out of bed because of bugs and it was Jets game day! Stephanie was feeling a bit poorly, all that dancing at Packy's and Gallo jug wine I'm sure. I went over to Dunkin' Donuts for large coffees and tip toed through a parking lot filled with used condoms and empty baggies.
Jets shirts and Alabama hats on we headed to the bus to meet our full group. Wow! So many interesting people. It was mostly single guys from Queens who flew down for the weekend. A retired state trooper who could show me hemorrhoids to prove it. Another guy who survived "the can-sa" and could no longer drink beer so he just drank straight vodka. Ramon, the Dominican who loved the Jets and Mark Sanchez because "he's a spick like me." After drinking a bunch of warm beer and eating mayonnaise foods that had been sitting in the sun, we all made our way to the stadium.
I had no idea Miami had so many Jets fans. Tons of green everywhere. And that was just tattoos! We entered the stadium and looked around for the elevators to the Sky Boxes. But Steph told me weren't sitting there. Must be fifty yard line! But we started walking up. And up. And up! And soon we were ten rows from the top of the stadium. This must be a mistake. I was in the nosebleeds. With the PEOPLE!
To give you a lay of the land, the, ahem, the large woman with tiny clothes behind me had a two year old child in tow and a very skinny friend/daddy who weighed about 120 pounds with long hair and a Dolphins jersey on backwards so TAYLOR was on in front. In front of us was a Cowboys fan who may have been lost. He was with a woman who had Dolphins nail art. Down a few seats was a shirtless man with COUNTRY BOY tattooed on his back in huge letters. That was his only correctly spelled tattoo. COUNTRY BOY had a number of zits in between the letters I offered to pop but he thought they were fine.
Across from us were the Ebony and Ivory couple of the game. Ebony looked like Samuel L. Jackson but unlike his role in "Jungle Fever" this Samuel L. really was coked up. His Ivory partner kept pulling him off Tony Macaroni whenever Tony decided that telling the Dolphins to go f-themselves was too nice and adding in the a-- was better.
The skinny TAYLOR jersey guy kept wandering in and out for more beer. He wandered back in at the fourth quarter and was bleeding over his left eye. And had an ice pack over his right. His baby mama told him to move it to the other side and he thanked by telling her to f-off. She then told him to f-off and get lost. In front of their two year old kid. And he had the car keys to drive them home.
After an exciting game that went into overtime, the Jets finally won. Samuel L's friend escorted him out of the stadium so Tony didn't get his wish to gouge his eyes out. Bummer. As the misplaced Dallas fan and I walked out he told me he had three bullets in his left shoulder and took four Percocet a day. The people you meet at Pro Player!
All in all a GREAT thirty six hours. I learned so much! Barack Obama was elected President by the Chicago mob. Teamsters are registered Republicans but vote Democrat and LOOOOOOVE fully funded pensions. Italian guys are black from the waist down (who knew?) Oceanfront property in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is available for cheap. Joe Namath is the most beloved Alabama and Jets player. I have been mispronouncing "mutha," "can-sa," "doo-sh," andeverything you can't really describe is a "sit-you-ay-shun."
Until next time Jets fans, Squish the Fish!
What a weekend! Where to begin....I arrived in Lauderdale-by-Sea to torrential rain and lightening. I was meeting a number of my fellow Jets fans from Tampa and any borough that is not Manhattan. JETS METS! The gang were all huddled underneath our hotel's abandoned pool shelter drinking Bud from a can. They immediately quizzed me on my lineage to size up what ethnic slur to use with me. I was a "Mick with a side of Spick." I wasn't imbibing which was a surprise to everyone and clearly an insult to my Mick ancestry.
To keep track of the main cast of West Side Story characters:
Stephanie - my Alabama sorority sister. Daughter of the FBI agent who arrested "Goodfellas" main character Henry Hill.
Tommy "Queens"- cousin of Stephanie, 6'1 and weighing in at 342 (but going on a diet after Super Bowl). Consumed 35 beers in eight hours.
Tony Macaroni - real last name unknown. Known profession: Chef. Unknown profession: son of a Mafia made guy, Desert Storm vet. Recently pistol whipped, wounds on face and head. Represents rap artist JoJo Pelligrino.
To continue our story, let's return to the pool shelter. I noticed that it had areas for but no TVs. The ceiling fan paddles had been removed. The bar was empty. The pool deck was missing tiles. While the hotel was beach side, signs were posted about no lifeguards and strong undertow. However, Jets fans are real troopers because they sat in the rain in bathing suits trying to get tan.
I decided to drop my stuff in our room. Apparently the name "Smelly Crackhouse with Bad Air Conditioning Hotel" was taken so it was called the Beachfront motel. My third floor hallway smelled like...well let's not go there except to say I think this hotel does some banging hourly business. The door to our room would not open unless Tommy Queen's weight pushed it open. There were no bath towels. Luckily, had I checked Trip Advisor and discovered our hotel had zero stars and did not provide towels so I brought my own. I did forget my black light which was a good thing because there was enough DNA for a full season of CSI:Miami. The one wall hanging was drilled into the wall. There was a floor safe but the white powder at the bottom could have been rat poisoning or coke so I left it alone.
Tony Macaroni, whom I had just met, was kind enough to walk me across the street to Publix to get some snacks. To get you in the correct frame of mind, he has a striking resemblance to the very handsome Uncle Fester from the Addams Family and the personality of Academy Award winner Robert De Niro's character in "Taxi Driver." Tony shared with me on our short walk that he "wanted to take it to the next level" with Stephanie, divorced his wife because she got fat from Dunkin' Donuts while he he had to sew and wash her clothes, and his dad was a made guy from the Lufthansa heist. So much information!
We all decided it was time for nighttime football and "chow." After a 20 minute cab ride to Pompano we settled on Packy's Pub. Tony shaved his head for the occasion, which only left 10-15 cuts. After wings and Tater Tots, we took a hilarious cab ride to downtown Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, which consists of a Packers bar (Brady Sucks!), a snotty bar that serves boxed wine (a-holes!) and the Aruba. Now the Aruba was fancy stuff and Tony saw some lovely ladies who were very interested in his Jacob the Jeweler watch. Tony wandered off to dance to "Come on Ride the Train" by himself.
At 1 a.m. Steph and I decided we had enough and made the guys walk us back to our hotel. It was about a quarter of a mile so Tommy Queens thought it was such as nice night he would walk back without his shirt on. What a tummy! I don't think a Spanx has been made yet for a stomach that big. A quarter mile walk that would I would normally do in a few minutes took us a half-hour. Tony, see ya' after Super Bowl!
After Steph and I went to bed the guys went to a bar next across the street. For $60 they could buy a girl with no teeth a drink and get some action in return. Apparently she had no takers. I told Tony later that was a mistake.
Bright and early the next morning I jumped out of bed because of bugs and it was Jets game day! Stephanie was feeling a bit poorly, all that dancing at Packy's and Gallo jug wine I'm sure. I went over to Dunkin' Donuts for large coffees and tip toed through a parking lot filled with used condoms and empty baggies.
Jets shirts and Alabama hats on we headed to the bus to meet our full group. Wow! So many interesting people. It was mostly single guys from Queens who flew down for the weekend. A retired state trooper who could show me hemorrhoids to prove it. Another guy who survived "the can-sa" and could no longer drink beer so he just drank straight vodka. Ramon, the Dominican who loved the Jets and Mark Sanchez because "he's a spick like me." After drinking a bunch of warm beer and eating mayonnaise foods that had been sitting in the sun, we all made our way to the stadium.
I had no idea Miami had so many Jets fans. Tons of green everywhere. And that was just tattoos! We entered the stadium and looked around for the elevators to the Sky Boxes. But Steph told me weren't sitting there. Must be fifty yard line! But we started walking up. And up. And up! And soon we were ten rows from the top of the stadium. This must be a mistake. I was in the nosebleeds. With the PEOPLE!
To give you a lay of the land, the, ahem, the large woman with tiny clothes behind me had a two year old child in tow and a very skinny friend/daddy who weighed about 120 pounds with long hair and a Dolphins jersey on backwards so TAYLOR was on in front. In front of us was a Cowboys fan who may have been lost. He was with a woman who had Dolphins nail art. Down a few seats was a shirtless man with COUNTRY BOY tattooed on his back in huge letters. That was his only correctly spelled tattoo. COUNTRY BOY had a number of zits in between the letters I offered to pop but he thought they were fine.
Across from us were the Ebony and Ivory couple of the game. Ebony looked like Samuel L. Jackson but unlike his role in "Jungle Fever" this Samuel L. really was coked up. His Ivory partner kept pulling him off Tony Macaroni whenever Tony decided that telling the Dolphins to go f-themselves was too nice and adding in the a-- was better.
The skinny TAYLOR jersey guy kept wandering in and out for more beer. He wandered back in at the fourth quarter and was bleeding over his left eye. And had an ice pack over his right. His baby mama told him to move it to the other side and he thanked by telling her to f-off. She then told him to f-off and get lost. In front of their two year old kid. And he had the car keys to drive them home.
After an exciting game that went into overtime, the Jets finally won. Samuel L's friend escorted him out of the stadium so Tony didn't get his wish to gouge his eyes out. Bummer. As the misplaced Dallas fan and I walked out he told me he had three bullets in his left shoulder and took four Percocet a day. The people you meet at Pro Player!
All in all a GREAT thirty six hours. I learned so much! Barack Obama was elected President by the Chicago mob. Teamsters are registered Republicans but vote Democrat and LOOOOOOVE fully funded pensions. Italian guys are black from the waist down (who knew?) Oceanfront property in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is available for cheap. Joe Namath is the most beloved Alabama and Jets player. I have been mispronouncing "mutha," "can-sa," "doo-sh," andeverything you can't really describe is a "sit-you-ay-shun."
Until next time Jets fans, Squish the Fish!
Sunday, September 16, 2012
One Day at a Time
How do you react to someone else's bad news?
Someone I know and see very often is pregnant after years of trying. I am so happy for her and have kept up with her progress, baby names, nursery colors and being a mid-30s mom. She has been glowing and excited.
When I saw her today, she obviously had been crying. Her face was drawn and eyes rimmed in black circles. The baby sex had been identified---a girl. And she had a horrible problem. One that only one in 5000 babies have.
I am so sad for her. If she and the baby are able to have in-vitro surgery, her daughter will likely still have life-long infirmities.
My friend, so consumed and overwhelmed with what lies ahead, was worried about the cost of plane fare to the city she and her husband have to travel to for surgery. The thought of all that is ahead of her; the baby's survival, months of bed rest, more surgeries, treatments must be so much to even consider.
For some reason, my mind remembers my mom, Miss Judgemental, and her abilities for phraseology. When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she said "Don't get ahead of the Lord's plan." I don't think I know today what that means. However, I can relate to "One day at a time."
One day at a time. Part of the lyrics of an old hymnal.
"One day at a time sweet Jesus
That's all I'm asking from you
Give me the strength to do every day
What I have to do
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus
And tomorrow may never be mine
Help me today, show me the way one day at a time"
Someone I know and see very often is pregnant after years of trying. I am so happy for her and have kept up with her progress, baby names, nursery colors and being a mid-30s mom. She has been glowing and excited.
When I saw her today, she obviously had been crying. Her face was drawn and eyes rimmed in black circles. The baby sex had been identified---a girl. And she had a horrible problem. One that only one in 5000 babies have.
I am so sad for her. If she and the baby are able to have in-vitro surgery, her daughter will likely still have life-long infirmities.
My friend, so consumed and overwhelmed with what lies ahead, was worried about the cost of plane fare to the city she and her husband have to travel to for surgery. The thought of all that is ahead of her; the baby's survival, months of bed rest, more surgeries, treatments must be so much to even consider.
For some reason, my mind remembers my mom, Miss Judgemental, and her abilities for phraseology. When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she said "Don't get ahead of the Lord's plan." I don't think I know today what that means. However, I can relate to "One day at a time."
One day at a time. Part of the lyrics of an old hymnal.
"One day at a time sweet Jesus
That's all I'm asking from you
Give me the strength to do every day
What I have to do
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus
And tomorrow may never be mine
Help me today, show me the way one day at a time"
I am not a particularly religious person but one day at a time was the best I could offer.
How would you react to someone else's bad news?
How would you react to someone else's bad news?
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Second Time Around
I want to get married again.
My dress will be completely ivory lace and will have small cap sleeved shoulders and will be fit and flare. I have watched hours of "Say Yes to the Dress" so I know this is the perfect style for my second ceremony.
My ceremony will be intimate, just 700 or so of my closest friends. It will not take place on a fall football weekend. My colors will be crimson and cream, naturally. I will walk down the arm of my dear friend King Henry the 8th Part Deux. Once we reach the altar, he will serenade my groom and me with "Muskrat Love." The ceremony will be conducted by two officiants named Al. Big Al and Al Sharpton.
My vows will be a mix of Old English and Modern English. "I stoppeth the world and melteth with you." The Als will pronounce us wife and husband. We will walk back up the aisle to flashbulbs from People and Hola Magazine, as well as Garden and Gun.
Our reception will be catered by only the best. Dreamland BBQ, caviar, and red velvet cake. Music will be provided by Tony Bennett, The Rolling Stones, and the Alabama Shakes with free style kazoo playing while they are on breaks.
Many, many people will toast the groom and me, starting with drag queens, animal rights activists, moonshiners and the Mayor. The toasts will have a time limit of three minutes each and if the time limit is exceeded, then the floor will drop out from where they are standing and roll them down to the incinerator a la Veruca Salt.
After much toasting, dancing, drumming, slumming and such, the groom and I will depart in our bicycle built for two.
There is just one small problem. No groom.
I had a great idea for a groom and asked my Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican husband if he would marry me again and he said no. The first, second, third and fourth time I asked.
Oh don't worry I will get my second ceremony. Unofficial of course. After I start my website "lookingforjustaceremony.com." That way I can stay married to my husband but have the ceremony, too.
Wanted: Twenty something cutie for a free night of fun, merriment, and devotion. Must speak Alabama and be proficient in Broadway show tunes. Tuxedo and ring props provided. Resemblance to Matthew McConaughey preferred.
My dress will be completely ivory lace and will have small cap sleeved shoulders and will be fit and flare. I have watched hours of "Say Yes to the Dress" so I know this is the perfect style for my second ceremony.
My ceremony will be intimate, just 700 or so of my closest friends. It will not take place on a fall football weekend. My colors will be crimson and cream, naturally. I will walk down the arm of my dear friend King Henry the 8th Part Deux. Once we reach the altar, he will serenade my groom and me with "Muskrat Love." The ceremony will be conducted by two officiants named Al. Big Al and Al Sharpton.
My vows will be a mix of Old English and Modern English. "I stoppeth the world and melteth with you." The Als will pronounce us wife and husband. We will walk back up the aisle to flashbulbs from People and Hola Magazine, as well as Garden and Gun.
Our reception will be catered by only the best. Dreamland BBQ, caviar, and red velvet cake. Music will be provided by Tony Bennett, The Rolling Stones, and the Alabama Shakes with free style kazoo playing while they are on breaks.
Many, many people will toast the groom and me, starting with drag queens, animal rights activists, moonshiners and the Mayor. The toasts will have a time limit of three minutes each and if the time limit is exceeded, then the floor will drop out from where they are standing and roll them down to the incinerator a la Veruca Salt.
After much toasting, dancing, drumming, slumming and such, the groom and I will depart in our bicycle built for two.
There is just one small problem. No groom.
I had a great idea for a groom and asked my Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican husband if he would marry me again and he said no. The first, second, third and fourth time I asked.
Oh don't worry I will get my second ceremony. Unofficial of course. After I start my website "lookingforjustaceremony.com." That way I can stay married to my husband but have the ceremony, too.
Wanted: Twenty something cutie for a free night of fun, merriment, and devotion. Must speak Alabama and be proficient in Broadway show tunes. Tuxedo and ring props provided. Resemblance to Matthew McConaughey preferred.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Nana's Chicken
Who doesn't love fried chicken? Done right, it is so good. If you are going to eat fried foods, go for the glory and eat that crunchy skin and moist meat. Yum.
My Tennessee-born Nana made her fried chicken in the most seasoned cast iron skillet. It had seen decades of bacon fat, lard and Crisco. It was so old, it had no handle. My Nana's hands, creased and liver-spotted after years of working on her 10-acre avocado grove, could whip up a batch of chicken in no time. If the fat spattered, no matter. Before celebrity chefs coined the phrase "Teflon hands" she had cooking burns, blackberry bush scratches and dog bites. This was a woman who was widowed in her mid 40s, never married again and continued to work her farm. She was barely five feet tall, a trained nurse and mid wife, delivering babies and caring for the dying most of her adult life.
But back to that chicken. She used a ton of fresh black pepper in her dredge and used fat she had poured off into an old coffee can from the remnants of frying bacon. Before a supermarket moved into her farmland neighborhood, she'd go out in the backyard chicken coup, wring a good looking fryer's neck, pluck it and we'd have chicken on the table in no time.
For some strange reason, the debates about Chik-Fil-A have reminded me of my little Nana. I tend to agree with most folks that fried foods and arguing about gay marriage give me indigestion. But what would she have thought? Would she really care about two people wanting to marry, regardless of gender? The Queen of Fried Chicken, I would imagine, would be confounded for a bit, and would gnaw on her favorite part, the wish bone, and think. She would think back over her life. Delivering those black babies no doctor wanted to. Going to the "poor" part of town and nursing the "colored" sick folk that couldn't afford a doctor or hospital. Or maybe she'd think about her son, a decorated Korean War veteran, father of two, who decided an openly gay lifestyle in the 1960s and living with two men was alright with him.
"To each his own," she'd say. "It don't bother me none. Now pass me some more chicken."
My Tennessee-born Nana made her fried chicken in the most seasoned cast iron skillet. It had seen decades of bacon fat, lard and Crisco. It was so old, it had no handle. My Nana's hands, creased and liver-spotted after years of working on her 10-acre avocado grove, could whip up a batch of chicken in no time. If the fat spattered, no matter. Before celebrity chefs coined the phrase "Teflon hands" she had cooking burns, blackberry bush scratches and dog bites. This was a woman who was widowed in her mid 40s, never married again and continued to work her farm. She was barely five feet tall, a trained nurse and mid wife, delivering babies and caring for the dying most of her adult life.
But back to that chicken. She used a ton of fresh black pepper in her dredge and used fat she had poured off into an old coffee can from the remnants of frying bacon. Before a supermarket moved into her farmland neighborhood, she'd go out in the backyard chicken coup, wring a good looking fryer's neck, pluck it and we'd have chicken on the table in no time.
For some strange reason, the debates about Chik-Fil-A have reminded me of my little Nana. I tend to agree with most folks that fried foods and arguing about gay marriage give me indigestion. But what would she have thought? Would she really care about two people wanting to marry, regardless of gender? The Queen of Fried Chicken, I would imagine, would be confounded for a bit, and would gnaw on her favorite part, the wish bone, and think. She would think back over her life. Delivering those black babies no doctor wanted to. Going to the "poor" part of town and nursing the "colored" sick folk that couldn't afford a doctor or hospital. Or maybe she'd think about her son, a decorated Korean War veteran, father of two, who decided an openly gay lifestyle in the 1960s and living with two men was alright with him.
"To each his own," she'd say. "It don't bother me none. Now pass me some more chicken."
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Are We There Yet?
Remember when you were a kid and took one of those long car rides with your family? The ones where your dad would never pull over to let you pee until you were going to explode and mom kept trying to get you to stop fighting with your siblings? My brother and I literally were drawing blood and I had given him a black eye, yet mom wanted to play Uno over the backseat.
Long car rides in Florida suck. Just to get out of the state is nearly 10 hours. Then you ride more flat land until you finally hit some mountains. We never went any further than Chimney Rock, North Carolina to get dropped off and picked up at camp. Our usual road trip was to Disney World. Four hours to Mickey.
When I got to college my road trips around the South opened my eyes to kudzu, road side stands of fried pies, fresh vegetables, barbecue, and lots and lots of churches. Outside Montgomery, Alabama there is some kind of freaky religious shrine with hundreds of crosses.
Long car trips teach you patience. You know when you get out of the car you know there will be something good, something fun or at least a bathroom to look forward to.
I'm reminded of that patience as I wait for college football season to begin. It's been months since the Crimson Tide won their national championship. And while being the big winner has been fun all this time, I'm ready for something good and fun. A Saturday afternoon of cheers and "Roll Tides." Proudly wearing my shirts, shorts, and hats. Tearing up as the announcer yells "Here comes the Alabama Crimson Tide!" as the team runs through the tunnel on to the field. High fives and hell yeahs. Homecoming with my friends. Face painting and shakers. Hanging out on the Quad. And Yellowhammers.
Thirty six days to go. Are we there yet?
Long car rides in Florida suck. Just to get out of the state is nearly 10 hours. Then you ride more flat land until you finally hit some mountains. We never went any further than Chimney Rock, North Carolina to get dropped off and picked up at camp. Our usual road trip was to Disney World. Four hours to Mickey.
When I got to college my road trips around the South opened my eyes to kudzu, road side stands of fried pies, fresh vegetables, barbecue, and lots and lots of churches. Outside Montgomery, Alabama there is some kind of freaky religious shrine with hundreds of crosses.
Long car trips teach you patience. You know when you get out of the car you know there will be something good, something fun or at least a bathroom to look forward to.
I'm reminded of that patience as I wait for college football season to begin. It's been months since the Crimson Tide won their national championship. And while being the big winner has been fun all this time, I'm ready for something good and fun. A Saturday afternoon of cheers and "Roll Tides." Proudly wearing my shirts, shorts, and hats. Tearing up as the announcer yells "Here comes the Alabama Crimson Tide!" as the team runs through the tunnel on to the field. High fives and hell yeahs. Homecoming with my friends. Face painting and shakers. Hanging out on the Quad. And Yellowhammers.
Thirty six days to go. Are we there yet?
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Boob Tube
Two weeks ago I got the frightening news that a routine MRI (I'll explain its "routine-ness in a moment) revealed two spots on my right breast and one on my liver.
After the initial shock (which according to my Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican lasted a brief twenty minutes) my thoughts went to two places:
1) Double mastectomy with reconstruction. Bright side--I would get huge new, perky breasts, would not have to wear a bra, pitch myself to Playboy as the first "reconstructionist" to be a centerfold.
2) Planned my funeral. Having just read about Nora Ephron's well-executed funeral plans (she left a folder marked "EXIT") I decided what my final goodbye would look like. Two hours of open bar to be followed by open mic and then the last Alabama Championship played on a JumboTron screen.
Back to reality...
My strong family history of breast cancer forces me to have a mammogram and MRI every year. I never give it a second thought.
Ten days later I had a liver ultrasound and a MRI guided breast biopsy. Being claustrophobic I was loaded on some good meds. The biopsy was especially bad. In and out of that tube, face down, for over an hour.
The GREAT news is that the liver spot was a shadow on the film and the biopsy was nothing--just two tiny cysts.
So regardless of what you think about health care reform, go get whatever tests you need--including skin cancer screenings--every year. If this was the worst case scenario for me, it would have been caught very early and likely saved my life.
Oh and sorry Playboy.
After the initial shock (which according to my Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican lasted a brief twenty minutes) my thoughts went to two places:
1) Double mastectomy with reconstruction. Bright side--I would get huge new, perky breasts, would not have to wear a bra, pitch myself to Playboy as the first "reconstructionist" to be a centerfold.
2) Planned my funeral. Having just read about Nora Ephron's well-executed funeral plans (she left a folder marked "EXIT") I decided what my final goodbye would look like. Two hours of open bar to be followed by open mic and then the last Alabama Championship played on a JumboTron screen.
Back to reality...
My strong family history of breast cancer forces me to have a mammogram and MRI every year. I never give it a second thought.
Ten days later I had a liver ultrasound and a MRI guided breast biopsy. Being claustrophobic I was loaded on some good meds. The biopsy was especially bad. In and out of that tube, face down, for over an hour.
The GREAT news is that the liver spot was a shadow on the film and the biopsy was nothing--just two tiny cysts.
So regardless of what you think about health care reform, go get whatever tests you need--including skin cancer screenings--every year. If this was the worst case scenario for me, it would have been caught very early and likely saved my life.
Oh and sorry Playboy.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Hoarders 1.0
These "Hoarder" shows try hard but hey, when you live with the hoarder prototype, they really don't pass muster. Just because you save every newspaper you ever read or dry cleaning receipt--that's amateur hour in my book.
My mom--let's call her Miss Judge-mental--bought THEN saved everything. There is a big difference. Old newspapers are worth next to nothing. Seven closets of shoes at about $300 a pop. Now we're talking. Got a few hundred TV Guides? Kindling. Now, three hundred pieces of St. John Knit is some good coin.
Miss Judge-mental did not keep her hoarding to the closest. The kitchen was a particular point of pride. Ever had chipped beef? From a jar? If not, she had seven jars around at all times. Candied ginger, anchovies, corn meal and Mandarin oranges were also in high supply. At least 20 boxes of sugar free banana Jello and low sodium chicken broth, too. What all those things make combined sounds like a Sandra Lee "Semi Homemade" recipe nightmare. From every meal a scrap was saved--nothing went to waste. Three peas, a lone bread roll, or half a canned peach were put in lunch-sized baggies and stuffed into a Sub Zero freezer that screamed "HELP ME" every time the door was opened.
Paper weights in crystal and china--boxes full. Pillows with sayings on them like "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most" covered every couch, chair and bed. Silver in every form--like four sets of place settings with 24 pieces each. Silver goblets, pill boxes, gravy ladles, grape scissors, grapefruit spoons and ash trays ( no one smoked) filled cupboards. Three complete sets of china, dressers of antique table linens and hundreds of Christmas cookie cut out shapes.
The attic was so interesting. Fifty years of tax returns, a pair of brown men's shoes that fit no one, Nixon buttons, boxes of my baby clothes (I'm 46), scraps of fabric and a flight manifest signed by Charles Lindbergh. Boxes of cut crystal, Christmas decorations, and wedding albums.
My theory on this 4,000 square foot junk fest we called home harkens back to the Great Depression and a fried egg sandwich. As a young child, saddened by a man begging for food on a street corner, Miss Judge-mental went home and fried in costly butter the only black market egg in the family fridge, carefully wrapped it in two priceless pieces of bread and went back to find the man--to no avail. Returning home, her furious mother forced her to eat that cold egg sandwich as a lesson she never forgot.
I mean really, it should have gone in the freezer.
My mom--let's call her Miss Judge-mental--bought THEN saved everything. There is a big difference. Old newspapers are worth next to nothing. Seven closets of shoes at about $300 a pop. Now we're talking. Got a few hundred TV Guides? Kindling. Now, three hundred pieces of St. John Knit is some good coin.
Miss Judge-mental did not keep her hoarding to the closest. The kitchen was a particular point of pride. Ever had chipped beef? From a jar? If not, she had seven jars around at all times. Candied ginger, anchovies, corn meal and Mandarin oranges were also in high supply. At least 20 boxes of sugar free banana Jello and low sodium chicken broth, too. What all those things make combined sounds like a Sandra Lee "Semi Homemade" recipe nightmare. From every meal a scrap was saved--nothing went to waste. Three peas, a lone bread roll, or half a canned peach were put in lunch-sized baggies and stuffed into a Sub Zero freezer that screamed "HELP ME" every time the door was opened.
Paper weights in crystal and china--boxes full. Pillows with sayings on them like "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most" covered every couch, chair and bed. Silver in every form--like four sets of place settings with 24 pieces each. Silver goblets, pill boxes, gravy ladles, grape scissors, grapefruit spoons and ash trays ( no one smoked) filled cupboards. Three complete sets of china, dressers of antique table linens and hundreds of Christmas cookie cut out shapes.
The attic was so interesting. Fifty years of tax returns, a pair of brown men's shoes that fit no one, Nixon buttons, boxes of my baby clothes (I'm 46), scraps of fabric and a flight manifest signed by Charles Lindbergh. Boxes of cut crystal, Christmas decorations, and wedding albums.
My theory on this 4,000 square foot junk fest we called home harkens back to the Great Depression and a fried egg sandwich. As a young child, saddened by a man begging for food on a street corner, Miss Judge-mental went home and fried in costly butter the only black market egg in the family fridge, carefully wrapped it in two priceless pieces of bread and went back to find the man--to no avail. Returning home, her furious mother forced her to eat that cold egg sandwich as a lesson she never forgot.
I mean really, it should have gone in the freezer.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The Rudest Place on Earth
There are many places you may think of that are rude. Now I know people are usually rude but I am taking that to the next level. I mean a place that rude people are attracted to, flock to, get their horrible energy from.
So what is your rude place? Macy's the day after Christmas? The mall parking lot? A crowded bus? The DMV? Your mother's Thanksgiving table?
My rude place is a doctor's office. But not just any office. No, this is the office of Dr. Bland (names barely changed to protect the innocent) a highly sought after "enhancement" dermatologist.
Note: Before you get all preachy on me, yes I get Botox. Yes, I know its poison. No, I don't care what you think.
This week I visited Dr. Bland and in his waiting room was a plethora of extremely enhanced, 60-ish women who were all looking over each other to see who looked better. There was one expecption, a smallish 14 year old girl who was there with her overprotective mom and having a fit over one zit the size of an ant hill.
Every woman there insisted to the lowly, hourly wage receptionists that Dr. Bland "wanted" to see her and that she needed to get in first. This turned into an all-out shouting match with the receptionists, who could be zombie stand ins. I checked in with the receptonist and the only thing they could do was smile meekly. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait. The shouting, gesturing, sour faces and preening was to only be broken up by a delivery of 25 red ballons for Dr. Bland. Turns out, it was his birthday.
Horrified that they would have to see Dr. Bland empty handed on his big day and full of fear he would unleash his retribution with an over-filled needle, they all told the receptionsist they would be back in hour so they could go to Needless Markup and buy him some overpriced trinket. Leaving me and a small zit alone.
The nurse called me in and the first thing I noticed is that Dr. Bland had redecorated and he had in his office a huge black and white photo of himself in his medical white coat injecting a much younger, partially nude man. Balloons were everywhere. Dr. Bland obviously loved latex in all forms.
The deed was done and I went to the desk to pay or as my confused Cuban/Puerto Rican says "handed over your first born." As I reached into my wallet the woman next to me, who looked like she has spent every waking moment baking in the sun, shouted "HERE TRY THIS ONE!" She shoved a Platinum American Express card in front of me to the receptionist. I turned to her and said "I'm trying to pay." "SO AM I" she screamed. The receptionist told her "Ma'am this card doesn't work either."
Since two rudes make a right, I said "Well I'll only have to give you ONE card, because it works" and handed her my plastic generic Mastercard.
Botox may make you look younger. But apparently it unleashes a rath of rude.
So what is your rude place? Macy's the day after Christmas? The mall parking lot? A crowded bus? The DMV? Your mother's Thanksgiving table?
My rude place is a doctor's office. But not just any office. No, this is the office of Dr. Bland (names barely changed to protect the innocent) a highly sought after "enhancement" dermatologist.
Note: Before you get all preachy on me, yes I get Botox. Yes, I know its poison. No, I don't care what you think.
This week I visited Dr. Bland and in his waiting room was a plethora of extremely enhanced, 60-ish women who were all looking over each other to see who looked better. There was one expecption, a smallish 14 year old girl who was there with her overprotective mom and having a fit over one zit the size of an ant hill.
Every woman there insisted to the lowly, hourly wage receptionists that Dr. Bland "wanted" to see her and that she needed to get in first. This turned into an all-out shouting match with the receptionists, who could be zombie stand ins. I checked in with the receptonist and the only thing they could do was smile meekly. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait. The shouting, gesturing, sour faces and preening was to only be broken up by a delivery of 25 red ballons for Dr. Bland. Turns out, it was his birthday.
Horrified that they would have to see Dr. Bland empty handed on his big day and full of fear he would unleash his retribution with an over-filled needle, they all told the receptionsist they would be back in hour so they could go to Needless Markup and buy him some overpriced trinket. Leaving me and a small zit alone.
The nurse called me in and the first thing I noticed is that Dr. Bland had redecorated and he had in his office a huge black and white photo of himself in his medical white coat injecting a much younger, partially nude man. Balloons were everywhere. Dr. Bland obviously loved latex in all forms.
The deed was done and I went to the desk to pay or as my confused Cuban/Puerto Rican says "handed over your first born." As I reached into my wallet the woman next to me, who looked like she has spent every waking moment baking in the sun, shouted "HERE TRY THIS ONE!" She shoved a Platinum American Express card in front of me to the receptionist. I turned to her and said "I'm trying to pay." "SO AM I" she screamed. The receptionist told her "Ma'am this card doesn't work either."
Since two rudes make a right, I said "Well I'll only have to give you ONE card, because it works" and handed her my plastic generic Mastercard.
Botox may make you look younger. But apparently it unleashes a rath of rude.
Monday, June 25, 2012
T/SP
This past weekend I visited one my long-time friends in Tampa/St. Pete. This area apparently is suffering from a complex because when you ask where someone is from, they have to answer with both cities. And Orlando is gross to them because it is "down there." Like a woman's nether region.
So T/SP is home to many people from other places. These places have foreign names like "Queens," "Brooklyn," and "Long Island." When I say my husband is Cuban/Puerto Rican, I get looks like he smells of garlic and plays maracas. Hmmm. These displaced New Yorkers have no idea that to a native Floridian like me, they are our of their element like an Eskimo in Guatemala.
People in T/SP are very tan and fit. Men's Health recently named T/SP the most fit city in the country. This was a big point of pride until I pointed out the correlation to T/SP having one of the largest gay pride parades in the country. Hmmm.
T/SP has many mom and pop hotels lining its Gulf beaches. These hotels have names like the Thunderbird and Ocean Breeze. Each beach front has a "tiki bar," which is really a Polynesian invention. All the tiki huts serve drinks that are based on three elements: sugar, sugary juice, exactly one teaspoon of sugary alcohol. They looked like milkshakes. I did not have one.
Going out to a T/SP beach bar is fun. No matter how little effort you make in getting dressed, you will be overdressed at Ricky T's bar. I think most people there came from washing cars, chumming fish or checking out at Publix. The effects of tanning over a lifetime are evident here. I saw one woman who would make an incredible purse. While dancing a guy came up to me and put his arm around my waist and tried the boob grab. I said "Listen man, if I was going to cheat on my husband of 22 years it would not be with a guy with six teeth in his head and missing digits."
I would highly recommend anyone visit T/SP who is is looking for a sugary tropical drink, served by a overly tan hot gay guy from Long Island who likes to dance to Southern Rock. Or to visit one of your dearest friends in the world.
So T/SP is home to many people from other places. These places have foreign names like "Queens," "Brooklyn," and "Long Island." When I say my husband is Cuban/Puerto Rican, I get looks like he smells of garlic and plays maracas. Hmmm. These displaced New Yorkers have no idea that to a native Floridian like me, they are our of their element like an Eskimo in Guatemala.
People in T/SP are very tan and fit. Men's Health recently named T/SP the most fit city in the country. This was a big point of pride until I pointed out the correlation to T/SP having one of the largest gay pride parades in the country. Hmmm.
T/SP has many mom and pop hotels lining its Gulf beaches. These hotels have names like the Thunderbird and Ocean Breeze. Each beach front has a "tiki bar," which is really a Polynesian invention. All the tiki huts serve drinks that are based on three elements: sugar, sugary juice, exactly one teaspoon of sugary alcohol. They looked like milkshakes. I did not have one.
Going out to a T/SP beach bar is fun. No matter how little effort you make in getting dressed, you will be overdressed at Ricky T's bar. I think most people there came from washing cars, chumming fish or checking out at Publix. The effects of tanning over a lifetime are evident here. I saw one woman who would make an incredible purse. While dancing a guy came up to me and put his arm around my waist and tried the boob grab. I said "Listen man, if I was going to cheat on my husband of 22 years it would not be with a guy with six teeth in his head and missing digits."
I would highly recommend anyone visit T/SP who is is looking for a sugary tropical drink, served by a overly tan hot gay guy from Long Island who likes to dance to Southern Rock. Or to visit one of your dearest friends in the world.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
My Frugal Father
I like to look at the specials Groupon offers. Some of them I would be interested in--pedicures, travel and restaurants.
Other stuff--like chemical peels and house cleaners--seem a little personal.
Before Groupon there were plain old coupons. They were in your windshield, mailed to your house or in the newspaper.
We used one from the Yellow Pages to bury my dad.
My dad was super "frugal." Always turning lights off and keeping the house too hot. After spending a small fortune burying my mom, his mantra became "don't spend a lot on my funeral." Over and over again. For the remaining five years of his life he constantly told us funerals were a rip off, funeral directors weren't to be trusted and flowers just get thrown in the trash.
When he did die, the Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican and I trekked up to the Winter White part of Florida to console my brother and help with arrangements. On the four hour drive up, his admonition rang in my ears--spend as little as possible. I know the CC/PR remembered as well.
My dad had died during the night and now it was afternoon the next day. His body needed to be picked up from the hospital by a funeral home. Not knowing the Winter White area we had no idea who to call. So the CC/PR opened the Yellow Pages and scanned the advertisements. While my brother and I chatted we heard him ask "And how much off the cremation if we use the coupon?"
Huh?
The Yellow Pages advertisement included a coupon for cremation. And we apparently were the first to use it.
When we arrived at the crematorium, we brought a Publix plastic bag for his remains as he wanted his ashes taken to the Everglades. That started another issue--ashes must be delivered to the survivors in a legal "vessel." Meaning more money. We didn't need an urn, vase or expensive container.
So my dad's ashes were packed in a plastic lined cardboard box. Like we were going to mail him.
I hope we followed your wishes, dad.
Other stuff--like chemical peels and house cleaners--seem a little personal.
Before Groupon there were plain old coupons. They were in your windshield, mailed to your house or in the newspaper.
We used one from the Yellow Pages to bury my dad.
My dad was super "frugal." Always turning lights off and keeping the house too hot. After spending a small fortune burying my mom, his mantra became "don't spend a lot on my funeral." Over and over again. For the remaining five years of his life he constantly told us funerals were a rip off, funeral directors weren't to be trusted and flowers just get thrown in the trash.
When he did die, the Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican and I trekked up to the Winter White part of Florida to console my brother and help with arrangements. On the four hour drive up, his admonition rang in my ears--spend as little as possible. I know the CC/PR remembered as well.
My dad had died during the night and now it was afternoon the next day. His body needed to be picked up from the hospital by a funeral home. Not knowing the Winter White area we had no idea who to call. So the CC/PR opened the Yellow Pages and scanned the advertisements. While my brother and I chatted we heard him ask "And how much off the cremation if we use the coupon?"
Huh?
The Yellow Pages advertisement included a coupon for cremation. And we apparently were the first to use it.
When we arrived at the crematorium, we brought a Publix plastic bag for his remains as he wanted his ashes taken to the Everglades. That started another issue--ashes must be delivered to the survivors in a legal "vessel." Meaning more money. We didn't need an urn, vase or expensive container.
So my dad's ashes were packed in a plastic lined cardboard box. Like we were going to mail him.
I hope we followed your wishes, dad.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Vanity Thy Name is Amelia
The island that Amelia Earhart crashed landed on has finally been determined. For years, researchers have scoured the Pacific Ocean for hopes of her plane or remains. A tiny atoll, Nikumaroro, is now believed to be her final destination.
Yet no DNA or other identification has been found. Instead, it was her freckle fade cream that led researchers to realize it was Earhart.
Earhart's final flight was doomed in several ways. An inexperienced co-pilot, faulty navigation systems, poor communications and low fuel contributed to her crash. Somehow she made it to the small atoll and must have lived for a while. Researchers discovered a piece of her freckle fade cream glass jar next to the skeleton of a turtle, apparently used as a tool or utensil to eat it.
I am a cream lover, too, Face, hand, elbow, feet, neck, cuticle, hair--I have them all. My journeys, while not as adventurous as Earhart's, always include a trip to the local apothecary. On a trip several years ago to Prague my friends endured a side trip to Dr. Botanicus for creams and potions made from ancient recipes. My husband knows the neon "green cross" sign in Europe can only mean one thing--me, lugging bags of products back to the States.
After all that went to Earhart's journey, she didn't leave her cream behind. What woman would? I can only imagine her, flying across the world, worried her freckles were getting worse from so much direct sunshine. Exhausted but making it to shore but bringing freckle cream along, instead of provisions. Scrapping the last bits of the cream out to put the jar to something less useful--like eating.
I would have done the same thing, I'm sure. Except my carry on would have been limited to 3 ounce bottles in a large plastic bag.
Yet no DNA or other identification has been found. Instead, it was her freckle fade cream that led researchers to realize it was Earhart.
Earhart's final flight was doomed in several ways. An inexperienced co-pilot, faulty navigation systems, poor communications and low fuel contributed to her crash. Somehow she made it to the small atoll and must have lived for a while. Researchers discovered a piece of her freckle fade cream glass jar next to the skeleton of a turtle, apparently used as a tool or utensil to eat it.
I am a cream lover, too, Face, hand, elbow, feet, neck, cuticle, hair--I have them all. My journeys, while not as adventurous as Earhart's, always include a trip to the local apothecary. On a trip several years ago to Prague my friends endured a side trip to Dr. Botanicus for creams and potions made from ancient recipes. My husband knows the neon "green cross" sign in Europe can only mean one thing--me, lugging bags of products back to the States.
After all that went to Earhart's journey, she didn't leave her cream behind. What woman would? I can only imagine her, flying across the world, worried her freckles were getting worse from so much direct sunshine. Exhausted but making it to shore but bringing freckle cream along, instead of provisions. Scrapping the last bits of the cream out to put the jar to something less useful--like eating.
I would have done the same thing, I'm sure. Except my carry on would have been limited to 3 ounce bottles in a large plastic bag.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Wordly Wise
I had a great post for you which will have to wait. Wait until I can get past the tragic news I heard yesterday. My high school classmate Jim Butwin and his family are dead.
Jim and I were classmates. In our senior year we dueled each week for the Wordly Wise spelling test. Each week one of us would outscore the other by a point. I would get a 99% and he 100% and then next it would be reversed. When I won at the end of the school year, Jim, who always sat right behind me (of course I was in the front row) kicked the back of my chair so hard I fell out my seat. "Fuck you," he said.
Jim and I were voted Funniest and Most Demented Sense of Humor for our senior class. We posed for some dumb picture in a trash can of something. While my "demented" sense of humor leaned towards the make-you-blush kind, Jim's was a bit more cruel and sarcastic and I remember more than one girl welling up with tears over his fat or ugly comments.
Flash forward twenty nine years. I have not seen or heard of Jim in these many years. Yesterday a fellow classmate emailed a news article from Tempe, Arizona that Jim, suffering from a recurrence of a brain tumor, pending divorce and $18 million in debt, killed his wife and three kids, then lit his truck on fire with their bodies and his in desert.
I can only imagine what hell he must have been living to do such a thing. I can only think Jim lost the only thing that ever kept him going, his incredible sense of humor.
Dear God, don't let me ever lose mine.
Jim and I were classmates. In our senior year we dueled each week for the Wordly Wise spelling test. Each week one of us would outscore the other by a point. I would get a 99% and he 100% and then next it would be reversed. When I won at the end of the school year, Jim, who always sat right behind me (of course I was in the front row) kicked the back of my chair so hard I fell out my seat. "Fuck you," he said.
Jim and I were voted Funniest and Most Demented Sense of Humor for our senior class. We posed for some dumb picture in a trash can of something. While my "demented" sense of humor leaned towards the make-you-blush kind, Jim's was a bit more cruel and sarcastic and I remember more than one girl welling up with tears over his fat or ugly comments.
Flash forward twenty nine years. I have not seen or heard of Jim in these many years. Yesterday a fellow classmate emailed a news article from Tempe, Arizona that Jim, suffering from a recurrence of a brain tumor, pending divorce and $18 million in debt, killed his wife and three kids, then lit his truck on fire with their bodies and his in desert.
I can only imagine what hell he must have been living to do such a thing. I can only think Jim lost the only thing that ever kept him going, his incredible sense of humor.
Dear God, don't let me ever lose mine.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Practically Perfect in Every Way
Mary Poppins is my favorite movie. Of all time. Now I do love All the President's Men for its incredible take on an time in our country when things were so screwed up it could have only been ellipsed in history by the Civil War. And I will watch anything with Vincent Price over and over again.
But Mary is my girl.
Mary Poppins encompasses all the perfect elements in a movie. Great songs. A London locale. Bratty kids who learn a lesson or two. A suffragette mother. A Jack-of-All Trades named Bert. Uncle Albert, who laughs, then floats and takes tea on the ceiling. Arthur Treacher (of Fish and Chips fame) plays the constable. Magic. A dog named Andrew. And Julie Andrews.
But back to the bratty kids who learn a lesson or two.
Since I am NOT a parent, what do I know about kids? Well, I do know they need to behave. Not talk back. Not listen to an IPod during dinner. Not win awards for just showing up.
Jane and Michael Banks had absent parents. Not unlike lots of moms and dads today. They worked too hard, sent the kids to dinner and bed in the nursery the minute dad got home. Sort of the same thing parents today do with computers and IPads.
Enter Mary. She got those kids in shape "spit spot." Gave them their spoon full of medicine, made them clean the nursery, got them to stop running away from home and introduced them to a wonderful, fun world of imagination. When the children learned enough, she departed with her talking umbrella.
I miss Marys. Every time I see a bratty kid and overindulgent parent. I wonder why Mary won't visit anymore.
Maybe it has something to do with attachment parenting. Mary can't compete with a kid who breast feeds until they are five.
Mary Poppins is my favorite movie. Of all time. Now I do love All the President's Men for its incredible take on an time in our country when things were so screwed up it could have only been ellipsed in history by the Civil War. And I will watch anything with Vincent Price over and over again.
But Mary is my girl.
Mary Poppins encompasses all the perfect elements in a movie. Great songs. A London locale. Bratty kids who learn a lesson or two. A suffragette mother. A Jack-of-All Trades named Bert. Uncle Albert, who laughs, then floats and takes tea on the ceiling. Arthur Treacher (of Fish and Chips fame) plays the constable. Magic. A dog named Andrew. And Julie Andrews.
But back to the bratty kids who learn a lesson or two.
Since I am NOT a parent, what do I know about kids? Well, I do know they need to behave. Not talk back. Not listen to an IPod during dinner. Not win awards for just showing up.
Jane and Michael Banks had absent parents. Not unlike lots of moms and dads today. They worked too hard, sent the kids to dinner and bed in the nursery the minute dad got home. Sort of the same thing parents today do with computers and IPads.
Enter Mary. She got those kids in shape "spit spot." Gave them their spoon full of medicine, made them clean the nursery, got them to stop running away from home and introduced them to a wonderful, fun world of imagination. When the children learned enough, she departed with her talking umbrella.
I miss Marys. Every time I see a bratty kid and overindulgent parent. I wonder why Mary won't visit anymore.
Maybe it has something to do with attachment parenting. Mary can't compete with a kid who breast feeds until they are five.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Dining Out...or on the MacArthur Causeway
My confused Cuban/Puerto Rican husband and I had the pleasure of visiting our dear, no kids, irreverent West Village compadres Memorial Weekend. We ate like kings.
The highlight was a visit to Eleven Madison Park. OMG, hello. Now this was just about the most over-the-top dining experience ever. Where to start? A menu with sixteen items, you pick four and the rest is up to Beard Award-winning chef Daniel Humm to create. Three hours later we rolled out and swore we couldn't eat again until we devoured brunch the next day. Sigh.
While we were eating like kings, back in Miami Rudy Eugene had been having quite a meal himself. Unfortunately it was his last. You see, his fare was probably not up to James Beard award standards. His meal consisted of a nose and eye. Raw. Not like sushi. It was outdoors which can be nice in Miami. Except it was on MacArthur Causeway, named for General Douglas MacArthur. Who luckily is dead or would be annoyed that his claim to fine is now a "fast food" bridge and not wars and such. Rudy was dining on a poor homeless guy, who had already survived a 1976 gunshot wound.
What do these things have to do with each other? Nothing.
I just find life full of strange ironies and as we took off for a weekend of interesting and creative fare, Rudy found a delightful meal of homeless. I hope he had a toothpick.
My confused Cuban/Puerto Rican husband and I had the pleasure of visiting our dear, no kids, irreverent West Village compadres Memorial Weekend. We ate like kings.
The highlight was a visit to Eleven Madison Park. OMG, hello. Now this was just about the most over-the-top dining experience ever. Where to start? A menu with sixteen items, you pick four and the rest is up to Beard Award-winning chef Daniel Humm to create. Three hours later we rolled out and swore we couldn't eat again until we devoured brunch the next day. Sigh.
While we were eating like kings, back in Miami Rudy Eugene had been having quite a meal himself. Unfortunately it was his last. You see, his fare was probably not up to James Beard award standards. His meal consisted of a nose and eye. Raw. Not like sushi. It was outdoors which can be nice in Miami. Except it was on MacArthur Causeway, named for General Douglas MacArthur. Who luckily is dead or would be annoyed that his claim to fine is now a "fast food" bridge and not wars and such. Rudy was dining on a poor homeless guy, who had already survived a 1976 gunshot wound.
What do these things have to do with each other? Nothing.
I just find life full of strange ironies and as we took off for a weekend of interesting and creative fare, Rudy found a delightful meal of homeless. I hope he had a toothpick.
Friday, June 1, 2012
And away we go...
Another blog, you say? Well considering two of my most favorite have closed up shop I think the world has room for one more. I came to the quick conclusion it should be me. Here's why.
Today I came to the office and drilling has been going on since 8:30 am. Drilling as in your dentist's office worst nightmare. We are having new windows office installed. Who can work with all this racket?
So I decided starting a new blog would be a good way to air my frustrations. Here I go.
"SHUT THAT SHIT UP!"
Ok, I feel much better.
Anywho (as my grandfather would say), back to me. I will be blogging periodic musings about my life as a gringa married to a confused Cuban/Puerto Rican, southern-isms, Alabama football, irreverence and inappropriate comments about things that will make you blush or wonder "how does she get away with saying that?"
Today I came to the office and drilling has been going on since 8:30 am. Drilling as in your dentist's office worst nightmare. We are having new windows office installed. Who can work with all this racket?
So I decided starting a new blog would be a good way to air my frustrations. Here I go.
"SHUT THAT SHIT UP!"
Ok, I feel much better.
Anywho (as my grandfather would say), back to me. I will be blogging periodic musings about my life as a gringa married to a confused Cuban/Puerto Rican, southern-isms, Alabama football, irreverence and inappropriate comments about things that will make you blush or wonder "how does she get away with saying that?"
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