Your mother will always look out for you no matter how old you get it seems. Since I just moved here from that Stepford Wife state of CT, I’ve been temporarily staying with the parental units until my new house is ready next month. So I was humorously reminded of the protective bond a mother provides over the years. Let me explain a recent chain of events on how it goes on down the line through the generation tug of war.
Last week at dinner time my pre-schooler grumbled that he didn’t want to eat his food. He got down from the table and screamed, “Mommy, I want oreo’s for dinner.” Didn’t sound like a bad idea to me - heck, I wanted cookies for dinner too. Oh, but then the mother instinct took over and I told him “no” of course and he went off stomping his feet and yelling, “Bad Mommy”.
So after putting him to bed I dressed up and was leaving the house to go to a late dinner with friends but had popped my head into the TV room where my mother and grandmother were watching, “SuperNanny” that horrid little show with unruly children you wish to ship off to Guam. “You should watch this show, Carol, you could a learn a thing or two,” says my mother. “That little guy of hers could be an episode himself,” jokes my Grandmother. So I roll my eyes like any good daughter would and try to escape for my night out but too late – mom is out of the chair and scrutinizing my outfit. After a frown the size of half a hula hoop, she reaches over and buttons my shirt, “Look at this – you have cleavage showing for goodness sake.” Immediately I’m thrown back to high school hiding a pair of 3” red suede Candie heels in my back pack that I would change into after I got off the bus at school. So I let her do it knowing full well I’m going to unbutton it again when I leave the house. On the way out the door I overhear my grandmother complain to my mother, “You’re gonna let her go out at 9:00 at night?” “She’s 40 years old, Ma,” my mother replies. “I don’t care - What is she doing at 9:00 at night,” my Grandmother continues to apply pressure. I just know my mother is rolling her eyes at her own mother.
So the stress gets passed on down the line from mother to mother across the generations. Always looking out for your best interest with that mother hen instinct to protect their young even though you are a parent yourself. The next day my mother wheels my Grandmother into the Adult Day Center to spend some time with her friends. (93yrs. old and still kicking, God Bless her cranky little self) As she leaves she overhears my grandmother say to her friends, “Damn kids! Sixty years old and she’s still giving me aggravation!”
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Life in the Emergency Room
The local hospitals know my father on a first name basis. “Hi, Ron, what did you do this time?” is a popular phrase heard in every Emergency Room in the Hudson Valley. He’s there so often they need to name a wing after him from all the business he’s provided them over the years. What’s the problem? He’s either accident prone or just really bad at starting a career of suicide attempts.
Starting from my childhood I can count the years on what accidents Dad had. When the teacher asked me to recite the alphabet I’d say, “E-R”. It started when he was showing me how NOT to open a car’s radiator after it was running for awhile. “See this, Carol? Don’t ever open the radiator cap when it’s hot -- watch what happens.” You guessed it - facial burns that rivaled the Joker’s. That was my first experience in the ER. There was the time he was showing me how to ski down the slopes of VT. “Now it’s very important to watch where you’re going, Carol, so you don’t hit a treeeeee”. He looked like a cartoon character with his face smashed into that tree, arms and legs wrapped around it and various ski equipment strewn about the mountain. I just shook my head and wondered how he survived hitting a tree and Sonny Bono didn’t – they’re both the same size I thought.
Chainsaws! There’s a hot button. I can’t tell you how many body parts he’s cut up with a chainsaw over the years. Dr. Frankenstein must be his doctor one would think with all the sewn up appendages he has. As an adult whenever I hear the sound of one I immediately begin to twitch as if I have cerebal palsy. When I got my drivers permit he made sure I got full use out of it driving him to the hospital. “Hi Carol, can you drive on over here I need your help.” “Sure, Dad, let me finish eating my sandwich and I’ll be there in a half hour.” “You better come now because I’m lying under a tree.” WHAT??!!” “Yeah, the chainsaw got away on me and I sliced my arm just about off but I can’t tell because the tree fell on me so I’m a bit stuck underneath it right now. It’s a good thing the cell phone was in my other pocket,” he laughs while bleeding to death. Sixteen years old and I swore like a trucker at him all the way to the hospital as he faintly kept telling me to slow down or I’d get a ticket. Can you believe that?!
This man has totaled more cars than at the Derby Raceway. Insurance companies lock their doors when they seem him coming. The kicker is that he can roll the best trucks several times over and STILL walk away from them. He’s driven one off a cliff, down a slope, landed vertically on a set of railroad tracks and made it out of the cab before the train plowed through it. Stunt men just look at him and shake their heads. Absolutely amazing! Now that he’s in his sixties, retired, and recuperating from 2 heart attacks back-to-back in July I figured his days of being Evil Knieval were over. Nope. Eating my breakfast and staring out the window at the rain last week I suddenly see his body fall from the sky. Bastard fell off the roof. He was working on the addition in the rain and fell off the roof and into the hole of cinder blocks. I told my mother to just pour the concrete foundation on top of him and be done with it. They say cat’s have nine lives but watching this episode I swear I saw a mother cat telling her young, “See that guy – he’s got 15 lives and counting.”
Starting from my childhood I can count the years on what accidents Dad had. When the teacher asked me to recite the alphabet I’d say, “E-R”. It started when he was showing me how NOT to open a car’s radiator after it was running for awhile. “See this, Carol? Don’t ever open the radiator cap when it’s hot -- watch what happens.” You guessed it - facial burns that rivaled the Joker’s. That was my first experience in the ER. There was the time he was showing me how to ski down the slopes of VT. “Now it’s very important to watch where you’re going, Carol, so you don’t hit a treeeeee”. He looked like a cartoon character with his face smashed into that tree, arms and legs wrapped around it and various ski equipment strewn about the mountain. I just shook my head and wondered how he survived hitting a tree and Sonny Bono didn’t – they’re both the same size I thought.
Chainsaws! There’s a hot button. I can’t tell you how many body parts he’s cut up with a chainsaw over the years. Dr. Frankenstein must be his doctor one would think with all the sewn up appendages he has. As an adult whenever I hear the sound of one I immediately begin to twitch as if I have cerebal palsy. When I got my drivers permit he made sure I got full use out of it driving him to the hospital. “Hi Carol, can you drive on over here I need your help.” “Sure, Dad, let me finish eating my sandwich and I’ll be there in a half hour.” “You better come now because I’m lying under a tree.” WHAT??!!” “Yeah, the chainsaw got away on me and I sliced my arm just about off but I can’t tell because the tree fell on me so I’m a bit stuck underneath it right now. It’s a good thing the cell phone was in my other pocket,” he laughs while bleeding to death. Sixteen years old and I swore like a trucker at him all the way to the hospital as he faintly kept telling me to slow down or I’d get a ticket. Can you believe that?!
This man has totaled more cars than at the Derby Raceway. Insurance companies lock their doors when they seem him coming. The kicker is that he can roll the best trucks several times over and STILL walk away from them. He’s driven one off a cliff, down a slope, landed vertically on a set of railroad tracks and made it out of the cab before the train plowed through it. Stunt men just look at him and shake their heads. Absolutely amazing! Now that he’s in his sixties, retired, and recuperating from 2 heart attacks back-to-back in July I figured his days of being Evil Knieval were over. Nope. Eating my breakfast and staring out the window at the rain last week I suddenly see his body fall from the sky. Bastard fell off the roof. He was working on the addition in the rain and fell off the roof and into the hole of cinder blocks. I told my mother to just pour the concrete foundation on top of him and be done with it. They say cat’s have nine lives but watching this episode I swear I saw a mother cat telling her young, “See that guy – he’s got 15 lives and counting.”
Back to school.....
Back to School….
Well all the little kiddie-do’s went back to school this week. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief through-out the region as parents everywhere put those little ones on the bus. Half hour later what sounded like thunder was not your local weather but rather the groans of every teacher as they dealt with classes of crying kindergarterners and swearing teenagers. God bless those poor things as they struggle to help guide our offspring – I know I couldn’t do it. The fact that I kept my two children alive to the point of school-age is a miracle in itself. Ingrained upon my memory was holding my colicky daughter at three weeks of age and crying along with her thinking, “Why on earth did I do this to myself?” Five years later, with saggy body parts, ten more wrinkles and the loss just about every hair on my head I have to remind myself that in the end it is worth it. Ninety percent of child-rearing is living hell but the other ten percent is so wonderful it keeps you from jumping off the bridge.
The fact that I’ve passed onto my 6yr-old bad habits like swearing better than any truck driver is a mute point. “It was bound to happen in her teens, anyway,” I reason. I fondly remember the first time my little darling picked up on this odd new slang of expressing one’s anger. We were driving in the “mama mini-van” (Lord help me I finally broke down and got one – oy!) when another driver cut me off in a very near miss. Without thinking I yelled, “You A$$hole!” From the her car seat my darling child holding onto her ducky for dear life asked, “Mommy, why did you call him that?” So I begin to answer her, “Well, you see he ran a red light and red means stop….” And just when I was beginning to wonder why I was explaining traffic laws to a toddler wouldn’t you know it but yet another car runs a stop sign and pulls out onto the road in front of me and I have to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision. Without missing a heart beat I hear a little voice yell out, “Look, Ma, there’s ANOTHER A$$hole!” Chip off the old block.
So with a big smile on my face I stood alongside my own mother and took pictures of her getting on the school bus and waved a tearful goodbye. I ponder what experiences my daughter will encounter in first grade this year and all the wonders her little mind will absorb and breathe a sigh of relief that she has a good teacher to guide her. Someone that will help un-do all the mistakes I’ve made thus far and set her on a steady path of good manners, education and ambition. The glow of the moment ended abruptly however when my mother, filled with the unique ability to inflict catholic guilt on everyone she knows, says “I just don’t see why you just can’t home school.” [Smirk] Till next time….
Well all the little kiddie-do’s went back to school this week. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief through-out the region as parents everywhere put those little ones on the bus. Half hour later what sounded like thunder was not your local weather but rather the groans of every teacher as they dealt with classes of crying kindergarterners and swearing teenagers. God bless those poor things as they struggle to help guide our offspring – I know I couldn’t do it. The fact that I kept my two children alive to the point of school-age is a miracle in itself. Ingrained upon my memory was holding my colicky daughter at three weeks of age and crying along with her thinking, “Why on earth did I do this to myself?” Five years later, with saggy body parts, ten more wrinkles and the loss just about every hair on my head I have to remind myself that in the end it is worth it. Ninety percent of child-rearing is living hell but the other ten percent is so wonderful it keeps you from jumping off the bridge.
The fact that I’ve passed onto my 6yr-old bad habits like swearing better than any truck driver is a mute point. “It was bound to happen in her teens, anyway,” I reason. I fondly remember the first time my little darling picked up on this odd new slang of expressing one’s anger. We were driving in the “mama mini-van” (Lord help me I finally broke down and got one – oy!) when another driver cut me off in a very near miss. Without thinking I yelled, “You A$$hole!” From the her car seat my darling child holding onto her ducky for dear life asked, “Mommy, why did you call him that?” So I begin to answer her, “Well, you see he ran a red light and red means stop….” And just when I was beginning to wonder why I was explaining traffic laws to a toddler wouldn’t you know it but yet another car runs a stop sign and pulls out onto the road in front of me and I have to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision. Without missing a heart beat I hear a little voice yell out, “Look, Ma, there’s ANOTHER A$$hole!” Chip off the old block.
So with a big smile on my face I stood alongside my own mother and took pictures of her getting on the school bus and waved a tearful goodbye. I ponder what experiences my daughter will encounter in first grade this year and all the wonders her little mind will absorb and breathe a sigh of relief that she has a good teacher to guide her. Someone that will help un-do all the mistakes I’ve made thus far and set her on a steady path of good manners, education and ambition. The glow of the moment ended abruptly however when my mother, filled with the unique ability to inflict catholic guilt on everyone she knows, says “I just don’t see why you just can’t home school.” [Smirk] Till next time….
Sunday, June 28, 2009
My Paintings
Paintings
When I was getting my Masters degree in Fredonia, NY, just outside Buffalo, I waitressed and sold my paintings to pay the bills. I had a lot of my works in pubs for sale and did pretty good for a while. Every one of them has a story to me just like a fond memory or a favorite tattoo. While bartending for this posh historic 1700’s Hotel where I actually had to wear a tux every night in the lounge with a beautiful mahogany bar, I met a rich fellow that had a hunting room and we got to talking about art. I told him where my paintings were hanging in town and he commissioned me to paint him a picture of wild ducks for his hunter green trophy room. Two weeks later I deliver the painting to his Mc-Mansion and see his really tripped out hunting room. He pays me $200 in cash for the painting, offers me a joint for which I pass and I start heading out. I walked out the door and got this weird tingly feeling as I walked to my car. I pulled out of the driveway and made it to the light at the end of the block when about a zillion SWAT cars and a police helicopter just storm the place and I watch it all in the rearview mirror as my art lover gets hauled out and thrown down on the front steps of his place. The papers next day said it was a huge mega drug bust that had been planned for a while. God, can you imagine that? I have a lot of odd stories like that of various travels …Lord the stories I could tell of some very interesting people you meet in the world. Mercy!
Picture #4 – Ribbon through time. This one has specks of glass sprinkled into the blue starry night that this peachy ribbon floats effortlessly through. I’ve had a few offers to sell it but I can’t part with it.
Picture #5 – Shattered. This is one of a few paintings I started doing that I termed, “Emotion paintings”. Like if you could take an emotion, say for instance, “sadness” and tried to paint it – what would it look like? This one is raw anger, bloody, and filled with shards of glass making you keep your distance… it is pain…it is rejection and rage…. betrayal and isolation… I painted it after being left at the Altar by Fiancé #2.
Picture #6 – Thunderstorm. Love this one. I always lose an earring so I took all the remaining earrings and put them in this painting. The one in the middle is the eye of the tornado, the upper left is crackling lightening, the bottom left is a canyon that the raging river on the lower left flows to. In the upper right are clouds and rain. I love thunderstorms and the rain in general. It’s electric nature fascinates me and water pouring down is a symbolical cleansing of the soul; a renewal.
Picture #7 – Two Ships passing in the night. This is my front window. I cut large plates of stained glass and set it in the window framework. It feels to me like an aerial view of two ships passing in the night--- kinda’ also reminds me of the aerial view of the two battlestar ships just missing hitting one another in the original Star Wars. Yes, I’m a huge fan of the films… what can I say.
Picture #8 – Folded Rag Rug. This one is actually one of those colorful woven rugs made of rags that everyone has had at one point in their lives at the entrance to the back door. It represents the woven strands of one’s life – there are hi’s and low’s, some dark periods, lighter/colorful sections, snags and worn areas but soft and comforting.
So that’s just a little sample of some of the paintings I’ve done. As I’m sure everyone does, I too have a favorite one. It hangs in my entranceway and has a secret message written on the back for someone I had not yet met …. but that’s another story.
When I was getting my Masters degree in Fredonia, NY, just outside Buffalo, I waitressed and sold my paintings to pay the bills. I had a lot of my works in pubs for sale and did pretty good for a while. Every one of them has a story to me just like a fond memory or a favorite tattoo. While bartending for this posh historic 1700’s Hotel where I actually had to wear a tux every night in the lounge with a beautiful mahogany bar, I met a rich fellow that had a hunting room and we got to talking about art. I told him where my paintings were hanging in town and he commissioned me to paint him a picture of wild ducks for his hunter green trophy room. Two weeks later I deliver the painting to his Mc-Mansion and see his really tripped out hunting room. He pays me $200 in cash for the painting, offers me a joint for which I pass and I start heading out. I walked out the door and got this weird tingly feeling as I walked to my car. I pulled out of the driveway and made it to the light at the end of the block when about a zillion SWAT cars and a police helicopter just storm the place and I watch it all in the rearview mirror as my art lover gets hauled out and thrown down on the front steps of his place. The papers next day said it was a huge mega drug bust that had been planned for a while. God, can you imagine that? I have a lot of odd stories like that of various travels …Lord the stories I could tell of some very interesting people you meet in the world. Mercy!
Picture #1 - Cindy in nothing but her Halston Perfume. This was an ad that came out that Cindy Crawford did for the Halston Perfume line circa 1980’s at the height of her career. That Pepsi commercial with the little boys watching her down a Pepsi on a dusty road to the tune of “Just one look” was all the rage. I liked the shading of the bone structure in her collarbone and her knee in this.
Picture #2 – Life in Pottery – This is representative of some of the Native American themed paintings I’ve done. I sold a lot of my young Indian maiden portraits at a business I owned called, “Two Eagles Horse and Wolf” in 2000. This painting is representative of the harsh terrain of life’s up’s and down’s as symbolized by the mountains. On a table of raw lumber sits 4 pots that represent 4 stages of my life. The yellow pot is the warm phase of childhood and youth; golden with promise. The white pureness of the wedding jar is next followed by the heart shaped bottle that has the words, “El Corazone” (Spanish for “the heart”) written in the glass and lastly the plump pregnant vessel of Motherhood rich with it’s natural wisdom and strength. Notice that the eagle feathers are in the burgundy wine pot of the heart; the soul. I was in my late 20’s and putting the feathers in that pot was used to represent the phase I was in at the time.
Picture #2 – Life in Pottery – This is representative of some of the Native American themed paintings I’ve done. I sold a lot of my young Indian maiden portraits at a business I owned called, “Two Eagles Horse and Wolf” in 2000. This painting is representative of the harsh terrain of life’s up’s and down’s as symbolized by the mountains. On a table of raw lumber sits 4 pots that represent 4 stages of my life. The yellow pot is the warm phase of childhood and youth; golden with promise. The white pureness of the wedding jar is next followed by the heart shaped bottle that has the words, “El Corazone” (Spanish for “the heart”) written in the glass and lastly the plump pregnant vessel of Motherhood rich with it’s natural wisdom and strength. Notice that the eagle feathers are in the burgundy wine pot of the heart; the soul. I was in my late 20’s and putting the feathers in that pot was used to represent the phase I was in at the time.
Picture #3 – Looking up from the ocean floor. This painting was the first one that I started writing secret messages in the paint that can only be detected if you really study it. It is the view you see looking up from the ocean floor towards the sunlight shining down through the frothy waves. I was living in North Palm Beach, Florida in my 20’s and every day was a boating day. I loved snorkeling and everyone had a boat party on a daily basis since I lived at a Marina behind a fabulous little bar off US 1 called “the Brass Ring”. They had this brass ring that hung from a string in the ceiling. The trick was to swing it at a hooked nail on the wall and see if you can make it catch. I spent some time in that place watching the ocean and lovin’ Killians Red on tap, laughing at the tourists and being a parrothead. Snorkeling, living the singles life and being a bum. So at this little establishment I would sit and meet some interesting people from time to time. I loved seeing people struggle at the brass ring game over and over never getting close to hooking it. When they tired of the impossible-to-win game and sat back down at their table I’d take my Killians and slink on over in my tanned skin, ragged lockes and bohemian skirt and in one minute hook it 7 times in a row without skipping a beat. I’d suck down the beer in several swallows listening to them mutter over my unbelievable success, and then turn, wink at them and leave the pub. Smooth as butter. Snapshot moment in time of my life there. So this painting represents that careless freedom I had in exploring that time I spent in Florida.
Picture #4 – Ribbon through time. This one has specks of glass sprinkled into the blue starry night that this peachy ribbon floats effortlessly through. I’ve had a few offers to sell it but I can’t part with it.
Picture #5 – Shattered. This is one of a few paintings I started doing that I termed, “Emotion paintings”. Like if you could take an emotion, say for instance, “sadness” and tried to paint it – what would it look like? This one is raw anger, bloody, and filled with shards of glass making you keep your distance… it is pain…it is rejection and rage…. betrayal and isolation… I painted it after being left at the Altar by Fiancé #2.
Picture #6 – Thunderstorm. Love this one. I always lose an earring so I took all the remaining earrings and put them in this painting. The one in the middle is the eye of the tornado, the upper left is crackling lightening, the bottom left is a canyon that the raging river on the lower left flows to. In the upper right are clouds and rain. I love thunderstorms and the rain in general. It’s electric nature fascinates me and water pouring down is a symbolical cleansing of the soul; a renewal.
Picture #7 – Two Ships passing in the night. This is my front window. I cut large plates of stained glass and set it in the window framework. It feels to me like an aerial view of two ships passing in the night--- kinda’ also reminds me of the aerial view of the two battlestar ships just missing hitting one another in the original Star Wars. Yes, I’m a huge fan of the films… what can I say.
Picture #8 – Folded Rag Rug. This one is actually one of those colorful woven rugs made of rags that everyone has had at one point in their lives at the entrance to the back door. It represents the woven strands of one’s life – there are hi’s and low’s, some dark periods, lighter/colorful sections, snags and worn areas but soft and comforting.
So that’s just a little sample of some of the paintings I’ve done. As I’m sure everyone does, I too have a favorite one. It hangs in my entranceway and has a secret message written on the back for someone I had not yet met …. but that’s another story.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Poem - "Rainstorm"
Don't you just love the rain? Lately it seems like Noah is gonna go by in an ark it's been raining so much. There's a romance, beauty, and powerful strength about the rain storm that makes you respect it and want to be apart of it. I guess you could say, "I'm a dancin' in the rain kinda gal". So here's a poem I just finished on rainstorms.
Rain Storm
Raging Sky!!
Roaring and Ripping
Heaven’s heart.
Electrifying Cracks of Grumbling Anger
Whirling dervish whips and cuts
Pain ………Rains ……. Down
~sobbing on quivering leaves~
Trees bow down......
To their......
Master’s Might.
Droplets sparkle
Upon the spidery web
A crystal kaleidoscope arches it’s glorious hues
across the indigo lily sky;
New found Healing Sun.
{ Soothing Sigh }
Rain Storm
Raging Sky!!
Roaring and Ripping
Heaven’s heart.
Electrifying Cracks of Grumbling Anger
Whirling dervish whips and cuts
Pain ………Rains ……. Down
~sobbing on quivering leaves~
Trees bow down......
To their......
Master’s Might.
Droplets sparkle
Upon the spidery web
A crystal kaleidoscope arches it’s glorious hues
across the indigo lily sky;
New found Healing Sun.
{ Soothing Sigh }
Friday, June 12, 2009
Yooo Hoo??!!! Anybody a producer out there?? Below is a treatment, (a short synopsis) of a screenplay that I've finished and am currently editing. Copyrighted copies currently available upon request.
Treatment
Lizzie Borden
When only an Ax will do..
It was the summer of 1892 in Fall River, Massachusetts. A particularly scorching August with temperatures around 104 degrees. Ah, but the temperature wasn’t the hottest thing come from Fall River that year….. the hottest thing was the Trial of Miss Lizzie Borden in one of the most famous, and heinous, of histories unsolved crimes: the ax-butchering of Andrew and Abbey Borden in broad daylight. It was a serial killing that made headlines all around the country; a news frenzy rivaling the trial of O.J. Simpson. Scandalous stories were printed in The Boston Globe that nearly brought a newspaper to its knees. Children sang a song about it: “Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” At every breakfast table, Irish pub and gentlemen’s smoking lounges all the talk raved about how a woman had never been accused of the crime of Murder before. Why they didn’t even have a jail to keep her in with the lack of a need for a woman’s prison and all. But the major whispering that went on was mostly focused on the father she killed, Andrew Borden, the most powerful and richest man in all of Fall River. The Borden name was chiseled on the A.J. Borden building, the most prominent building in all of downtown Fall River… a thriving monopoly of businesses that it was. A self-made millionaire by deception and miserly characteristics he had a reputation of being unsocialable and stern. For all of his wealth he lacked charm, love, and compassion for anyone except perhaps Lizzie on occasion. Abbey’s death was of little consequence to anyone other than that she was Lizzie’s stepmother and Andrew’s wife. Andrew’s death, on the other hand, caused many a mug of beer to be raised in celebration. But the matter of finding out who the killer was… I mean the real killer and the political conspiracy, pay-offs and subsequent other murders that occurred in the cover-up of this case haven’t been revealed until now.
On the morning of August 4th between 9 and 10 am Andrew and Abbey were murdered by several blows to the skull by what forensic experts believed to be an axe. The only people believed to be in the home at the time and listed so in court testimony was Bridget (or Maggie) the maid and Lizzie. On the morning of the murders when police had arrived it was often noted how Lizzie showed absolutely no emotion and seemed cold and distant. At the viewing of the bodies most men vomited and Lizzie didn’t even swoon which was considered unlady-like for the times since women were seen as being very emotional. A few days after the murders Lizzie started to behave oddly by burning a blue dress in the kitchen stove, which looked exactly like the dress she had been wearing the morning of the murders. It was rumored a woman fitting her description was seen trying to buy prussic acid or arsenic poison from a pharmacy across town 2 days before the murders. It was noted by the family physician that Abbey had come to him the day before her murder and said the whole family was sick and that she believes they were being poisoned. So the Chief Police arrested Lizzie requiring her to undergo an inquisition regarding her parent’s death, which lasted for a period of four days. Lizzie would be allowed to return home at the end of each night since there were no accommodations for a woman in jail. At this time a conspiracy was brewing between many parties, a silent government, in the private back smoking parlor of The Mellenhouse Hotel. A woman was seen entering and leaving one night from the back door of this private lounge of which included the company of the Prosecutor in the case, Hosea Knowlton; the Judge, Josiah Blaisdell; the Defense Attorney, Andrew Jennings and lastly, John V. Morse, Andrew’s brother-in-law by his first marriage. A deal had been struck to intentionally accuse Lizzie and pay-off’s were made. No explanation would be given as to the identity of the killer, why they were being protected, and by whom. And so the parties set out to create a trial against Lizzie Borden.
The inquisition and preliminary hearing delves into the private past of this family as Andrew and Abbey come alive in flashbacks depicting their strained relationships. It is a strange house with odd entrances and exits, furniture in front of locked doors, and completely lacking in creature comforts. Even the poorest in the community could afford gas lighting and indoor plumbing but Andrew wouldn’t have it, preferring instead to use the outdated kerosene lanterns; even then - he would sit in the dark rather than burn his kerosene. Abbey was seen as a fat oaf by her stepdaughters, Emma and younger Lizzie. Emma being 12 years older than Lizzie when their mother died, raised her like a daughter. She fostered a hatred for Abbey, which she handed down to Lizzie. They often ridiculed and scoffed at Abbey, who painfully grew accustomed to her miserable existence. After all, she was an old maid when Andrew, after a week of courting her, simply offered a business proposition of marriage in exchange for someone to run his home and raise his children. She was an obedient wife. Andrew was a strict head of the home. The girls were never allowed to have suitors for Andrew believed the only reason anyone wanted to marry his daughters was to get at his fortune. Therefore, the women were doomed to lead the life of spinsters letting the years pass in their father’s home with no social outlets or escape. Lizzie was greedy and a snob, however, and wanted to live amongst the other wealthy inhabitants of Fall River Society upon what was termed “the Hill”; a prestigious neighborhood of Fall River that resided on the steep hill in the Northern section of town. On occasion, Andrew’s confidante and brother-in-law, John Morse, would visit the Borden home and did so the night before the murders with a purpose in mind.Through the court scenes of Lizzie’s trial, the social drama of a nation caught up in the scandalous affair and the sub-plot of the truth, this tale is woven - leading up to a surprise ending of the killer’s identity, the massacre of the victims, and how Lizzie orchestrated the entire thing – all out of greed for money and high society. She manipulated the killer into performing the gruesome act, and he received the freedom from jail-time in exchange for his share of the inheritance making Lizzie extremely wealthy with a home on the hill. Little did she know the price she would pay for these murders and getting away with them …..
Treatment
Lizzie Borden
When only an Ax will do..
It was the summer of 1892 in Fall River, Massachusetts. A particularly scorching August with temperatures around 104 degrees. Ah, but the temperature wasn’t the hottest thing come from Fall River that year….. the hottest thing was the Trial of Miss Lizzie Borden in one of the most famous, and heinous, of histories unsolved crimes: the ax-butchering of Andrew and Abbey Borden in broad daylight. It was a serial killing that made headlines all around the country; a news frenzy rivaling the trial of O.J. Simpson. Scandalous stories were printed in The Boston Globe that nearly brought a newspaper to its knees. Children sang a song about it: “Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” At every breakfast table, Irish pub and gentlemen’s smoking lounges all the talk raved about how a woman had never been accused of the crime of Murder before. Why they didn’t even have a jail to keep her in with the lack of a need for a woman’s prison and all. But the major whispering that went on was mostly focused on the father she killed, Andrew Borden, the most powerful and richest man in all of Fall River. The Borden name was chiseled on the A.J. Borden building, the most prominent building in all of downtown Fall River… a thriving monopoly of businesses that it was. A self-made millionaire by deception and miserly characteristics he had a reputation of being unsocialable and stern. For all of his wealth he lacked charm, love, and compassion for anyone except perhaps Lizzie on occasion. Abbey’s death was of little consequence to anyone other than that she was Lizzie’s stepmother and Andrew’s wife. Andrew’s death, on the other hand, caused many a mug of beer to be raised in celebration. But the matter of finding out who the killer was… I mean the real killer and the political conspiracy, pay-offs and subsequent other murders that occurred in the cover-up of this case haven’t been revealed until now.
On the morning of August 4th between 9 and 10 am Andrew and Abbey were murdered by several blows to the skull by what forensic experts believed to be an axe. The only people believed to be in the home at the time and listed so in court testimony was Bridget (or Maggie) the maid and Lizzie. On the morning of the murders when police had arrived it was often noted how Lizzie showed absolutely no emotion and seemed cold and distant. At the viewing of the bodies most men vomited and Lizzie didn’t even swoon which was considered unlady-like for the times since women were seen as being very emotional. A few days after the murders Lizzie started to behave oddly by burning a blue dress in the kitchen stove, which looked exactly like the dress she had been wearing the morning of the murders. It was rumored a woman fitting her description was seen trying to buy prussic acid or arsenic poison from a pharmacy across town 2 days before the murders. It was noted by the family physician that Abbey had come to him the day before her murder and said the whole family was sick and that she believes they were being poisoned. So the Chief Police arrested Lizzie requiring her to undergo an inquisition regarding her parent’s death, which lasted for a period of four days. Lizzie would be allowed to return home at the end of each night since there were no accommodations for a woman in jail. At this time a conspiracy was brewing between many parties, a silent government, in the private back smoking parlor of The Mellenhouse Hotel. A woman was seen entering and leaving one night from the back door of this private lounge of which included the company of the Prosecutor in the case, Hosea Knowlton; the Judge, Josiah Blaisdell; the Defense Attorney, Andrew Jennings and lastly, John V. Morse, Andrew’s brother-in-law by his first marriage. A deal had been struck to intentionally accuse Lizzie and pay-off’s were made. No explanation would be given as to the identity of the killer, why they were being protected, and by whom. And so the parties set out to create a trial against Lizzie Borden.
The inquisition and preliminary hearing delves into the private past of this family as Andrew and Abbey come alive in flashbacks depicting their strained relationships. It is a strange house with odd entrances and exits, furniture in front of locked doors, and completely lacking in creature comforts. Even the poorest in the community could afford gas lighting and indoor plumbing but Andrew wouldn’t have it, preferring instead to use the outdated kerosene lanterns; even then - he would sit in the dark rather than burn his kerosene. Abbey was seen as a fat oaf by her stepdaughters, Emma and younger Lizzie. Emma being 12 years older than Lizzie when their mother died, raised her like a daughter. She fostered a hatred for Abbey, which she handed down to Lizzie. They often ridiculed and scoffed at Abbey, who painfully grew accustomed to her miserable existence. After all, she was an old maid when Andrew, after a week of courting her, simply offered a business proposition of marriage in exchange for someone to run his home and raise his children. She was an obedient wife. Andrew was a strict head of the home. The girls were never allowed to have suitors for Andrew believed the only reason anyone wanted to marry his daughters was to get at his fortune. Therefore, the women were doomed to lead the life of spinsters letting the years pass in their father’s home with no social outlets or escape. Lizzie was greedy and a snob, however, and wanted to live amongst the other wealthy inhabitants of Fall River Society upon what was termed “the Hill”; a prestigious neighborhood of Fall River that resided on the steep hill in the Northern section of town. On occasion, Andrew’s confidante and brother-in-law, John Morse, would visit the Borden home and did so the night before the murders with a purpose in mind.Through the court scenes of Lizzie’s trial, the social drama of a nation caught up in the scandalous affair and the sub-plot of the truth, this tale is woven - leading up to a surprise ending of the killer’s identity, the massacre of the victims, and how Lizzie orchestrated the entire thing – all out of greed for money and high society. She manipulated the killer into performing the gruesome act, and he received the freedom from jail-time in exchange for his share of the inheritance making Lizzie extremely wealthy with a home on the hill. Little did she know the price she would pay for these murders and getting away with them …..
Poem - Thanksgiving
Ahhhh…… Thanksgiving – now that’s something I can sink my teeth into. Every year in my family we have a wonderful tradition of going around the dinner table and each of us stating one thing we were grateful for in the past year. I love this holiday, so in honor of the occasion I’ve written a poem in a Wordsworth-like style. Hope you like it.
Thanksgiving
What is there about a field of Barley
golden, crisp, flowing and rippling in the afternoon breeze
like the waves of a frothy blue, deep ocean
on a day in November when frost is plentiful and
harvest is ripe to be wrought from the burnt umber vines
shriveling back to the bed of earth for it’s rich warmth
leaving it’s painstaking fruits behind
for our cakes, pies and breads
licking our butter spattered cheeks
by the sap-crackling fire on a cold winter’s morn
and stirring up warmth like a meaty stew
slowly bubbling on the stove all day
and filling the house with it’s brothy aroma?
Why is it that we travel like pack mules
dirty, tired, and sweaty
with shards of fur shagged off from a prick of barbed wire
and maneur grown thick in the hooves
trodding over fields stubbled with nubs of corn crop stalks
remaining in the heart of Autumn
when they’ve been cut down and banded together with twine
standing erect in scattered clusters for miles to see
with plump, ripened pumpkins deep in russet brazen tones
at their base, preparing for the snows of winter,
and each of us,
coming together with our own brood,
nestled through the passing years of old harvest & new growths
calling that universal ring like a loud, heavy steeple church bell
low and humming within our souls
vibrating through our blood line of generations
driving us homeward like migrating geese
back to the small towns of our youth
hidden from the absurd realities we now live
and tucked away like a Norman Rockwell
reliving football games and hot dogs, floats,
candied apples, Uncle Tommie, prom gowns, Sunday dinners,
the chorus at Midnight Mass, grandma,
your dog barking as you come up the drive,
and parents still cheering for you in the crowd
filling your lungs with the hearty laughter
that rolls along like a high school marching band
with the drum reverberating within your chest?
What is it that brings us back to the roots
Of our lives, our loves, our memories, our past?
The answer is woven within the worn and tightly knotted strands
Of a blanked called, “Family”
On a day we call Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving
What is there about a field of Barley
golden, crisp, flowing and rippling in the afternoon breeze
like the waves of a frothy blue, deep ocean
on a day in November when frost is plentiful and
harvest is ripe to be wrought from the burnt umber vines
shriveling back to the bed of earth for it’s rich warmth
leaving it’s painstaking fruits behind
for our cakes, pies and breads
licking our butter spattered cheeks
by the sap-crackling fire on a cold winter’s morn
and stirring up warmth like a meaty stew
slowly bubbling on the stove all day
and filling the house with it’s brothy aroma?
Why is it that we travel like pack mules
dirty, tired, and sweaty
with shards of fur shagged off from a prick of barbed wire
and maneur grown thick in the hooves
trodding over fields stubbled with nubs of corn crop stalks
remaining in the heart of Autumn
when they’ve been cut down and banded together with twine
standing erect in scattered clusters for miles to see
with plump, ripened pumpkins deep in russet brazen tones
at their base, preparing for the snows of winter,
and each of us,
coming together with our own brood,
nestled through the passing years of old harvest & new growths
calling that universal ring like a loud, heavy steeple church bell
low and humming within our souls
vibrating through our blood line of generations
driving us homeward like migrating geese
back to the small towns of our youth
hidden from the absurd realities we now live
and tucked away like a Norman Rockwell
reliving football games and hot dogs, floats,
candied apples, Uncle Tommie, prom gowns, Sunday dinners,
the chorus at Midnight Mass, grandma,
your dog barking as you come up the drive,
and parents still cheering for you in the crowd
filling your lungs with the hearty laughter
that rolls along like a high school marching band
with the drum reverberating within your chest?
What is it that brings us back to the roots
Of our lives, our loves, our memories, our past?
The answer is woven within the worn and tightly knotted strands
Of a blanked called, “Family”
On a day we call Thanksgiving.
Column - Bye, Bye Boobies!
Bye, Bye Boobies!
Yup, that’s right – I’m chopping my boobs off. I’m going in for a breast reduction this month. Men will think, “Why on earth would any woman ever want to do that?” but women know what I’m talkin’ about. When middle age hits and our “nickels” (as my daughter likes to call them) start getting closer to our belly buttons it’s time to re-think things. In my case, it’s because of back problems that I’m getting it done but the fact that I’ll be sportin’ some 17 yr. old tits doesn’t hurt either. Those white grandma sized-DD boulder holders will huge straps that could hold a rig together, will be gone forever. Hello to little B-sized lacy type bras that I envied in their cute little doll-size and spaghetti straps with wild colors such as, “Ravaging Crimson”. (sigh)
So as the days count down and I think of all the life these boobies have seen I can’t help but remember life back as a pre-teen eagerly wishing for them to finally start to grow. Just about everybody had that Judy Bloom book “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret” and did that stupid ass “We must increase our bust” exercise to encourage some growth.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about my 11th year and having a huge crush on Michael Hornon. It took a lot of courage and some sweaty palms to write him a note asking him if he wanted to “go out” with me. After class he walked up to me with all his buddies and flat out said in front of everyone, “I can’t go out with you because you’re so flat-chested.” Man – I felt like that medieval gnome jumped out of a bush and smacked me in the face with a boat oar. For the next year all the boys called me, “Flat-Jack” because I was apparently as “flat as a flap-jack”. Shit – I was a fifth-grader – nobody had boobs back then. I have to burst out laughing now thinking about the irony. So “Up yours, Hornon, wherever you are!” I’m going bra shopping. :-)
Yup, that’s right – I’m chopping my boobs off. I’m going in for a breast reduction this month. Men will think, “Why on earth would any woman ever want to do that?” but women know what I’m talkin’ about. When middle age hits and our “nickels” (as my daughter likes to call them) start getting closer to our belly buttons it’s time to re-think things. In my case, it’s because of back problems that I’m getting it done but the fact that I’ll be sportin’ some 17 yr. old tits doesn’t hurt either. Those white grandma sized-DD boulder holders will huge straps that could hold a rig together, will be gone forever. Hello to little B-sized lacy type bras that I envied in their cute little doll-size and spaghetti straps with wild colors such as, “Ravaging Crimson”. (sigh)
So as the days count down and I think of all the life these boobies have seen I can’t help but remember life back as a pre-teen eagerly wishing for them to finally start to grow. Just about everybody had that Judy Bloom book “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret” and did that stupid ass “We must increase our bust” exercise to encourage some growth.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about my 11th year and having a huge crush on Michael Hornon. It took a lot of courage and some sweaty palms to write him a note asking him if he wanted to “go out” with me. After class he walked up to me with all his buddies and flat out said in front of everyone, “I can’t go out with you because you’re so flat-chested.” Man – I felt like that medieval gnome jumped out of a bush and smacked me in the face with a boat oar. For the next year all the boys called me, “Flat-Jack” because I was apparently as “flat as a flap-jack”. Shit – I was a fifth-grader – nobody had boobs back then. I have to burst out laughing now thinking about the irony. So “Up yours, Hornon, wherever you are!” I’m going bra shopping. :-)
Column - "What the Hell?!"
“What the Hell?”
You ever have one of those “What the Hell” kinda’ moments? Somehow you’ve become the butt of some sinister Darth Vader type plot to bring you down. Like out of nowhere while waiting for the bus, you get smacked in the face with a boat oar by a medieval gnome hiding in the bushes. “Didn’t see that comin” you might say. I’ve had a lot of moments like that.
I think it all started in Elementary school when I came home off the school bus with nothing on but my duckie underoos and a trench coat. No – I wasn’t a little flasher in the making; I simply lost my dress. “How the hell did you lose the clothes off your back young lady?” my mother wanted to know. It was a long story involving a tu-tu, smacking my head on the floor, and my dress winding up as a flag that my brother waved up and down the aisle of the school bus. My first, “What the hell?” moment.
Prom! There’s a hot button. As a writer for our local paper I often get to cover some local proms. There’s always some idiot wearing a three-muskeeteers outfit or a chick that made her dress out of duct tape with a matching purse. And of course there’s always one kid having a full out, streaming tears, tomatoe-faced meltdown out the side door in their purple tux screaming into the cell phone, “You don’t give a shit about me!!” It reminds me of my own, “What the Hell ‘Prom’ moment”. Wearing a white gown I wanted to make sure I had at least some color so I wasn’t so pasty white. So the day of the prom I skipped school and decided to lie on the back porch to get a great tan. It was kind of overcast so I got out some tin-foil and wrapped it all over the lounge chair. Then I covered myself in vegetable oil and put myself out to bake for 90 minutes. Well, dip me in butter, I got color alright – a nice lobster red in a white dress. Then when my date showed up just as red - we were a perfect match. Then when we were seated at the wrong table with the BOCES kids no-one ever knew- it was just icing on the cake. (sigh) The pain still hasn’t healed….
Most recent, “What the Hell?!” moment happened when I went to deliver my second child and the nurse tells me they changed their policy and they don’t give as much of the epidural that they did 2yrs. earlier when I delivered my daughter high as a flippin’ kite on that stuff. Words cannot describe my complete Ape shit melt-down I did on this woman telling her what she could do with her F**in’ policy. She didn’t say a word but instead stuck me with something called “Stadol”. Well, let me tell you! I asked for another round of that Stadol-shit and wanted to know if my husband could have some and if it comes in 6-pks. So it started out a very frustrated “What the Hell” moment but turned into a stoned, giggly-high, “What the Hellll, Man…” moment.
Now there are all kind of sub-categories of the “What the Hell” moment. There’s the “Delicious-Gossipy” category when you tell your girlfriend about the blow-out argument the neighbors had in the driveway and with a raised eyebrow and shaking her head, “Mmmm Mmme, Girl, what the hell…”. Then there’s the “Road Rage” category whereby that crazed old lady side-swipes your car and when you both pull over she tells you she’s going blind and is on the way to the eye doctor. You clench your teeth and grumble “What the Hell” under your breath as you consider backing your car over her. At times you may want to graduate to the ever popular, “What the Fuck?!” which is when you walk out of the bathroom to find that your adorable children have painted everything with peanut butter. Peanut butter all over the dog, your expensive big screen TV, inside the Blu-Ray, each other, the walls, leather couch, the carpet….. everywhere. Boy, and if there’s truly evil in this world it’s getting Peanut Butter off of anything. Try cleaning a hunk of it off a knife that’s been in a sink full of water for awhile. It’s just nasty. Not to mention almost impossible to get off of anything. It just won’t dissolve! So this definitely qualifies for a mind-blowing, “What the FUCK?!”
You too can have your own “What the Hell?!” moment. Just look around; they’re everywhere. Just like a crouching medieval gnome waiting in a bush with a boat oar.
You ever have one of those “What the Hell” kinda’ moments? Somehow you’ve become the butt of some sinister Darth Vader type plot to bring you down. Like out of nowhere while waiting for the bus, you get smacked in the face with a boat oar by a medieval gnome hiding in the bushes. “Didn’t see that comin” you might say. I’ve had a lot of moments like that.
I think it all started in Elementary school when I came home off the school bus with nothing on but my duckie underoos and a trench coat. No – I wasn’t a little flasher in the making; I simply lost my dress. “How the hell did you lose the clothes off your back young lady?” my mother wanted to know. It was a long story involving a tu-tu, smacking my head on the floor, and my dress winding up as a flag that my brother waved up and down the aisle of the school bus. My first, “What the hell?” moment.
Prom! There’s a hot button. As a writer for our local paper I often get to cover some local proms. There’s always some idiot wearing a three-muskeeteers outfit or a chick that made her dress out of duct tape with a matching purse. And of course there’s always one kid having a full out, streaming tears, tomatoe-faced meltdown out the side door in their purple tux screaming into the cell phone, “You don’t give a shit about me!!” It reminds me of my own, “What the Hell ‘Prom’ moment”. Wearing a white gown I wanted to make sure I had at least some color so I wasn’t so pasty white. So the day of the prom I skipped school and decided to lie on the back porch to get a great tan. It was kind of overcast so I got out some tin-foil and wrapped it all over the lounge chair. Then I covered myself in vegetable oil and put myself out to bake for 90 minutes. Well, dip me in butter, I got color alright – a nice lobster red in a white dress. Then when my date showed up just as red - we were a perfect match. Then when we were seated at the wrong table with the BOCES kids no-one ever knew- it was just icing on the cake. (sigh) The pain still hasn’t healed….
Most recent, “What the Hell?!” moment happened when I went to deliver my second child and the nurse tells me they changed their policy and they don’t give as much of the epidural that they did 2yrs. earlier when I delivered my daughter high as a flippin’ kite on that stuff. Words cannot describe my complete Ape shit melt-down I did on this woman telling her what she could do with her F**in’ policy. She didn’t say a word but instead stuck me with something called “Stadol”. Well, let me tell you! I asked for another round of that Stadol-shit and wanted to know if my husband could have some and if it comes in 6-pks. So it started out a very frustrated “What the Hell” moment but turned into a stoned, giggly-high, “What the Hellll, Man…” moment.
Now there are all kind of sub-categories of the “What the Hell” moment. There’s the “Delicious-Gossipy” category when you tell your girlfriend about the blow-out argument the neighbors had in the driveway and with a raised eyebrow and shaking her head, “Mmmm Mmme, Girl, what the hell…”. Then there’s the “Road Rage” category whereby that crazed old lady side-swipes your car and when you both pull over she tells you she’s going blind and is on the way to the eye doctor. You clench your teeth and grumble “What the Hell” under your breath as you consider backing your car over her. At times you may want to graduate to the ever popular, “What the Fuck?!” which is when you walk out of the bathroom to find that your adorable children have painted everything with peanut butter. Peanut butter all over the dog, your expensive big screen TV, inside the Blu-Ray, each other, the walls, leather couch, the carpet….. everywhere. Boy, and if there’s truly evil in this world it’s getting Peanut Butter off of anything. Try cleaning a hunk of it off a knife that’s been in a sink full of water for awhile. It’s just nasty.
You too can have your own “What the Hell?!” moment. Just look around; they’re everywhere. Just like a crouching medieval gnome waiting in a bush with a boat oar.
Column - Differences between men and women
Difference between men and women.
I’m feezing. I’m always cold it seems. I have thin blood. Thin blood.. hmpf… it’s probably the only thing on me that’s thin. They say women have thinner blood than men. They’re walking around in their underwear in the middle of winter and we’re ready for the Eskimo fashion show. As of late I’m the one sitting on the room heater with the permanent grill marks on my ass. Ahh…. Just one of the many differences between men and women.
Women for example, you have to admit, are quite concerned with their appearance. In this pursuit we have endured endless hours of Size 2 Aerobics Instructors drilling us like soldiers screaming, “C’MON, LADIES!!! YOU GREW IT – YOU LIFT IT!!!!!” which then leads us to a thousand bucks blown in therapy for our depression and self-esteem issues. If there is something out there that can make us smarter, more attractive, thinner, or younger we have tried it regardless of the repercussions. Even the commercials are out of control and we actually believe them. “Zeniflat can help you lose up to 30 pounds in a month. It works with your system to help rid your body of unwanted fat and harmful cholesterol that clogs your arteries. Many people have benefited from Zeniflat to finally break the battle against weight gain. Zeniflat may not be for everyone. Pregnant women and women who wish to become pregnant should not take Zeniflat due to risk of horribly disfiguring birth defects resulting in babies with nine heads. Zeniflat may cause muscle stiffness, bleeding from the eyes, increased nose snot and joint pain. Because Zeniflat blocks one-third of the fat from foods you eat, you may experience increased flatuation with an oily discharge, increased bowel movements and the inability to control them, risk of seizures, liver damage, and heart disease. People on anti-depressants should not take this drug due to the high potential to commit suicide. Zeniflat may cause shortness of breath, dizziness, migraine headaches, and big crater-like warts in the middle of your face. Consult your physician if you are at risk of any of these symptoms. Zeniflat isn’t for everyone but it is for some people and they love it!! So get back into a new slimmer, sexier you and start really living the good life again!!” Yea, right, like that’s a product I want to just run right out and get a gallon of. Hey, I might not be able to control all my bodily functions but I’ll look totally hot and sexy!! Unfortunately it might end my social life entirely if I’m on a date with the hottest guy from the party and I accidentally shit my pants. “So, honey, do you want to go see that new action movie?” “I’d love to… uh-oh…” “What the HELL was that?? The date is pretty much over right there.
Ah, Men, on the other hand, also have their weaknesses too. Using my brothers and father as an example I must say they have collected some of the most ridiculous pieces of crap from garage sales and auctions that have filled the basement to bursting capacity. A really messed up graveyard of broken items that just need a little work, oxen yolk, an old trumpet, a telephone booth, a juke box, the first 7-up machine ever made, 2 rusted iron cook stoves, a zillion old rollerskates, banjo’s that were so desperately wanted – played once – and thrown on the heap and (of course) massive boxes of comic books that are “worth alotta money” but which they will never sell. I’m not even gonna try to explain the crane and the bull-dozer my father brought home. This is just a partial list the three of them have jointly collected. Yes men are indeed different. Don’t even get me started on the whole “Car” thing. No matter what the circumstances, when greeting a male member of the family, inevitably one of the first questions will be, “How’s the car running?” I am reminded of a situation this past fall whereby my father was rushed to the hospital after having a seizure. My brother picked me up in the middle of the night and we made the 2 hour trek to upstate NY. It’s 2am and dead silence in the car assuming BOTH of us were consumed with worry and prayer until he says, “How’s the car running?” I gave him the jaw-dropped stunned look. “What in God’s name is wrong with you???!!! Our father is hanging by a thread and all you can think to say to me is How’s the car running? What the hell is wrong with the way you men think I have no idea!” “That’s not all we think about.” Dead silence after that as I patiently wait to see what else you men think about which basically means it was quiet for 2 hours. We finally arrive at the hospital and I rush into the emergency room in tears to see my poor father and when I come to his bedside he is trying hard to tell me something and finally is able to get it out….”How’s the car running, Carol ?” I just looked at my brother and shook my head. Yep….. alotta differences between men and women……
I’m feezing. I’m always cold it seems. I have thin blood. Thin blood.. hmpf… it’s probably the only thing on me that’s thin. They say women have thinner blood than men. They’re walking around in their underwear in the middle of winter and we’re ready for the Eskimo fashion show. As of late I’m the one sitting on the room heater with the permanent grill marks on my ass. Ahh…. Just one of the many differences between men and women.
Women for example, you have to admit, are quite concerned with their appearance. In this pursuit we have endured endless hours of Size 2 Aerobics Instructors drilling us like soldiers screaming, “C’MON, LADIES!!! YOU GREW IT – YOU LIFT IT!!!!!” which then leads us to a thousand bucks blown in therapy for our depression and self-esteem issues. If there is something out there that can make us smarter, more attractive, thinner, or younger we have tried it regardless of the repercussions. Even the commercials are out of control and we actually believe them. “Zeniflat can help you lose up to 30 pounds in a month. It works with your system to help rid your body of unwanted fat and harmful cholesterol that clogs your arteries. Many people have benefited from Zeniflat to finally break the battle against weight gain. Zeniflat may not be for everyone. Pregnant women and women who wish to become pregnant should not take Zeniflat due to risk of horribly disfiguring birth defects resulting in babies with nine heads. Zeniflat may cause muscle stiffness, bleeding from the eyes, increased nose snot and joint pain. Because Zeniflat blocks one-third of the fat from foods you eat, you may experience increased flatuation with an oily discharge, increased bowel movements and the inability to control them, risk of seizures, liver damage, and heart disease. People on anti-depressants should not take this drug due to the high potential to commit suicide. Zeniflat may cause shortness of breath, dizziness, migraine headaches, and big crater-like warts in the middle of your face. Consult your physician if you are at risk of any of these symptoms. Zeniflat isn’t for everyone but it is for some people and they love it!! So get back into a new slimmer, sexier you and start really living the good life again!!” Yea, right, like that’s a product I want to just run right out and get a gallon of. Hey, I might not be able to control all my bodily functions but I’ll look totally hot and sexy!! Unfortunately it might end my social life entirely if I’m on a date with the hottest guy from the party and I accidentally shit my pants. “So, honey, do you want to go see that new action movie?” “I’d love to… uh-oh…” “What the HELL was that?? The date is pretty much over right there.
Ah, Men, on the other hand, also have their weaknesses too. Using my brothers and father as an example I must say they have collected some of the most ridiculous pieces of crap from garage sales and auctions that have filled the basement to bursting capacity. A really messed up graveyard of broken items that just need a little work, oxen yolk, an old trumpet, a telephone booth, a juke box, the first 7-up machine ever made, 2 rusted iron cook stoves, a zillion old rollerskates, banjo’s that were so desperately wanted – played once – and thrown on the heap and (of course) massive boxes of comic books that are “worth alotta money” but which they will never sell. I’m not even gonna try to explain the crane and the bull-dozer my father brought home. This is just a partial list the three of them have jointly collected. Yes men are indeed different. Don’t even get me started on the whole “Car” thing. No matter what the circumstances, when greeting a male member of the family, inevitably one of the first questions will be, “How’s the car running?” I am reminded of a situation this past fall whereby my father was rushed to the hospital after having a seizure. My brother picked me up in the middle of the night and we made the 2 hour trek to upstate NY. It’s 2am and dead silence in the car assuming BOTH of us were consumed with worry and prayer until he says, “How’s the car running?” I gave him the jaw-dropped stunned look. “What in God’s name is wrong with you???!!! Our father is hanging by a thread and all you can think to say to me is How’s the car running? What the hell is wrong with the way you men think I have no idea!” “That’s not all we think about.” Dead silence after that as I patiently wait to see what else you men think about which basically means it was quiet for 2 hours. We finally arrive at the hospital and I rush into the emergency room in tears to see my poor father and when I come to his bedside he is trying hard to tell me something and finally is able to get it out….”How’s the car running, Carol ?” I just looked at my brother and shook my head. Yep….. alotta differences between men and women……
Column - Supermarket Soap Opera
Supermarket Soap Opera
Oy…. Supermarkets. There’s nothin’ like standing in the express lane with a lot of other people in front of you and the bastard at the front of the line is writing a check and they don’t have a check card and yadda yadda yadda it takes forever. It’s like the equivalent to being behind a school bus in the morning. It’s the soap opera of daily life among your average joe shmoe. It’s a place (along with laundromats) where all the women’s magazines claim you can meet attractive men, but I’ve been going to both my whole adult life and know this to be a crappy lie. Because I’ve actually believed this I’ve gone to the store in a cocktail dress with my hair teased to the moon and wearing bright red lipstick only to find other women dressed the same way. If I could get away with it I’d prefer to go at 10pm in my filthy bathrobe and house slippers but don’t want to risk it just in case the stupid magazine is right. I basically prefer to live life in my bathrobe. Believe it or not, I’ve actually walked two blocks to the deli for the Sunday paper in by pajamas and bathrobe. Why should the senile lady down the street (who keeps forgetting where she lives) have all the fun? If she can get away with why not me? She’ll walk in a circle around my block for hours in her bathrobe and slippers before I finally yell out, “Ya missed it again, Edna!!” It's my only form of entertainment these days.
I think the biggest mistake most women make in trying to meet the man of their dreams at the Supermarket is that they hang around the gourmet food or the imported espresso aisle when they really should be in the beer and pork rinds aisle. There’s got to be one guy out there that buys that stuff. Hell, I don’t even buy that stuff. Somehow the Cinderella tale just doesn’t sound as good when referring to her Knight in greasy Pork Rinds, though.
One thing that bugs me to death is the laundry detergent situation. They all claim to magically lift stains off of clothes. I’m talking tomato sauce, mud, tar, and blood. First of all if my shirt was covered with blood stains I don’t think my first thought would be “Now which product will get out these nasty stains?” I think I’d be thinking about the stab wound that’s currently putting those stains there in the first place. The only time I’d be worrying about blood stain removing is if I just killed someone myself and needed to clean away the evidence. In that case burning the damn shirt would be best rather than shopping for detergent. I mean, Christ, you just killed someone – is the shirt really that important that you’d want to keep it? (I can’t tell you how many cop shows I’ve watched where the murderer was caught throwing his bloody clothes, sneakers and all, into the washer.) What the hell?!
The last time I went to the market I must have had a sign on my forehead that said, “If you’re really weird please come up to me and start a conversation.” As I was walking down one aisle I notice a man with about 20 of those gallon containers of water in his cart and he was still putting more in. He looks at me and very psychotically says, “I’m going to take a bath tonight.” So I “s-l-o-w-l-y” back out of the aisle nodding my head trying not to make any sudden movements lest he whip out a bazooka and blow me away right into the tampon section. I don’t think I’d like that written in my obituary in the local paper. “Carol ****, aged 36, dies amongst a pile of extra absorbent tampax after taking a bullet to the chest region from a man wanting a bath.” What a way to go. After this little fiasco I find myself in the fish section next to the lobster tank. It is so full with lobsters that they are crushing each other. So the woman next to me starts sounding off about how inhumane that is and someone should call the SPCA on these people for overcrowding these poor little things. She’s got me half convinced when I snap out of it and tell her their sole purpose for being in there to begin with is so someone can buy them to kill them and eat them. She gave me this horrid look like I was taking the last package of Oreos in the store.
Did you ever go on the “20 items or less express lane” with one item and start counting the items in the cart of the person in front of you and mentally start bitchin’ to yourself about the fact that they really have 24 items and who the hell do they think they are anyways? Oh, c’mon, admit it - we all do it. Just as sure as another day when we mentally convince ourselves we can go onto that lane ourselves because 25 cans of green beans should be counted as one item because it’s the same product never mind the fact that it’s in 25 separate cans. Oh, and of course, when we turn around to see the woman with one item behind us mentally counting all those cans of green beans we give her a dirty look that says, “Step off, lady”. (smirk)
Oy…. Supermarkets. There’s nothin’ like standing in the express lane with a lot of other people in front of you and the bastard at the front of the line is writing a check and they don’t have a check card and yadda yadda yadda it takes forever. It’s like the equivalent to being behind a school bus in the morning. It’s the soap opera of daily life among your average joe shmoe. It’s a place (along with laundromats) where all the women’s magazines claim you can meet attractive men, but I’ve been going to both my whole adult life and know this to be a crappy lie. Because I’ve actually believed this I’ve gone to the store in a cocktail dress with my hair teased to the moon and wearing bright red lipstick only to find other women dressed the same way. If I could get away with it I’d prefer to go at 10pm in my filthy bathrobe and house slippers but don’t want to risk it just in case the stupid magazine is right. I basically prefer to live life in my bathrobe. Believe it or not, I’ve actually walked two blocks to the deli for the Sunday paper in by pajamas and bathrobe. Why should the senile lady down the street (who keeps forgetting where she lives) have all the fun? If she can get away with why not me? She’ll walk in a circle around my block for hours in her bathrobe and slippers before I finally yell out, “Ya missed it again, Edna!!” It's my only form of entertainment these days.
I think the biggest mistake most women make in trying to meet the man of their dreams at the Supermarket is that they hang around the gourmet food or the imported espresso aisle when they really should be in the beer and pork rinds aisle. There’s got to be one guy out there that buys that stuff. Hell, I don’t even buy that stuff. Somehow the Cinderella tale just doesn’t sound as good when referring to her Knight in greasy Pork Rinds, though.
One thing that bugs me to death is the laundry detergent situation. They all claim to magically lift stains off of clothes. I’m talking tomato sauce, mud, tar, and blood. First of all if my shirt was covered with blood stains I don’t think my first thought would be “Now which product will get out these nasty stains?” I think I’d be thinking about the stab wound that’s currently putting those stains there in the first place. The only time I’d be worrying about blood stain removing is if I just killed someone myself and needed to clean away the evidence. In that case burning the damn shirt would be best rather than shopping for detergent. I mean, Christ, you just killed someone – is the shirt really that important that you’d want to keep it? (I can’t tell you how many cop shows I’ve watched where the murderer was caught throwing his bloody clothes, sneakers and all, into the washer.) What the hell?!
The last time I went to the market I must have had a sign on my forehead that said, “If you’re really weird please come up to me and start a conversation.” As I was walking down one aisle I notice a man with about 20 of those gallon containers of water in his cart and he was still putting more in. He looks at me and very psychotically says, “I’m going to take a bath tonight.” So I “s-l-o-w-l-y” back out of the aisle nodding my head trying not to make any sudden movements lest he whip out a bazooka and blow me away right into the tampon section. I don’t think I’d like that written in my obituary in the local paper. “Carol ****, aged 36, dies amongst a pile of extra absorbent tampax after taking a bullet to the chest region from a man wanting a bath.” What a way to go. After this little fiasco I find myself in the fish section next to the lobster tank. It is so full with lobsters that they are crushing each other. So the woman next to me starts sounding off about how inhumane that is and someone should call the SPCA on these people for overcrowding these poor little things. She’s got me half convinced when I snap out of it and tell her their sole purpose for being in there to begin with is so someone can buy them to kill them and eat them. She gave me this horrid look like I was taking the last package of Oreos in the store.
Did you ever go on the “20 items or less express lane” with one item and start counting the items in the cart of the person in front of you and mentally start bitchin’ to yourself about the fact that they really have 24 items and who the hell do they think they are anyways? Oh, c’mon, admit it - we all do it. Just as sure as another day when we mentally convince ourselves we can go onto that lane ourselves because 25 cans of green beans should be counted as one item because it’s the same product never mind the fact that it’s in 25 separate cans. Oh, and of course, when we turn around to see the woman with one item behind us mentally counting all those cans of green beans we give her a dirty look that says, “Step off, lady”. (smirk)
Column - Christmas gone awry - 2
Christmas gone awry - 2
How did everyone’s Holiday go this year? Mine was quite typical. On Christmas Eve I closed the store early because I had an abscess and had to have an emergency root canal. Since I am a big baby it hurt a lot of course followed by a 3 hour drive to upstate NY with the dog whining like it’s paw is shut in the door and absolutely NO PAIN KILLER because it would have made me drowsy. So by the time I got there my endorphins were either kicking in or I thought I saw a pink Care Bear smoking a cigar in the back of what appeared to be a deformed sleigh with the angel of death dressed as a ghastly Santa. My mother took one look at me and pushed aside the Tylenol with Codeine I had and went right for the Vicaden she had saved in the cabinet for a special occasion. Mom always knows best. So basically I couldn’t eat anything without being in extreme pain or being doped up and sleeping on drugs. Ahh.. but by the end of Christmas day we were all on the Vicaden and kickin’ it back with bourbon.
The day started out as a typical Christmas morn except this year Santa got lazy and slept in and forgot to put the presents out for the kids the night before whereby they obviously saw nothing that morning and totally crushing their illusions of Santa forevermore. So half dazed and needing coffee we all dragged out the loot for the kids in broad daylight and dragged their butts out of childhood with a horrid little jolt and stuffed the half-wrapped items under the x-mas “bush”. That’s right – a bush. This tree was meant for a cathedral ceiling which we have and it’s base was at least 15ft. wide with branches but 4ft up the tree it suddenly ended as if the rest of the tree was chopped off at the top. It was a sickly sight and my parent’s are developing an obviously sick sense of judgment. Soon after this, said presents were slightly maimed due to my parent’s dog getting territorial with my visiting puppy and quite a dog fight took place and said puppy preceded to yelp and whine for the next 24 hours incessantly driving us all to want to cook her for dinner that evening. My sister and I got into an argument as usual, the result of which ended in her accidentally driving my Mother’s month-old Brand New Avalon (nice car-leather seats that heat up – how yummy) into my car and completely smashing my Mom’s car to bits and making my front bumper fall off. It was then that the bourbon came out. Which was a good thing because when the Kitchen caught fire I hardly noticed at all. Good thing my father bought my mother a fire extinguisher for x-mas. (how romantic) It came in quite handy for that reason and later on in the day when Dad sorta lit the jeep on fire as well.
I can’t believe this is all true. I’m still in shock as I write this. Can you believe it? The topper on the cake is when a certain female, who shall remain nameless, after numerous years with her beau was expecting a ring and instead received a meat grinder!! What in God’s name was he thinking?? I have no idea. She doesn’t even cook toast let alone grind up an animal carcass to be stuffed in sausages. Lord! Men – here’s a hint – JEWELRY. When in doubt go for the gusto and get jewelry and lots of it and make it expensive. It’s the only way to fly. If it was me that had gotten the grinder the first thing I’d be a grindin’ would probably be the bearer of such a gift. I could always say it was the Vicaden that did it. So that was my lovely little holiday.
How did everyone’s Holiday go this year? Mine was quite typical. On Christmas Eve I closed the store early because I had an abscess and had to have an emergency root canal. Since I am a big baby it hurt a lot of course followed by a 3 hour drive to upstate NY with the dog whining like it’s paw is shut in the door and absolutely NO PAIN KILLER because it would have made me drowsy. So by the time I got there my endorphins were either kicking in or I thought I saw a pink Care Bear smoking a cigar in the back of what appeared to be a deformed sleigh with the angel of death dressed as a ghastly Santa. My mother took one look at me and pushed aside the Tylenol with Codeine I had and went right for the Vicaden she had saved in the cabinet for a special occasion. Mom always knows best. So basically I couldn’t eat anything without being in extreme pain or being doped up and sleeping on drugs. Ahh.. but by the end of Christmas day we were all on the Vicaden and kickin’ it back with bourbon.
The day started out as a typical Christmas morn except this year Santa got lazy and slept in and forgot to put the presents out for the kids the night before whereby they obviously saw nothing that morning and totally crushing their illusions of Santa forevermore. So half dazed and needing coffee we all dragged out the loot for the kids in broad daylight and dragged their butts out of childhood with a horrid little jolt and stuffed the half-wrapped items under the x-mas “bush”. That’s right – a bush. This tree was meant for a cathedral ceiling which we have and it’s base was at least 15ft. wide with branches but 4ft up the tree it suddenly ended as if the rest of the tree was chopped off at the top. It was a sickly sight and my parent’s are developing an obviously sick sense of judgment. Soon after this, said presents were slightly maimed due to my parent’s dog getting territorial with my visiting puppy and quite a dog fight took place and said puppy preceded to yelp and whine for the next 24 hours incessantly driving us all to want to cook her for dinner that evening. My sister and I got into an argument as usual, the result of which ended in her accidentally driving my Mother’s month-old Brand New Avalon (nice car-leather seats that heat up – how yummy) into my car and completely smashing my Mom’s car to bits and making my front bumper fall off. It was then that the bourbon came out. Which was a good thing because when the Kitchen caught fire I hardly noticed at all. Good thing my father bought my mother a fire extinguisher for x-mas. (how romantic) It came in quite handy for that reason and later on in the day when Dad sorta lit the jeep on fire as well.
I can’t believe this is all true. I’m still in shock as I write this. Can you believe it? The topper on the cake is when a certain female, who shall remain nameless, after numerous years with her beau was expecting a ring and instead received a meat grinder!! What in God’s name was he thinking?? I have no idea. She doesn’t even cook toast let alone grind up an animal carcass to be stuffed in sausages. Lord! Men – here’s a hint – JEWELRY. When in doubt go for the gusto and get jewelry and lots of it and make it expensive. It’s the only way to fly. If it was me that had gotten the grinder the first thing I’d be a grindin’ would probably be the bearer of such a gift. I could always say it was the Vicaden that did it. So that was my lovely little holiday.
Column - Christmas gone awry- 1
Christmas gone awry
Christmas. This single word can evoke many emotions ranging from joy to nausea. With me it’s a lot of both. My family still has those huge-bulbed 1970’s outside lights. These strands of lights are nothing but a box of 8-track tapes to me. Oh, and don’t even think of throwing them out. “They’re still good, don’t throw out that strand.” “Dad! There’s only two working lights on the whole damn thing and they don’t make the replacement bulbs anymore.”
“I can’t see getting rid of it. Maybe they’ll make them again.”
So then I roll my eyes. Now if I did that at eight years of age he’d remark that I was about to get a good smack. At which point I’d push my luck and say, “As opposed to a bad smack?” I was a rotten child. Ahh, but he can’t do anything now because I’m an adult so I’m told.
Ever notice how everyone is a professional on how to hang lights but nobody wants to actually get on the ladder with the staple gun to do it? So all of us direct my father who’s on the ladder.
“No, Ron, it’s got to go higher on the left side of Rudolph’s nose.” “Dad, if you put it that way all the red bulbs will be clumped together and it’s gonna look stupid.” “Honey, that last part just fell back down.” “Dad, when you’re done with that can you put this wreath up, ‘cause the sap is getting on my fingers and it won’t go right.” About this point my father wants to staple our foreheads and starts muttering that in about two damn minutes we can do it our damn selves. At which point we all mumble “What the hell is his problem?” and go back inside.
I hate those little twinkling lights because if one goes the whole thing goes, or worse - half of it goes. If half of it goes you think you can actually find the defiant little bulb screwing up the whole thing but after 20 minutes you curse it and throw it out. This makes the next family member come along and give it a shot until they get pissed and pass it to the next person and so on until we’re all snapping at each other and hitting the egg nog early.
The tree. Ahhh, the tree. What a tradition that is, huh? Whose idea was it to bring the forest into the house anyways? With my family we would always chop down our own tree. All six of us would trek out through the fields for our family tree. After three hours of arguing about which one to get we would begin the ordeal of chopping it down and almost taking a leg off in the process. After a few years of that my father came home with a tree that he got from the gas station. The gas fumes from the tree were so bad we had to have all the windows open to keep from passing out. The poor thing lost all it’s needles in two days and by Christmas looked like a hat rack. I took out the .22 and shot it to put it out of it’s misery. Another joke gone sour that I was grounded for. The decorating of said tree was always a blast. When we were small the tree consisted of hand-made pasty oatmeal ornaments that looked like the art class rejects along with those garland strands of chained construction paper. For years I thought it was a Nelson family tradition to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. As an adult I realized the rest of the world would call this procrastination. When we were kids we all argued about who got more ornaments to put on and how unfair my parents were. As teenagers my mother would threaten us to put the ornaments on. “Damn it, if you kids don’t start decorating this tree I’m bringing everything back to the mall. Now I want each of you to get over here right now and put on 10 ornaments each. I mean it!”
Who thought of the idea of a fat man with a limited wardrobe, a binging “cookie and milk” eating disorder, and a fetish for having kids sit on his lap swearing they were “good”? Think about this - doesn’t anybody think that a strange person breaking into your house late at night via the friggin’ chimney, for God’s sake, isn’t the slightest bit scary and peculiar? And we actually tell our kids this load of crap?!! When I was a kid I was so confused - one minute you’re told not to talk to strangers yet some guy was sneaking into the house once a year in his long johns! What’s wrong with this picture? And people wonder why kids cry on santa’s lap at the mall. And unfortunately for my parents that line about getting coal if you’re bad didn’t work on me and my siblings. You see - we heated our house with wood in pot bellied stoves and had to constantly split wood and lug it in - coal would have been easier to carry and burned longer. “Santa will bring you coal, Carol Ann, if you don’t start behaving!” “Good, it sure would make things a helluva alot easier.” I got a good smack for that one. If my parents really wanted to scare me they only had to say I was getting nothing but socks and underwear.
“Parking.” There’s a horror in itself. “Mall.” That’s it’s twin. The parking at a mall at Christmas is cut-throat --- every car for themselves. The only way you get one is to follow someone to theirs and then they just put the packages in, lock it, and go back into the mall. Ohh noo, they couldn’t have told you that’s what they were doing as you were trailing them for 2 miles to the outskirts of the whole parking lot. What’s really stupid is that you finally park and in the process of walking TO the mall you have three cars stop and ask you if you’re going to your car. “Yes, that’s right, I’m walking to my car backwards.”
You know it’s not really Christmas until your Uncle Frank starts hittin’ the bourbon. Things start getting pretty lively after that, the language gets very colorful, and the women start swearing that they’re ruining Christmas. By this time, to change the subject, your mother makes you go put on some choking, ghastly sweater that Aunt Edna just bought you. Twenty years later Frank still hits the bourbon but instead of being forced to try on a choking sweater they just choke me to death in a more bludgeoning way. “You meet anybody yet?” “Wouldn’t hurt you to wear a little make-up once in awhile.” “Have you gained weight?” “So I guess you’re not going to have anybody to kiss on New Years Eve again, huh?” “Did I mention your cousin just had another baby?” “I sure would like to have more grandchildren myself – not that I’m pushing – you still have what- one, maybe two years, left to have children? Plenty of time…. really….” Happy flippin’ holidays to me. I start wishing for salmonella poisoning from the egg nog. Then just when you think it can’t get any worse: “Where’s everybody sleeping?” I’m always on the floor in a sleeping bag, no pillow, and next to someone that snores with a bladder problem. Ahh… but in the end…know what? I wouldn’t change any of it. I joke and kid and poke fun but honestly, I have the most loving and wonderful family and I am so incredibly blessed to have them. Have a safe and happy holiday this season and God bless.
Christmas. This single word can evoke many emotions ranging from joy to nausea. With me it’s a lot of both. My family still has those huge-bulbed 1970’s outside lights. These strands of lights are nothing but a box of 8-track tapes to me. Oh, and don’t even think of throwing them out. “They’re still good, don’t throw out that strand.” “Dad! There’s only two working lights on the whole damn thing and they don’t make the replacement bulbs anymore.”
“I can’t see getting rid of it. Maybe they’ll make them again.”
So then I roll my eyes. Now if I did that at eight years of age he’d remark that I was about to get a good smack. At which point I’d push my luck and say, “As opposed to a bad smack?” I was a rotten child. Ahh, but he can’t do anything now because I’m an adult so I’m told.
Ever notice how everyone is a professional on how to hang lights but nobody wants to actually get on the ladder with the staple gun to do it? So all of us direct my father who’s on the ladder.
“No, Ron, it’s got to go higher on the left side of Rudolph’s nose.” “Dad, if you put it that way all the red bulbs will be clumped together and it’s gonna look stupid.” “Honey, that last part just fell back down.” “Dad, when you’re done with that can you put this wreath up, ‘cause the sap is getting on my fingers and it won’t go right.” About this point my father wants to staple our foreheads and starts muttering that in about two damn minutes we can do it our damn selves. At which point we all mumble “What the hell is his problem?” and go back inside.
I hate those little twinkling lights because if one goes the whole thing goes, or worse - half of it goes. If half of it goes you think you can actually find the defiant little bulb screwing up the whole thing but after 20 minutes you curse it and throw it out. This makes the next family member come along and give it a shot until they get pissed and pass it to the next person and so on until we’re all snapping at each other and hitting the egg nog early.
The tree. Ahhh, the tree. What a tradition that is, huh? Whose idea was it to bring the forest into the house anyways? With my family we would always chop down our own tree. All six of us would trek out through the fields for our family tree. After three hours of arguing about which one to get we would begin the ordeal of chopping it down and almost taking a leg off in the process. After a few years of that my father came home with a tree that he got from the gas station. The gas fumes from the tree were so bad we had to have all the windows open to keep from passing out. The poor thing lost all it’s needles in two days and by Christmas looked like a hat rack. I took out the .22 and shot it to put it out of it’s misery. Another joke gone sour that I was grounded for. The decorating of said tree was always a blast. When we were small the tree consisted of hand-made pasty oatmeal ornaments that looked like the art class rejects along with those garland strands of chained construction paper. For years I thought it was a Nelson family tradition to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. As an adult I realized the rest of the world would call this procrastination. When we were kids we all argued about who got more ornaments to put on and how unfair my parents were. As teenagers my mother would threaten us to put the ornaments on. “Damn it, if you kids don’t start decorating this tree I’m bringing everything back to the mall. Now I want each of you to get over here right now and put on 10 ornaments each. I mean it!”
Who thought of the idea of a fat man with a limited wardrobe, a binging “cookie and milk” eating disorder, and a fetish for having kids sit on his lap swearing they were “good”? Think about this - doesn’t anybody think that a strange person breaking into your house late at night via the friggin’ chimney, for God’s sake, isn’t the slightest bit scary and peculiar? And we actually tell our kids this load of crap?!! When I was a kid I was so confused - one minute you’re told not to talk to strangers yet some guy was sneaking into the house once a year in his long johns! What’s wrong with this picture? And people wonder why kids cry on santa’s lap at the mall. And unfortunately for my parents that line about getting coal if you’re bad didn’t work on me and my siblings. You see - we heated our house with wood in pot bellied stoves and had to constantly split wood and lug it in - coal would have been easier to carry and burned longer. “Santa will bring you coal, Carol Ann, if you don’t start behaving!” “Good, it sure would make things a helluva alot easier.” I got a good smack for that one. If my parents really wanted to scare me they only had to say I was getting nothing but socks and underwear.
“Parking.” There’s a horror in itself. “Mall.” That’s it’s twin. The parking at a mall at Christmas is cut-throat --- every car for themselves. The only way you get one is to follow someone to theirs and then they just put the packages in, lock it, and go back into the mall. Ohh noo, they couldn’t have told you that’s what they were doing as you were trailing them for 2 miles to the outskirts of the whole parking lot. What’s really stupid is that you finally park and in the process of walking TO the mall you have three cars stop and ask you if you’re going to your car. “Yes, that’s right, I’m walking to my car backwards.”
You know it’s not really Christmas until your Uncle Frank starts hittin’ the bourbon. Things start getting pretty lively after that, the language gets very colorful, and the women start swearing that they’re ruining Christmas. By this time, to change the subject, your mother makes you go put on some choking, ghastly sweater that Aunt Edna just bought you. Twenty years later Frank still hits the bourbon but instead of being forced to try on a choking sweater they just choke me to death in a more bludgeoning way. “You meet anybody yet?” “Wouldn’t hurt you to wear a little make-up once in awhile.” “Have you gained weight?” “So I guess you’re not going to have anybody to kiss on New Years Eve again, huh?” “Did I mention your cousin just had another baby?” “I sure would like to have more grandchildren myself – not that I’m pushing – you still have what- one, maybe two years, left to have children? Plenty of time…. really….” Happy flippin’ holidays to me. I start wishing for salmonella poisoning from the egg nog. Then just when you think it can’t get any worse: “Where’s everybody sleeping?” I’m always on the floor in a sleeping bag, no pillow, and next to someone that snores with a bladder problem. Ahh… but in the end…know what? I wouldn’t change any of it. I joke and kid and poke fun but honestly, I have the most loving and wonderful family and I am so incredibly blessed to have them. Have a safe and happy holiday this season and God bless.
Column - Pregnant Humor
Pregnant Humor
So I’m pregnant. Me. A parent. Could you imagine that? I’m into the fourth month. The first three were hell. Why they can come up with viagra to keep a man happy into his 100’s but it’s okay for a woman to vomit 24hrs. a day for 90 days without a solution I’ll never know. I’ve christened every street from for a 30mile radius. I’m expecting the Sanitation dept. to drag me oughta the grocery store in handcuffs any day now. My husband had the flu and vomited for 24 hours and all I could say was, “Tough Shit! Try having it for 3 months, you Wus!” Mood Swings – gotta luv ‘em.
Don’t get me started on the whole boob issue. I could give Dolly Parton a run for her money. I mean -- how much milk is this kid gonna need anyways?!! This is ridiculous! I could start my own dairy at this point!! “Carol’s Farms” – now in new lightweight containers! Everyone says I should definitely breast-feed because it’s so healthy for the baby. Little do they know I’m part Italian which basically means the kid’s gonna be hackin’ up hairballs like a cat.
We can’t seem to decide on a name either. My psychics say it’s gonna be a boy and I sorta feel that way too. My husband keeps calling it Rocco and has pretty much shot down any normal name I seem to come up with. We have two baby books of over 35,000 names and we can’t seem to find ONE we agree upon. The kid will be 5yrs. Old and we’ll still be callin’ it “Hey you”. I’ve been reading every baby book I can get my hands on so that I don’t accidentally kill it in the first week. I’ve killed almost every houseplant I’ve ever had and my last pet committed suicide. I must have dropped my niece on the floor about eight times in the first 6 months of her life. I’m surprised she doesn’t have brain damage. I’m gonna try to cut down on the swearing too. His first words will be “son-of-a-bitch” for sure. I was a nanny for a short period of time and I was terrible at it. On my second day I was writing a note to the nursery school teacher saying Jimmy and Sue couldn’t make it to playtime because they were hung-over. They got into their father’s beer as I was cleaning toothpaste off the TV from the other two hoodlums. Two yr. old Sue was crying into her sippy cup and all three yr. old Jimmy could do was hold his head and pathetically whine, “Make her stoooooopppp!!!!”
My girlfriend recently had a baby. One day when I was visiting her she was changing the baby’s diaper. The baby was a little over a week old and that black belly button nub thing was still there and hadn’t fallen off yet. Just as I was thinking “I hope that thing doesn’t cut loose with me being here and all” it does. She picks up the naked baby out of the old diaper and the thing pops off like a champagne cork and goes flying across the linoleum. Before I could express any emotion at all, quick as flash, the dog runs over and snaps it up like a doggy treat and one swallow later it was gone forever. All I could do was drop my jaw to the ground and look horrified with shock and disgust and scream loudly, “DID YOU JUST SEE THAT??!!!” “MY, GOD!!” “COULD HE DIE??!!” Now if this isn’t shocking enough to blow your mind my friend goes after the dog and grabs its muzzle and sticks her fingers down it’s throat, all the while yelling “Bad Dog! Spit it out!” Jesus, I think this goes a little bit beyond what I think of as “bad dog”. Then to be gutsy enough to try to go after it was enough to make me wet myself. I thought she was trying to save the life of the dog, but she wasn’t , she actually wanted the thing back to put in her scrapbook. God, I hope I don't turn into one of those scrapbooking moms. So…. It seems I have a lot of things to look forward to. Yah!
So I’m pregnant. Me. A parent. Could you imagine that? I’m into the fourth month. The first three were hell. Why they can come up with viagra to keep a man happy into his 100’s but it’s okay for a woman to vomit 24hrs. a day for 90 days without a solution I’ll never know. I’ve christened every street from for a 30mile radius. I’m expecting the Sanitation dept. to drag me oughta the grocery store in handcuffs any day now. My husband had the flu and vomited for 24 hours and all I could say was, “Tough Shit! Try having it for 3 months, you Wus!” Mood Swings – gotta luv ‘em.
Don’t get me started on the whole boob issue. I could give Dolly Parton a run for her money. I mean -- how much milk is this kid gonna need anyways?!! This is ridiculous! I could start my own dairy at this point!! “Carol’s Farms” – now in new lightweight containers! Everyone says I should definitely breast-feed because it’s so healthy for the baby. Little do they know I’m part Italian which basically means the kid’s gonna be hackin’ up hairballs like a cat.
We can’t seem to decide on a name either. My psychics say it’s gonna be a boy and I sorta feel that way too. My husband keeps calling it Rocco and has pretty much shot down any normal name I seem to come up with. We have two baby books of over 35,000 names and we can’t seem to find ONE we agree upon. The kid will be 5yrs. Old and we’ll still be callin’ it “Hey you”. I’ve been reading every baby book I can get my hands on so that I don’t accidentally kill it in the first week. I’ve killed almost every houseplant I’ve ever had and my last pet committed suicide. I must have dropped my niece on the floor about eight times in the first 6 months of her life. I’m surprised she doesn’t have brain damage. I’m gonna try to cut down on the swearing too. His first words will be “son-of-a-bitch” for sure. I was a nanny for a short period of time and I was terrible at it. On my second day I was writing a note to the nursery school teacher saying Jimmy and Sue couldn’t make it to playtime because they were hung-over. They got into their father’s beer as I was cleaning toothpaste off the TV from the other two hoodlums. Two yr. old Sue was crying into her sippy cup and all three yr. old Jimmy could do was hold his head and pathetically whine, “Make her stoooooopppp!!!!”
My girlfriend recently had a baby. One day when I was visiting her she was changing the baby’s diaper. The baby was a little over a week old and that black belly button nub thing was still there and hadn’t fallen off yet. Just as I was thinking “I hope that thing doesn’t cut loose with me being here and all” it does. She picks up the naked baby out of the old diaper and the thing pops off like a champagne cork and goes flying across the linoleum. Before I could express any emotion at all, quick as flash, the dog runs over and snaps it up like a doggy treat and one swallow later it was gone forever. All I could do was drop my jaw to the ground and look horrified with shock and disgust and scream loudly, “DID YOU JUST SEE THAT??!!!” “MY, GOD!!” “COULD HE DIE??!!” Now if this isn’t shocking enough to blow your mind my friend goes after the dog and grabs its muzzle and sticks her fingers down it’s throat, all the while yelling “Bad Dog! Spit it out!” Jesus, I think this goes a little bit beyond what I think of as “bad dog”. Then to be gutsy enough to try to go after it was enough to make me wet myself. I thought she was trying to save the life of the dog, but she wasn’t , she actually wanted the thing back to put in her scrapbook. God, I hope I don't turn into one of those scrapbooking moms. So…. It seems I have a lot of things to look forward to. Yah!
Column - Wedding Day Jitters
Wedding Day Jitters
Well, my wedding is 2 months away and I’m getting panicky about every detail, which seems to have an affect on my eating habits. My dress is done and altered and can’t be let out & apparently I’ve gained enough weight to barely zipper it. I’ll be the equivalent of a Macy’s day float going down the aisle. Might as well strap a sign on my ass that reads, “Happy Thanksgiving”. People will be looking passed me for Santa bringin’ up the rear.
I’ll also be arriving in an Army Hummer. I can’t even begin to tell you the story on that one. I can see the headlines now: “Up tonight on your local news -- The bride wore a cream gown held together with staples as she arrived in a sleek black Hummer and proceeded to trip and fall over a couple of machine guns onto her face knocking her front teeth out while simultaneously setting off an explosion – Film at Eleven.”
I also thought it would be nice to release butterflies at the end of the ceremony and so I ordered them to arrive from a butterfly farm a day before the wedding. Now my sister is giving me nightmares because she used to raise butterflies and is telling me that if it’s not done right I’ll open the box and it will be nothing but a bunch of gooey smelly caterpillar larvae. Could you just imagine the horror? I’ll have everyone from cousin Morty to Aunt Edna puking in the fruit punch. I bet the caterer will definitely charge me extra for that. So, to cheer myself up I went for a reading with Morning Bird. She asked me if I had been dropping things or knocking things over as of late. Funny, ‘cause I was just telling my fiancé that I can’t believe how much of a butterfingers I’ve been & how strange that the paintings keep falling off the walls. I was also washing the dishes and put three glasses on the dish rack to dry and one by one I watched as one smashed onto the kitchen floor, then the next, and went to grab the last one but didn’t quite make it. Then I came to work to see all my shelves in the stock room on the floor and everything scattered and broken on the ground. I was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on when Morning Bird brought the subject up. She said my deceased Grandmother was knocking things over every time I became too tense and worked up about things. Grandma was trying to distract me and tell me I need to take more time for myself and relax. Well, at first it was an interesting tid-bit to know but now Grandma is getting out of control. Last weekend I was at my sister’s house and tripped backwards into the bedpost and gave my butt one heck of a bruise that had me on the carpet in agony with my Mother yelling, “Rub it! Rub it really quick!”. I walked into a car door at the mall and as I’m laying on the pavement all I can hear is Mom in her chirpy little voice still yelling, “Rub it! Rub it really quick!”. When I came back home I went to walk into the bathroom and thought it was really dark in there for some reason, just as my face smashed into the closed door. I can’t believe I walked into the door. The last straw occurred last night. I was in the back yard throwing the tennis ball to my yellow lab, Hannah, and she would usually fetch it and run right back dropping it at my feet. I’m totally convinced Grandma did something to the poor dog. I threw the ball and Hannah got it and was running back at me full speed and wasn’t slowing down. She charged me like a bull and rammed her head right into my stomach and I literally flew back about 5ft with my feet up over my head and landed with a huge “whump” on the lawn. When I regained consciousness I tried to yell for help but all I could do was wheeze in a raspy voice, “Honey!! My Grandmother is kicking the crap outta me!” By the time the wedding comes around Grandma will have me in the hospital! I’m starting to think that wedding planning requires a black belt. I now know why there is such a thing as a honeymoon. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Funny thing is that all that preparation results in a few mere hours and then it’s over in a blink of an eye. But it will all be worth it in the end and I’ll find myself laughing over this soon enough. God I hope so.
Well, my wedding is 2 months away and I’m getting panicky about every detail, which seems to have an affect on my eating habits. My dress is done and altered and can’t be let out & apparently I’ve gained enough weight to barely zipper it. I’ll be the equivalent of a Macy’s day float going down the aisle. Might as well strap a sign on my ass that reads, “Happy Thanksgiving”. People will be looking passed me for Santa bringin’ up the rear.
I’ll also be arriving in an Army Hummer. I can’t even begin to tell you the story on that one. I can see the headlines now: “Up tonight on your local news -- The bride wore a cream gown held together with staples as she arrived in a sleek black Hummer and proceeded to trip and fall over a couple of machine guns onto her face knocking her front teeth out while simultaneously setting off an explosion – Film at Eleven.”
I also thought it would be nice to release butterflies at the end of the ceremony and so I ordered them to arrive from a butterfly farm a day before the wedding. Now my sister is giving me nightmares because she used to raise butterflies and is telling me that if it’s not done right I’ll open the box and it will be nothing but a bunch of gooey smelly caterpillar larvae. Could you just imagine the horror? I’ll have everyone from cousin Morty to Aunt Edna puking in the fruit punch. I bet the caterer will definitely charge me extra for that. So, to cheer myself up I went for a reading with Morning Bird. She asked me if I had been dropping things or knocking things over as of late. Funny, ‘cause I was just telling my fiancé that I can’t believe how much of a butterfingers I’ve been & how strange that the paintings keep falling off the walls. I was also washing the dishes and put three glasses on the dish rack to dry and one by one I watched as one smashed onto the kitchen floor, then the next, and went to grab the last one but didn’t quite make it. Then I came to work to see all my shelves in the stock room on the floor and everything scattered and broken on the ground. I was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on when Morning Bird brought the subject up. She said my deceased Grandmother was knocking things over every time I became too tense and worked up about things. Grandma was trying to distract me and tell me I need to take more time for myself and relax. Well, at first it was an interesting tid-bit to know but now Grandma is getting out of control. Last weekend I was at my sister’s house and tripped backwards into the bedpost and gave my butt one heck of a bruise that had me on the carpet in agony with my Mother yelling, “Rub it! Rub it really quick!”. I walked into a car door at the mall and as I’m laying on the pavement all I can hear is Mom in her chirpy little voice still yelling, “Rub it! Rub it really quick!”. When I came back home I went to walk into the bathroom and thought it was really dark in there for some reason, just as my face smashed into the closed door. I can’t believe I walked into the door. The last straw occurred last night. I was in the back yard throwing the tennis ball to my yellow lab, Hannah, and she would usually fetch it and run right back dropping it at my feet. I’m totally convinced Grandma did something to the poor dog. I threw the ball and Hannah got it and was running back at me full speed and wasn’t slowing down. She charged me like a bull and rammed her head right into my stomach and I literally flew back about 5ft with my feet up over my head and landed with a huge “whump” on the lawn. When I regained consciousness I tried to yell for help but all I could do was wheeze in a raspy voice, “Honey!! My Grandmother is kicking the crap outta me!” By the time the wedding comes around Grandma will have me in the hospital! I’m starting to think that wedding planning requires a black belt. I now know why there is such a thing as a honeymoon. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Funny thing is that all that preparation results in a few mere hours and then it’s over in a blink of an eye. But it will all be worth it in the end and I’ll find myself laughing over this soon enough. God I hope so.
Column - Valentine's Day: A.K.A. "Anti-singles Day"
Okay, so I'm gonna put a bunch of columns on here I've done for some publications in the past and also some new stuff I'm working on. For all those relatives out there that think of me as that "Aniston PG-13 darling" - please look away from the forth-coming onslaught of my inner "Saucy R-rated, deep dark chocolate layer".
Valentine’s Day: A.K.A. “Anti-singles Day”
I like to affectionately call Valentine’s day, “Anti-Singles Day” since it’s biased against anyone that’s not part of a “couple”. Every Valentine’s day, like some sick unearthly joke, I am forced to fight the bowls of hell and the cloaked spirit of death. Apparently it seems for the majority of Valentine’s Days passed I have had various attempts by God to remove me from the planet. Everything that is bad in the world seems to hit me on THAT DAY!! Isn’t that odd? The most romantic day of the year and bad things happen to me. It’s an omen. It’s bad enough I have to deal with a stinking holiday that rubs my own love-less life back into my face but I also have to fight hell as well. I have a list of all the things that went wrong on numerous February 14th’s such as: getting mugged, getting in a car accident, my appendix rupturing and dying on the operating table (nope – didn’t see any white light or tunnel, … I wonder if that means I’m going to hell for sure) and the list goes on. Every Valentine’s day is cause for sheer terror for me. I have a mental picture of God sitting on a cloud and yelling down “I’m gonna get’cha!!”
So then there was the year that the house got broken into, and then the following year it would catch fire. The Valentine’s day I spent in the hospital after my mother got into a car accident; the following year I got into a car accident. Year after that the dog died and so on and so on. I find it amazing that all of these major events happen yearly on the SAME DAY! How impossible is that? I mean – what are the chances? I finally started to get the message loud and clear when I met this guy, “Nick”. So, sure enough, my personal favorite holiday of death rolls around and there are numerous Valentine’s day parties going on. So I decide to go out and try not to be depressed. Low and behold, I see Nick at a party I was at and worked up enough nerve to talk to him. Things seemed to be going well and I actually briefly thought for a moment that I might escape the date unscathed at last and my luck was changing. We got to talking and he was saying he was a musician. So then he says, “Guess what instrument I play.” So I’m being all cutesy and flirty in my tone of voice and trying to guess, “Ummm, piano? Harp? Saxophone?” and as I’m guessing he’s looking more and more pissed like I’m making fun of him or something. So then he holds his left hand up and angrily growls, “DRUMS!” Wouldn’t you know it – he was missing his ring finger. His WEDDING ring finger. It was gone. Oh, was it ever gone. It was just soooo not there. How the hell I didn’t notice the man didn’t have a finger I have no idea. And here I was guessing all these instruments that required all your fingers to be present. He thought I was making fun of him. If that isn’t indicative of my life I don’t know what is. What the hell are the chances that of all the men I will meet on Valentine’s day, it’s a man missing his wedding ring finger. It was a sarcastic joke from God in the form of symbolism to let me know I will be alone, man-less, for all eternity till my womb dries up and falls out like a bitter crusty prune. I’ll be walking down the street at 80 yrs. old and some kid will yell, “Hey, lady, you just dropped your uterus.” How embarrassing would that be?
I will admit though, that I was married once a few years ago for a period of two months – to which I have dismissed in my mind as ever happening at all and thus proclaim I get a “do over”. You see – the former ex spontaneously decided after dating just a short while that we should just take the plunge and elope on Valentine’s day, knowing my history of the day, to change my luck ----so we did it. We married on Valentine’s day with a little fear and some hope. Two months later he left me for my best friend and thus the curse was obviously not lifted but now has become a horrid anniversary as well. Ahh… the pleasures of being “me”.
So I wonder what will happen this year. Will I be struck by a delivery truck carrying those heart-shaped candy with the stupid words on them like, “miss you”? Will the dating hotline post my picture on their website with a red circle and a line through it? Will my “dating impaired” status get me my own handicapped parking space at the mall? Will they make a TV movie based on my pathetic love life? Or will my current boyfriend buy me a bowling ball with his name engraved on it knowing I don’t bowl but he does? Actually that’s not so bad. One year I got a stainless steel “snake” for the toilet bowl. There I was – cleaning shit off of everything. Stay tuned for this year’s events.
Valentine’s Day: A.K.A. “Anti-singles Day”
I like to affectionately call Valentine’s day, “Anti-Singles Day” since it’s biased against anyone that’s not part of a “couple”. Every Valentine’s day, like some sick unearthly joke, I am forced to fight the bowls of hell and the cloaked spirit of death. Apparently it seems for the majority of Valentine’s Days passed I have had various attempts by God to remove me from the planet. Everything that is bad in the world seems to hit me on THAT DAY!! Isn’t that odd? The most romantic day of the year and bad things happen to me. It’s an omen. It’s bad enough I have to deal with a stinking holiday that rubs my own love-less life back into my face but I also have to fight hell as well. I have a list of all the things that went wrong on numerous February 14th’s such as: getting mugged, getting in a car accident, my appendix rupturing and dying on the operating table (nope – didn’t see any white light or tunnel, … I wonder if that means I’m going to hell for sure) and the list goes on. Every Valentine’s day is cause for sheer terror for me. I have a mental picture of God sitting on a cloud and yelling down “I’m gonna get’cha!!”
So then there was the year that the house got broken into, and then the following year it would catch fire. The Valentine’s day I spent in the hospital after my mother got into a car accident; the following year I got into a car accident. Year after that the dog died and so on and so on. I find it amazing that all of these major events happen yearly on the SAME DAY! How impossible is that? I mean – what are the chances? I finally started to get the message loud and clear when I met this guy, “Nick”. So, sure enough, my personal favorite holiday of death rolls around and there are numerous Valentine’s day parties going on. So I decide to go out and try not to be depressed. Low and behold, I see Nick at a party I was at and worked up enough nerve to talk to him. Things seemed to be going well and I actually briefly thought for a moment that I might escape the date unscathed at last and my luck was changing. We got to talking and he was saying he was a musician. So then he says, “Guess what instrument I play.” So I’m being all cutesy and flirty in my tone of voice and trying to guess, “Ummm, piano? Harp? Saxophone?” and as I’m guessing he’s looking more and more pissed like I’m making fun of him or something. So then he holds his left hand up and angrily growls, “DRUMS!” Wouldn’t you know it – he was missing his ring finger. His WEDDING ring finger. It was gone. Oh, was it ever gone. It was just soooo not there. How the hell I didn’t notice the man didn’t have a finger I have no idea. And here I was guessing all these instruments that required all your fingers to be present. He thought I was making fun of him. If that isn’t indicative of my life I don’t know what is. What the hell are the chances that of all the men I will meet on Valentine’s day, it’s a man missing his wedding ring finger. It was a sarcastic joke from God in the form of symbolism to let me know I will be alone, man-less, for all eternity till my womb dries up and falls out like a bitter crusty prune. I’ll be walking down the street at 80 yrs. old and some kid will yell, “Hey, lady, you just dropped your uterus.” How embarrassing would that be?
I will admit though, that I was married once a few years ago for a period of two months – to which I have dismissed in my mind as ever happening at all and thus proclaim I get a “do over”. You see – the former ex spontaneously decided after dating just a short while that we should just take the plunge and elope on Valentine’s day, knowing my history of the day, to change my luck ----so we did it. We married on Valentine’s day with a little fear and some hope. Two months later he left me for my best friend and thus the curse was obviously not lifted but now has become a horrid anniversary as well. Ahh… the pleasures of being “me”.
So I wonder what will happen this year. Will I be struck by a delivery truck carrying those heart-shaped candy with the stupid words on them like, “miss you”? Will the dating hotline post my picture on their website with a red circle and a line through it? Will my “dating impaired” status get me my own handicapped parking space at the mall? Will they make a TV movie based on my pathetic love life? Or will my current boyfriend buy me a bowling ball with his name engraved on it knowing I don’t bowl but he does? Actually that’s not so bad. One year I got a stainless steel “snake” for the toilet bowl. There I was – cleaning shit off of everything. Stay tuned for this year’s events.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Rock Art - part 2
Well, amazingly enough, we've had a lot of attention from our rock art. The local newspaper did a full page story on our rock animals and how we got started doing it. Since then I've commissioned to do 7 pieces. I just finished a honeybee and honeycomb for a local honey business. The wings are made of tupperware and flap in the breeze making it look like it's flying. I'll be doing a skunk and beaver next and then I'm off to upstate NY to paint a large boulder in a relative's yard. It looks like a sleeping dragon to me so that's what I will paint it. I'm making the wings out of old sleds. The person wants it to be "pretty" though so I'll be making it a pink and lavendar lady dragon. Might be pretty cool. The rock is curled around a tree so it's got potential.
Another personal project of mine is that I want to practice my column writing. It's been a few years since I've done that type of writing since I've been busy with my scripts so I'm a bit rusty. If it works out maybe I can talk my boss into letting me try one for the paper. I like reporting on my small town human interest stories but a column would be cool. Maybe I'm a budding Erma Bombeck and just don't know it yet. Well, a trashy mouthed, sarcastic Erma perhaps.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Rock Art
I started this painting project with my 5yr. old daughter as a way of spending one-on-one time with her and it's developed into so much more. For one thing people are driving safer now. We live on a main road around a dangerous curve and now people are slowing down to get a better look. Yeah! I won't have to jump out of the way of swerving cars in our driveway anymore while waiting for the school bus with the kids.
People are constantly beeping and giving the thumbs up or stopping and saying they've really enjoyed our art work and it gives them joy to see it at the end of a long day. I love watching mini-vans pull over and all the kids point and stare at all the different animals. It was a ton of fun to do with my daughter and I'm glad people are really enjoying it.
We began by thinking of what animals have we seen in our yard and to replicate them. It was a challenge to look for the right shaped rocks off of the rock walls surrounding our house. We used regular exterior paint and plumbing/ceramic putty to hold the various pieces together. The nut for the Squirrel is actually hardened play-dough on top of a styrofoam ball that we painted brown. The frog's tongue is a tent peg stuck into a styrofoam ball we painted black and the fly's wings are from a yogurt cup we stuck into the ball and painted grey. The hold thing is held up with wire stuck in the sand.
I think my favorite piece is the fox but the spider is cool too. I like the squirrel looking pist and the owl waving. I like the rabbit I included but I did a second one I'm not so crazy about. I also did another frog I liked better but thought the addition of the fly on this one was awesome.
So that's the story of my rock art. I'm just hoping some asshole doesn't come along and steal them now.
People are constantly beeping and giving the thumbs up or stopping and saying they've really enjoyed our art work and it gives them joy to see it at the end of a long day. I love watching mini-vans pull over and all the kids point and stare at all the different animals. It was a ton of fun to do with my daughter and I'm glad people are really enjoying it.
We began by thinking of what animals have we seen in our yard and to replicate them. It was a challenge to look for the right shaped rocks off of the rock walls surrounding our house. We used regular exterior paint and plumbing/ceramic putty to hold the various pieces together. The nut for the Squirrel is actually hardened play-dough on top of a styrofoam ball that we painted brown. The frog's tongue is a tent peg stuck into a styrofoam ball we painted black and the fly's wings are from a yogurt cup we stuck into the ball and painted grey. The hold thing is held up with wire stuck in the sand.
I think my favorite piece is the fox but the spider is cool too. I like the squirrel looking pist and the owl waving. I like the rabbit I included but I did a second one I'm not so crazy about. I also did another frog I liked better but thought the addition of the fly on this one was awesome.
So that's the story of my rock art. I'm just hoping some asshole doesn't come along and steal them now.
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