Trocaria's Tantrums

Filed under, "I thought they WERE dead"

2009-12-15T14:09:00.000-08:00

Oral Roberts shown here attempting to heal my late sister, Audrey, passed away this afternoon.

I have always found this photo to be a haunting study of human emmotion. We have my Dad crying in anguish over Audrey. We have Oral straining in the spirit to move a miracle over Audrey and then we have little Miss Audrey, smiling, laughing as if not a bit of this matters.
The nice man is praying, Daddy is crying but it's as if she already knows that it will all be for naught. She is who she is and this is the way it was meant to be. So rejoice in the life that is left!

No, Audrey did not walk out of that service on her own, nor did she up and talk and come back to the way she had been prior to the polio shot that ruined her.

But she did start to eat again with gusto.

This healing of the appetite was something that Oral was able to knock out of the ball park on a pretty regular basis. Past recipients of Oral's prayers have reported that while they still could not walk or see or hear, they could, at least, polish off a buffet of food in short order and come back roarin' for more.

Anyway, he's dead, Jim. He of the visions of 800 foot tall Jesuses is now passed on to the big Sunday Dinner Buffet in the sky.

Made his soul be blessed and may he be in paradise. He did try after all to make the world a better place as is evidenced by the photo

2009-12-01T13:09:00.000-08:00

With the cost of postage and the insane cost of the average box of cards, Mr. Exacto and I decided that this was the best way to send our greetings; online via YouTube!

I used Photostory3 from MicroSoft. It's a free download that works so well and it soooo easy to learn; anyone can be Ken Burns with this thing!

So here you have it, our Christmas card. And no, Mr. E. did not micro manage it's production.

The House of Mr. Exacto

2009-11-16T13:15:00.000-08:00

This is the house. This is the house that Mr. Exacto built. It was to have been the project that Trocaria built with Mr. Exacto providing some technical advice but nooooo.

Not for the first time in my life, I wanted to be "crafty" for Christmas and make my gifts this year. Unfortunately, owing to poor hand/eye coordination skills, my attempts at "craft" have all too often wound up as "trash". At the very least, most of my attempts have gone back in the box waiting to be recycled for the next "white elephant" gift exchange at the recipient's place of work.

As I am laid off and have more time than money on my hands this year, I figured that maybe I could manage a little something like the house shown below:

This is what ebay classifies as a "putz" village house. These were very popular and quite common in American Christmas scenes from about 1920 to 1970. Most were made in Japan, were very cheap and provided a cheery and whimsical sense of the season from their rosy, Christmas bulb lit cellophane window panes.

The "putz" house is enjoying a revival of sorts just now as retailers look to cash in on the nostalgic feelings for the first great depression that the current one is bringing about. The houses can sell anywhere from $5.95 to a high of $19.95. Ouch!

So why not just make one? Card stock, paint and glue; how hard is that?

VERY hard according to Mr. Exacto AKA "dear Husband". Mr. Exacto came with me on my shopping trip for supplies. Card stock? Don't make Mr. Exacto laugh! That is too flimsy, what is needed is matt board. Matt board that costs $12.95 per board.

"You can easily get 6 houses from this one board alone!" he reasoned as I pulled out my wallet.

"Here's what I want to do", I told him, showing him the picture lifted from ebay, "Just something simple and charming..."

Mr. Exacto looked down his considerable long British nose and sniffed with disgust. Oh, these Americans with their quaint ways!

Three hours later, Mr. Exacto had produced the house shown at the top of the entry. He painstakingly painted tiny bricks. He measured and calculated the size of the windows to the door and then cut them out with his exacto blade employing all the skill and care of a top surgeon. Miniature steps were crafted from wood, the same wood that was used to provide joists and backing beams for the the matt board walls.

An offer of the use of my one and only craft tool, a glue gun, (never opened), were met with a sneer. Top of the line wood glue was the bonding agent of choice that any serious crafter would ever consider!

Mr. Exacto is now working on the roof of Exacto mansion. In true Mr. Exacto style, the roof is being measured and fussed over as tenderly as any real roof should be constructed.

When he's done with this house, Mr. Exacto intends to produce a whole village of tidy, well built houses that will be tastefully painted and decorated as only one of his exacting caliber can produce.

Suggestions such as;
"I'd like to do like a blue stucco house with cracks that show the brick behind"
are met with horrified intakes of breath. CRACKS on the face of an Exacto built home????
BLUE stucco in Exacto Village???
NEVER!

A sudden idea occurs to me; how about I make little Christmas wreaths to go over or on the little doors of the houses?

Mr. Exacto sighs and regards me with a baleful stare.

"Only if I can check them first!"

*sigh*

So for now, I am leaving Mr. E to go about his business. In the meantime I guess I'll dust off the directions for how to create rugs from plastic bread wrappers thus providing some lucky soul with at least a minute of unconfined mirth as they and their companions try to guess just what in the hell is that blob of plastic meant to be?

I'll be damned if I make any little plastic rugs for Exacto Village tho', not even if he begs!

September Song

2009-09-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

I think that the Jews have the right idea in celebrating the new year in the early fall.

September marks the end of so many things and by its ending, there marks a beginning.

September marks the end of the growing season, yet it is the beginning of the resting season for the earth. September's cool breezes mark the end of windows being left open all night but the beginning of quilts being taken from cedar chests and placed on beds.

It's also the beginning of school, of Wednesday night choir practices and theatre seasons and the end of just lazily doing whatever you felt like doing on lanquid summer evenings.

And in my family, September has marked the end and beginning of life.

Four members of my family have departed this life in the month of shortened evenings and lengthening shadows. For these holy dead, life has both ended and begun anew in the presence of the Lord.

For those left behind, life has also stopped in its tracks and a new life begins; a life to be learned to live without them in it.

September; Omega and Alpha. This week marks so much to remember...

Angel Unaware

2009-09-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

In September 1968, I thought I had things more or less figured out in my world, small as it was.

When you're five years, the world basically melts down to just your town, your street, your house and whatever is going on in this micro sphere is what must be going on through out the rest of the world in every house in the world.

For me, the world was our town and some distant place called England which my Dad claimed to visit on a daily basis.

"Where have you been?" I would ask upon his arrival home.

"I've been to see the Queen!" he would insist.

"What queen??"

"The Queen of England!"

I knew who that was. There was a stunning color picture of her in the front of one of our National Geographic books. That my minister Father was on a first name basis with the Queen of England was astounding to me. That he never took me to meet this queen was a source of great frustration.

"Does she ask about me and sister?" I always wanted to know.

Dad would assure me that she did, that he even showed her a picture of us which thrilled me no end but still did not make up for the lack of face to face with someone wearing a real crown.

Besides, time was of the essence if sister was ever to go and see this queen because any day now she'd be going to live with Jesus and go back to being an angel.

Jesus lived in heaven which was in the sky. Jesus could on occasion come to visit the Methodist church next door, (which is where God lived all the time), but his primary world was up there where all the other girls like sister Audrey became angels when they were done being Audreys on this earth.

I should pause here to relate that I was a very strange child in that while I would pepper people with questions on mundane issues such as why is the sky blue or why is so and so's hair a different color every week, when it came to the deeper issues like why can't my older sister walk, talk and go around like the rest of us, I chose to ponder this out on my own and arrive at my own conclusions which I then tended not to share.

After all, if it made sense to me, then it must be right and there was no further need to talk about it.

So with that in mind, I had reached the conclusion that Audreys were special beings that had been angels once and would be angels again when they were through with their missions here on earth.
Because they had once had wings, they couldn't walk very well on their feet nor could they use their hands that much. Angels communicated with thought so on earth, the use of the mouth to make words was an alien thing to them and they simply wouldn't do it.

Nor did they need to. Audrey couldn't walk to go and see this or that, instead, this or that came to her. She never uttered anything that came close to a word yet she spoke volumes with her eyes, her face, her laughter....and her tears.

Audrey was often ill. Audrey was often in pain. Audrey had already lived out 3 previous doctor imposed expiration dates and was closing in another one in that September 1968 so for this reason, my parents tried as gently as they could to explain to me that one day soon, my golden haired sister would be leaving us to go and live with Jesus.

And because I had already come to know that she was an angel trying to be a human, this did not duly upset me as they perhaps feared it would. I was concerned that she wouldn't know anyone up there. Yes, of course she would know Jesus but he was all over the place and who would she talk to when he was down here visiting his father at the Methodist church?

Of course, as an angel, she would have her wings back again so I reasoned that would be alright then. She could fly in the night time sky among the stars in the moonlight and perhaps she would come by and see me most nights. Yes, that would be fine. I would miss her but at least she wouldn't be sick and in pain anymore because, as I thought everyone knew, trying to be a human was hurtful for angels.

So that was my world as I figured it to be in mid September 1968; as colorful and flitting as a butterfly's wings and, as it would turn out...just as fragile.

Pretty Boxes

2009-09-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

According to the doctor, Audrey's time with us would be drawing to a close and likely very soon.

Years of numbing heart ache over Audrey's condition had already prepared my folks for her departure, but what of their youngest? It's one thing to tell the child that her sister would be going to live with Jesus but how to explain the funeral and the sight of one's sibling laid out in a casket?

So with that in mind, as a way of preparing me, Mother took me to the local funeral home.

In those days before SCI and other corporations turned the funeral services into an industry, funeral homes were just that; homes where one could hold a funeral. Ours was a big house built in the early part of the 20th century with a deep front porch. The front hall featured an elegant stairway with an elaborate banister and an unusual light fixture shaped to look like an elfin creature who balanced a multicolored globe on its elfin foot. I loved that light and always wished I could see it lit up sometime.

To the right of the hallway was a display room for the caskets and it was this room that my Mother wanted me to see. The funeral director's wife was a very kind woman with slivered white hair. She was also a good friend of my Mother's and I imagine she must have felt my Mother's pain at this moment very keenly. Mother/Daughter outings should be to shopping centers or the park, not to a casket display room. But, here we were.

The moment I first laid eyes on a casket stands sharp in my memory. Jewel toned with gold or silver accents, their lids opened to reveal rich interiors of velvet or satin. They were just like...giant jewelry boxes! They were beautiful!

I am sure that the women were likely explaining to me what a casket was, how it was used and all but their voices faded to a low hum in my head as I stood in stunned amazement at the sight of so much splendid beauty. What pretty boxes! Oh, how I wished I might have a box like one of these one day! I could keep my best dolls in it, put a mirror over it...

What's that you say? Mother's voice came back into focus in my head. These boxes were not for me, but someday Audrey would have one. Oh, that's good. Maybe I could play with it for her...wait a minute! Boxes...these things are boxes...

Of course! Suddenly I recalled seeing boxes like this coming out of the church next door and out of the church across the street. Bedecked in flowers, the boxes would be carried slowly to the big car parked in front of the church. In answer to my question over the contents, I was told that it contained people now going to live with Jesus and this was their send off ceremony.

I would watch as the box was loaded into the big car and then the big car would go ever so slowly towards downtown with all the other cars following behind. Of course they were headed for the cemetery but I didn't know about that place yet. I did however know that downtown was where the post office was and that is where boxes came from and went to.

Now it made sense to me! When you go to live with Jesus, you get a box. At the end of the send off ceremony, you get in your box and get taken with great fanfare to the post office where the post master would weigh you in and then put you on the back dock for the truck to pick up.

This is how you went to live with Jesus, via a box sent parcel post. When you got to heaven, Jesus would open the box and then there'd you be with Jesus and the angels. What you did with your box after that, I had no idea. Keep your spare halos and harps in it? Who knew, just so long as it was pretty!

I smiled up at Mother and the funeral lady who in turned seemed satisfied that I had understood what they had told me which of course I didn't on account of I hadn't listened to a word they had said.

Once again, I had figured it out all for myself and knowing that sister was going to go to Jesus in a pretty box made me feel a little better over her going off without me to live with Jesus and fly in the moonlight.

And naturally, I didn't share a word of this with anyone.

Old Mrs. Keller

2009-09-27T15:58:00.000-07:00

Old Mrs. Keller lived up the street from us just beyond the Presbyterian church and across the street from the big oak tree that sheltered the bus barn for the school district.

I had gotten to know Mrs. Keller pretty well if only by sight during my forced marches to and from the prison aka school. School had been introduced into my life that fall thus marking a major end and beginning in my life. So far as I was concerned this marked the end of my joy and contentment and the beginning of being forced to sit in a room full of noisy and oddly behaving strangers.

My days up til then had been marked in bluer than blue morning skies that I could watch and daydream about from my swing in the front yard. With church business and Audrey to attend to, my folks were very busy and no doubt thankful that I could so easily go off into a world of my own making.

Now that world had intruders who ate glue, stabbed one another with scissors and took things that didn't belong to them. The teacher was a nice enough lady but I was growing weary of her constant demands of my time in which she insisted I learn things like letters and how to tie my shoes.

Having to sit in that room with all those strangers doing things that made no sense to me was jarring to say the least. Obviously, I had done something very wrong to have wound up here and I wished with all my heart I could find out what it was I did to deserve this.

The sight of old Mrs. Keller bending over her garden in the morning and on her back porch in the afternoon was somewhat comforting to me. At least there was one soul left in the world who could do as they pleased with the day. I often wished that I could just veer off the sidewalk and go pull weeds with her rather than having to watch the teacher pull some foreign object out of so and so's nose.

(I should add here that my class was an exception to the rule from day one. The roll call included 5 boys who despite their tender years were already known trouble makers. I am told that teachers would visibly pale at the sight of their names on their class room assignments. In Sunday school, these 5 had helped introduce the practice of husband/wife teams teaching the class instead of just the ladies. One would teach, the other would shake, smack and pull first one boy and then another out of the room for a private "talking to".)

But there came a Wednesday when Mrs. Keller was not in her garden. Nor was she on the back porch at day's end. In fact, the house had a mysterious air of emptiness about it in the afternoon sun. Coming home, I was informed that Mrs. Keller had up and gone to live with Jesus.

I found it odd if not rude that she had never mentioned this. She might have at least called over the fence that she was going to leave soon and tell all us kids goodbye.

Two days later, Mother had me come home for lunch so that if I wanted, I could go and see Mrs. Keller at the church before she left.

I had never been to a send off before and was excited at the prospect of seeing what box she had picked out and what kind of flowers she would be taking to Jesus.

Imagine then my confusion over the sight of Mrs. Keller already in her box and seemingly fast asleep! Why would she be in the box already? Is she going to sleep thru her party?

Mother started to go over the points of why she looked to be asleep but in no time, my mind had wandered off from her and was arriving at it's own conclusions. Of course, it would make sense to be asleep on the journey. I had wondered that myself over how one would handle being in that box for the trip and sleeping would make it easier. None the less, what a shame to miss the party!

My critical child's eye focused on the box. It was rather plain. A pale gold, no decorations. The inside was a tan color, no fancy stitching and the flowers were about as simple as could be. To say nothing of her dress, a muted green number. This was not right! Not at all!

Mother's reply over the plainness of the items was that Mrs. Keller had outlived everyone in her family and that there hadn't been anyone left to help pick things out for her. That struck me as being very sad.

At Mother's prompting, I said my good byes to Mrs. Keller but doubted that she had heard me as she looked to be very fast asleep and then made my lonely march back to the prison past the house without Mrs. Keller in it.

At naptime, during which I never slept, I pondered over the basic boring box Mrs. Keller was being shipped in and made up my mind right then and there that when Audrey went to go live with Jesus, she was not traveling in a boring box!

Burgundy, I decided, burgundy with a pink interior what had button tuffting like our couch did.
On the side, I envisioned gold scrolling to look like hearts or better yet, to look like a string of paper dolls in a row. Oh, that would be grand!

At home, I sat at the kitchen table and tried to put my plan on paper. The colors weren't right and the scrolling went over the margin but I had the general idea which I explained in great detail to my Mother as I drew. I then handed her the pages and went outside to play.

My poor Mother. Years later, I can only imagine what must have gone thru her head and her heart as she stood in the kitchen holding my renderings. Other Mothers got pictures of houses and flowers and maybe the family pet from their children.

Her youngest was drawing up plans for the oldest child's casket and acting as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

Needless to say they never went on the refrigerator. I don't know what she did with them.
I never saw them again.

Prelude

2009-09-27T14:00:00.000-07:00

At the end of the day, my favorite place in all my small world was the corner over by the main steps on the Methodist church next door. From there, I could command a vast view of the sunset over my little town.

On that Friday evening, September 20, 1968, I was still puzzling over why oh why Mrs. Keller had not said one word over her leaving to go live with Jesus. It wasn't as if she didn't know. Something like that had to have been planned in advance, it's not as if you and your box could just show up Jesus's door step without any warning.

I had a feeling that Jesus felt the same way about unplanned guests as my Mother did in that while it was lovely to see you, why in the heck didn't you call first? Of course Jesus wouldn't have said that nor did my Mom but you could see that she was thinking it in the back of her tight smile.

Please don't think that she didn't like visitors; she did. But understand, this was back in the day when ministers and their families, especially their wives, were expected to keep their houses like their lives; neat and tidy and ready for inspection at any minute.

Mom said that a good guest always called first and the best guests were the ones that waited until they were asked. I knew that she said this on account of some church ladies that were always and forever dropping in because they were "just passing by". With two small children, one of them handicapped, running the sweeper on an hourly basis didn't exactly rate high on Mom's list of things to do.

"If anyone were to drop by right now, " she would declare, "I swear I'll go right up the wall!"

This was her usual lament on those days when it looked as if the house had exploded from within and sure enough, the doorbell would ring heralding doom. I would wait with baited breath for that magical moment of my Mother walking straight up the wall like a fly but much to my disappointment, it never happened. She'd just put on that "gracious" smile of hers and act as if it were no big deal at all you dropped in for tea, no, not at all.

Another frequent visitor from out of the blue was my Aunt Marylou and Uncle John. They would just happen to be "passing through". They lived all the way over on the other side of the state and they always managed to have luggage with them for this extended drive. Never the less, they were just happening to be in the area and thought they'd drop in!

Mother, who swore by her many volumes of Amy Vanderbuilt's Gracious Hostessing Books, would get on that bright,tight smile and try not to go into orbit as everything in the house was turned upside down to accommodate the unexpected visitors with a proper bed fitted with proper sheets and the good towels that were dug out from the back of the closet.

I wondered if Jesus had good sheets tucked in the back of his closet or if that was something you should bring with you along with towels.

I was pondering this when a car rolled up the hill from the highway. A window rolled down and a familiar voice sang out:
"YOOO-hoooo!!!"

The car was white and new looking. I didn't know it at all but I knew the voice and the face:
Aunt Mary Lou! And with her was Uncle John and oh, look! Grandma Mary Jane and Grandpa Ray! All just "passing through" on a Friday evening.

I smiled happily. This might finally be my lucky day to see Mom do a flying handstand up the wall!

09/20-22/1968

2009-09-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

I remember everything about that weekend.

Much to my disappointment, Mom did not climb the wall as I had hoped. She kept herself together, digging out the good towels, the good sheets, digging out the ashtrays for Uncle John and his ever lit cigarettes.

Aunt Marylou chattered and exclaimed over Audrey, her "daughter" as she liked to claim because they had the same fair colored skin and blue eyes. Grandma Mary Jane tried to coax me to come talk to her but I hung back.

"The child still doesn't like me!" she complained to my Mom who swept by with an armful of sheets as she headed to my room.

My room was a disaster. Mom knew it, I knew it and in about one minute Grandma Mary Jane was going to know it and then I'd have to hear about it.

Standing the middle of the room, Grandma would begin by looking shocked then dismayed.

Taking it all in, she would look at me, shake her head and then addressing my Mother would ask in plaintive tones why on earth she would ever "let the child live this way?"

Back and forth they would go then as if from a script; Mom retorting that the state of my room was the last thing on her list and Grandma's return that it wasn't as if she had a houseful of children to worry about and then....here'd come the clincher....

"When I was her age...."

and about this time I would leave the room to go find Aunt Marylou to see if by chance, just maybe, she hadn't happened to put something in her luggage for me despite the fact that she was, after all, just "passing thru!"

It was "fruit basket upset" time around the place for awhile as sleeping arrangements were metered out. I drew the blow up mattress on the floor of my folks room, the Grandparents got my room in spite of it's messy look. Aunt Marylou and Uncle John got the couches in the living room. If anyone thought it strange that they should be sleeping apart, no one mentioned it.

Audrey of course kept her bed in her room.

I remember everything about that weekend.

There were eight years between Mother and Aunt Marylou but they were as close as twins and just as secretive at times. Far too young to join in their "big girl" camaraderie and not wanting a lesson on proper room cleaning techniques from Grandma, I spent most of my time with the men, especially Uncle John.

Ah, Uncle John. The smell of cigarette smoke and evening dew will always bring you back to me. Mom couldn't abide by his ever present smoking but, "he is good to you girls" she would reason and would let him smoke in the house.

Never the less, he generally hung out on the patio blowing smoke rings which I never tried of trying to catch with my finger.

"If you catch it, you can keep it!" he would say and that was enough to keep me after them.

(Easily amused, I know.)

That weekend he showed off a new trick of how he could fling my toy pocket watch out over the yard and, wonder of wonders, it would reappear in the wink of an eye behind his back!

He must have done it, oh, about three, four times for me when exclaiming that it was "my turn!" I snatched it out of his hand and let it fly.

It was a good throw for a five year old. I managed to set it sailing over the yard, over the sidewalk, even over the parking strip and into the street where it landed and shattered in a thousand plastic pieces.

Too shocked to cry, I looked up at him in confusion;

"But, it did it for you!"

I remember everything about that weekend.

This is Sunday morning, 09/22/1968. The blouse Aunt Marylou is wearing belongs to my Mom. White with blue dots, it went better with the suit than the blouse Aunt Marylou brought with her. Never mind all she asked for was a slip.

Aunt always had a way of forgetting some little part of her outfit and then she'd ask my Mom if she didn't have a spare slip or some shoes or gloves she could borrow. She did this knowing full well that Mom wouldn't be able to stop at just the slip or the shoes or whatever else.

Mom loved clothes, loved putting together outfits. She was very good at this and for this reason, Aunt Marylou would be sure and forget something just to give Mom an excuse to redress her sometimes from the skin out. Funny, Mom never caught on that her sister was doing this on purpose. I know that's what she did because later, I'd do the same thing when I came home to visit.

So here we are, standing to the side of the church that was in our front yard. It was a lovely morning, such a lovely day in early fall...

We went to church, we had lunch, the adults droned on and I waited for Uncle John to fire up another "cancer stick" so I could go back to catching smoke rings. At least those didn't break.

Around about 2PM, they got ready to leave. The car was packed up, goodbyes were said. Aunt Marylou promised that next time she would call to let us know they were coming, if only to please Mom. She promised this every time...

It was now about 2:30PM. They have a good four hour drive ahead of them.

I remember everything about that weekend.

I remember the car, the new white car, turning to go back down the hill towards the highway. Remember Aunt Marylou hanging out the back, driver's side passenger seat, blowing a kiss...good bye...good bye....

If I want, I can stop the film in my head right there and keep her frozen there for all time. The car need never reach the highway and what happened need never come.

And the rain came down

2009-09-25T21:27:00.000-07:00

They left and we went inside. Mom was exhausted after the whirl of people and cooking.

She opened all the windows and doors wide to air out the house from Uncle John and his everlasting smoking. I liked that smell and wished she wouldn't do that because it took his smell out and also took out the smell of Aunt Marylou's perfume.

(If I could smell that one more time...I have no clue what it was she wore. They likely don't make it anymore)

I remember everything about that weekend.

In the excitement over our guests, Mom had almost forgotten that it was picture day at the school on Monday. This would be my first school portrait so I must look my best. Much to my woe, it is decided to re-pin my hair up in pin curls before bed. Sleeping on a head full of prickly bobby pins is something I will tolerate once a week on Saturday but two nights in a row?

The paper from school advises the outfit to be "colorful" but not overly so. My blue sailor suit with the red tie would fit the bill but alas, it's too short in the skirt now and too tight in the chest. Mom decides on some puffed sleeve number that I despise and hangs it on the door knob of my room.

The phone rings.

Mom answers but there's only silence on the other end and then who ever it is hangs up.

"I don't want to wear that dress, Mommy, I hate that dress!"

The phone rings again. Again the person on the other end has no desire to say a word despite a volley of "Hellos" from Mom and rings off with a "click".

Mom's getting frustrated now. Once is alright, likely a wrong number but twice...

The phone rings again and Mom pounces on it like a cat.

"HELLO! " she orders.

A pause and then a young man's voice. I hear Mom say, "Why, Danny Lee, what a surprise!" and then see her brows knit together.

"Yes of course," she says, "you want to speak to Robert, he's right here."

She's trying to sound all nice about this but I can tell she's miffed over him wanting to talk to Dad and not her.

"Ask him what he wants!" she hisses. Danny Lee is her half brother who hardly ever calls let alone come to visit. Why on earth would he want to bypass her, his own sister....half sister.

The plot thickens when Dad announces that for what ever reason, Danny Lee wants to be sure Dad is where he can be alone on the phone. Now he's done it! Mom's dander is really up now!
She who can brooch no secrets to be kept from her stews in silence as Dad takes the call in the office. The fat really hits the fire when she hears Danny ask if Mother has rung off the other line yet. Bringing the receiver down with some force, she stalks off. She'll fix his wagon!

I watch as she pads like a cat to the back bedroom. There's another phone in there and I know what she's going to do. She's very good at deftly plucking that receiver from its cradle so that you'd never know she was on the other line. Par for the course with Mother.

The scream that follows is not par for the course. High, shrill...anguished. The scream carries on frantic wings all over the house. A crash of a wooden door; base beat of my Father's feet slapping, boom, boom, boom, boom across the floor, thru the living room, down the hall.

I cut thru Audrey's room, running to the hall. The scream is coming from the back bedroom. My Mother stands with the receiver in her hand, her mezzo soprano belting out one long,earsplitting scream then little ones, like an opera singer trilling notes and then another long high shriek.

My Dad is trying to wretch the receiver from her fingers, trying in vain to be heard above the auria of shock and distress.

This is why Danny Lee had called twice and hung up when he heard Mom's voice. This is why he asked to speak to my Dad alone. This is what he had to say:

They were getting close to home, Aunt Marylou, Uncle John, Grandma Mary Jane and Grandpa Ray when it started to rain. A two lane highway on a Sunday evening and it's raining. Every driving instructor tries to pound it into your head; slow down when it starts to rain...the first few minutes of a downpour are the most dangerous...slow down...slow down...

Likely John didn't slow down. He wanted to get home. The man in the other car on the other side of the highway didn't slow down either. He had been made to spend all day at the in-laws, a perfectly good Sunday. At least the Father-in-law had offered him some beer...make that two...maybe three. He was tired.

His wife was just weeks away from having their first child. Maybe she was tired too. The end of a weekend; the whole conga line of cars on that strip of highway is full of tired and over spent people all wanting to get home before dark, before the rain gets worse. Press down on the pedal, it's just rain...

Witnesses told highway patrol that it all happened so fast. One minute the other car is where it belongs on the road and the next, it's sliding, skidding, spinning into the oncoming lane of traffic where Uncle John's car is bearing down on the rain slick road...

Four miles away, customers in a truck shop hear the resulting crash as clear as if it had been in the parking lot. The cars behind Uncle John are sliding wildly, their drivers clawing at the steering wheels, trying to get clear of the hell that is exploding before them. The air is alive with flying debris...and bodies.

The force of impact slices the other car in two pieces, flinging its un-belted occupants airborne into traffic. Uncle John's car comes to rest some several feet away, crumpled, mangled.

The rain comes down.

Over on our side of the state, it's gotten cloudy. The attic door flies open with a crash and suit cases come bounding down the ladder. The phone is ringing, the doorbell chimes again and again as suddenly our house fills up with people.

Clothing is being tossed from the closet from the drawers into the suitcases. Everyone is racing around in circles. Someone tries to pull me away from being in the way of everything but I edge back into the fray. What is happening? What are you doing? Where are you going?

At one point, Mom takes me aside. Black streaks of Maybeline eyelash powder crease down her face like spider leg wrinkles. This frightens me and I pull back. Listen to me she is saying, listen to me...

An accident...the car...your Grandmother Maryjane...maybe all of them...gone...

"Where?" I whisper.

"To live with Jesus" is the reply.

She releases me, tells me to be a good girl, mind the ladies, help look after Audrey...

People are piling out onto the front porch. I follow them, push to the front of them.

I watch as suitcases go into the car, just like theirs did.
I watch as my folks get in the car...just like they did.

I watch as they go to pull away, go down the hill to the highway...

just like they did not more than two hours before.

And now they've gone to live with Jesus.

The thought hits me like a blow, the realization:

What on earth is to stop my folks from going to live with Jesus too?

"Shut up! Stop it" one of the ladies is shaking me now. A distant sound, a thin keening of grief. Someone is screaming.

It's me.

"Stop it at once!"

A flash of flesh, the stinging crack of an open hand on a face.

The world goes dark.

Up to that point, I remember everything about that weekend.

I wish I didn't.

Rain on sunset

2009-09-24T21:44:00.000-07:00

In the end, 4 people died that night: Aunt Mary Lou, Grandma Mary Jane, the pregnant lady in the other car and her baby.

The crazy thing is that of all the victims from the crash site, the ambulance drivers and even the staff at the hospital had pegged Mary Lou as the most likely to survive. She was alert, talking, even smiled at one point. From her, the Iowa State Patrol got the names of the passengers in her car and the first report of what had happened.

Uncle John and Grandpa Ray were the ones thought to be the most in danger that night. Interior photos of the car make one wonder how anyone could have been pulled from there in one piece, let alone alive.

Grandma Mary Jane was dead on the scene. The old style lap belts back then did only one thing; keep the body in the car. It did not however prevent you from being thrown forward and whipped back like a rag doll.

Which is exactly what happened to her, breaking her neck in the process.

The lap belt had wrecked havoc on Aunt Mary Lou as well, cutting across the midsection, rupturing within, causing internal bleeding. She made it as far as the hospital and had no sooner been brought in when she died.

Minutes away in a car being driven like a bat out of hell by his brother, Grandpa Lloyd, Mary Lou's Father, gave a loud, shuddering sigh.

With tears streaming down his cheeks, he told Uncle Jess;

"You can slow down now, Jess, she's gone."

In another car, my Mother was holding onto the thin thread that at least her sister had been spared. She already knew that her Mother had died but at least Mary Lou was still alive...

"What happened, Mary Lou?", Mom would later write,
"Why didn't you fight harder for life? Didn't you know your beloved father was only ten minutes away?"

"Didn't you know how much I needed you?"

Every family has that one person, the lynch pin, that live spark that moves the whole unit along year after year. This person is generally the glue that holds the whole works together.

Over the years, people had pointed to Grandpa Lloyd, Uncle Jess or Mom as being those bonding and engaging elements. But in the light of forty one years later, I would have to disagree.

That element had been Mary Lou.

Mary Lou

2009-09-23T18:10:00.000-07:00

From what I am told about Aunt Mary Lou as a child is that she was a shy and introverted little girl and that she was terrified of going to the photographer.

The big box cameras of the day frightened her. I imagine it must have had something to do with the photographer having to dive under the black hood that must have got to her. She'd burst into tears at the sight of the contraption and then Grandpa would have his hands full trying to coax a smile out of her for the picture. Somewhere, there is a picture of a very young Mary Lou trying to smile gamely thru her tears which are coursing down her chubby little cheeks.

At any rate, a go-getter, Mary Lou was not. It was for this reason that Grandpa Lloyd, who also suffered from terminal shyness, decided that he would see to it that his second child, my Mother, would be, in his words, "first hog at the trough."

He needn't have worried. There was nothing shy or sans about Mother from minute one. She was a person that the world was going to hear from with or with out any coaching from the sidelines. Little Phyllis was the one that everyone talked about, she was the one that had the talent, had the nerve and the gusto.

Mary Lou tended to bob along in her younger sister's wake without much of a murmur. She got married, had two boys, lived her life in quiet, never making a speech or singing a solo or leading any club the way Phyllis did.

Mary Lou also wasn't known for lifting up prayers of glory like Grandpa Lloyd could do off the cuff or dispensing valuable straight forward advice. She couldn't hold a table of folks crying tears of helpless laughter like her Uncle Jess nor was she dashing here and there in tireless service to others as did her step-mother, Mother Marie.

Mary Lou simply was Mary Lou, that's all.

Twenty years ago there was a rather annoying little ditty from a movie called "Beaches" about a girl who was always in the shadows of her more outgoing friend, a "face without a name" but all along, the nameless girl was the "wind beneath my wings" who kept her vivacious friend aloft.

And so it was with Mary Lou. Just being her and just loving and supporting the star players of her own little family group had enabled them to soar like birds.

And on that rain swept Sunday evening in September, their wings failed them and down they came.

The rains came down and they huddled together, stunned and broken. By and by, the rain began to abate and a few brave birds would go out to try their wings again in a now unfamiliar sky stripped of all color.

Some would never fly again.

Aftermath

2009-09-23T17:20:00.000-07:00

Death, especially one as sudden and as violent as Mary Lou's had been, is never easy for a family to cope with. I've often likened such a death to being in a shipwreck. There's the horrifying moments of the wreck itself during which one fights for survival, going on pure instinct and raw nerve. There's pieces of timber, our other family members and friends, that float up to be held onto during the wild ride in the dark icy waves but after the funeral is over and we wash up on a jagged and unfamiliar shore, what then?

Some, like my Mother and Uncle Jess, could pick themselves up and start the long journey back to some semblance of the world before.

Grandpa Lloyd however took one look at this strange new world and decided that his participation in it was no longer needed. And gathering the wreckage of his ship, he crafted a rowboat of sorts and sailed away on a sea of tears. Like Rachel of the bible, he "would not be comforted" and for the remaining twenty years of his life, he bobbed about in his own private sorrow.

Mother Marie sorrowed just as heavily over her oldest step-daughter, a grief that was not helped much by her faith in the Seventh Adventist Day church which teaches that the dead are literally slumbering underground.
The thought of Mary Lou laying in the earth until judgement day disturbed her to no end. This concern would stay with her until one bright day in June 1979 when a heart attack brought about an end to this and all concerns.

The old homestead hung heavy in sorrow. MaryLou was all that Grandpa seemed to want to talk about. It got to the point that Mother began to wonder if her Father even cared for her any more at all. The relationship would be further strained eight years later when Mother went on to do what her sister had only dreamed about: leaving her unhappy marriage and starting out again on her own.

This had been the big secret that last weekend; Mary Lou had finally had all she could take of her marriage to Uncle John.
"I have no more heart left to break, no more tears left to shed", she had declared to Mom, "I'm putting some money by each month and come May of next year, that's it! I'm gone!"

May would be when her youngest would graduate from high school. She had done her duty she reasoned and now could be free without feeling bad about it.

"I am going to be happy, Phyllis!"

As she stood before her sister's casket, a mantra of sorts started up in Mom's head:
"She died and was not happy, she died and was not happy...."

The mantra got louder and soon became a full fledged opera waging war in her heart and head.
She didn't wait for my high school graduation, she waited eight years and then, that was it, the end. Over. Fruit basket upset time all over again.

I've often wondered; had Mary Lou survived, had she gotten her wish and made it out successfully, would Mother have waited longer for her own turn? Or would she gone sooner?

And of Mary Lou's sons; the oldest leaves us with a cautionary tale of never letting the sun set on one's anger.
Bitter words had passed between mother and son that August. He was home on leave and shipped back out to sea without having patched things up. It took a week to get him stateside for the funeral. Whereas the others had had that whole week of sitting with the body and letting go, the poor boy would only get one evening.

In my opinion, he's dealing with this still to this day.

And me?

I learned that evening that death did not come stealing sweetly like dreams in sleep. Death could swoop in on wings of fire and twisted steel, tearing apart the world as I knew it, as everyone knew it, from one moment to the next.

Aunt Mary Lou and Grandma Mary Jane hadn't known they were going to live with Jesus that day any more than Mrs. Keller had known when she went to bed that Tuesday evening that she would not wake to see the walls of her bedroom the next morning.

The only thing that would ever be certain was that up above, Jesus would be waiting, the good sheets and towels from the back of his linen closet washed and ready for the next batch of unexpected company.

Gone in the morning

2009-09-22T17:22:00.000-07:00

Audrey died in the moring, seventeen years ago today.

She who had walked in the valley of the shadow for most of her childhood lived on to the age of 34 and then quietly died in the early morning hours of September 26, 1992.

The rest of the story...

2009-09-21T13:49:00.000-07:00

Sorry. I had meant to continue with Audrey's story but life has a way of happening, y'know?

While I wait for the video version of her story to load up, let me fill you all in on the story of Audrey Natalia.

Audrey was born on March 1, 1958. She was full term, weighed in at 8 pounds and some ounces. She was healthy and feisty with blue eyes and a head full of reddish gold hair.

Mom and Dad had wanted to name her "Natalia" which means, "Nativity" or "the beginning" because for all intents and hopes, she would be the first of many more children.

However, some well meaning and helpful souls pointed out that "Natalia" was an unusual name that could get mispronounced and all her life people would be asking her,

"Now how is it you spell your name?"

and one wouldn't want that to happen to their daughter, would one? What to do? Mom recalled seeing a name on the side of a bakery truck for a line of baked goods by "Lil' Audrey" so the sleek and unique "Natalia" got shoved to the middle position and the dear, sweet sounding name, "Audrey" went to the head of the line. In the end, this name fit better somehow for this chubby cheeked little charmer.

She would still be the first of many of course.

Life happens...

Ah, the video is loaded now. You can see for yourself how she was. Such a darling little baby, such a camera FLIRT!

"She knows what a camera is for", Mother wrote in her journal. Gee, ya think? Hello, Ivory Snow! Forget that Brookie Cookie Shields kid, here would have been your goldmine!

As is common with the first born, every waking moment is recorded to film. In this manner, one can see that there is not one thing wrong with the child. Mom was very good at making sure sister was fed properly and up to date on all of her vaccinations, especially the polio jab. Mother was herself a survivor of the dread disease and no way would her baby girl be put thru that trial if she could help it.

She marks it in the baby book, all the lists of doctor visits, what shot was administered on what date. The 3rd dose of the Salk Polio is given in May, 1959 at Iowa Methodist Hospital.

Years later, in a medical journal that was meant only for those privileged few of the white jackets, an article relates how, in the spring of 1959, a laboratory in the south released a batch of the Salk Polio into the market that had been contaminated. A list follows of where some of the batch wound up and some of it lands in Des Moines, IA, Iowa Methodist Hospital.

And some of it landed in Audrey's plump little arm...

The changes are so little at first. One eye begins to wander a bit and this is captured in a photo from June. July; Audrey is often seen with one hand in her hair, tugging at those golden strands ever so slightly...

August. The once bright smile is gone. She looks upset, on edge. She raises her arms above her head as if to shoo the camera away from her. By September, the eyes have dulled, what some term the "one hundred yard stare" has set in.

Audrey on a merry-go-round, September, 1959. After this, the pictures stop.

The pictures start up again at Thanksgiving, 1959. Mom is holding a child, looks like a little boy, a very odd little boy at that with too short hair and a missed beat in his eyes. He smiles and in that smile, there is something familiar...

It's Audrey.

She smiles again now. The folks force something that passes for upturned lips for the camera, for the congregation...for each other. Only Audrey smiles and means it. What ever this was that came upon her, it's over now. She is the way she is going to be for the next 33 years of her life and all the tears and prayers in the world, not even that of Oral Roberts, is going to change this.

This has happened. This is here to stay.

This has happened

2009-09-20T14:38:00.000-07:00

So this is where I came in with this long day's journey into night already in progress. The doctors in Iowa City, (so called "Mecca" of medical wisdom in the day for that part of the world), had already passed judgement and basically pronounced Audrey as a lost cause best left up to God.

Ok, they didn't say it quite like that. To be fair, the doctor that spoke to the folks was more gentle than that. He was in fact, very quiet and soft when he told them that to be honest, he didn't know what in the world was the matter with Audrey but he did know one thing:

"Whatever this is, it is killing her. She is dying," he said.
"Take her home and let her die."

And so they took her home. And Audrey got a little better, then a little worse, then some better, then a lot better. An doctor of osteopathic medicine had begun to do treatments on her to which she responded very well. This was followed by an extended stay at a facility, now since gone, in Denver, CO where she responded even more. In fact, the mood was getting brighter all the time as Audrey could once again move about freely, focus on the world around her and show an interest in eating.

(This renewed appetite came following the laying on of hands by Oral Roberts. From what I have read, many recipients of prayer from Oral came away with a profound new love of food. They still couldn't walk, see or hear but boy, they sure could eat! Someone should do a study on this)

Audrey could walk again with the aid of a walker. The one shown in the picture is the same one that she came home from Denver in. As she grew, the walker did too, aided and abetted by more pipe and bits being welded to the frame.

Yes, Audrey is very skinny in the picture, isn't she? She could eat like a horse but most of the food had a tendency to come right back up. Her diet had to be very soft and easy to digest in an effort to at least get some nourishment to stay inside of her.

By the time I came along, this is how Audrey was; stick thin and in frail health. Yet the smile was almost always there. On good days, she was full of energy and high spirits, laughter and fun.

Audrey had fun? Oh certainly she did. She was smart too, let me tell you.
For example, she figured out how to turn on the gas stove by pushing the edge of walker against the dial at just the right angle. This in turn would cause a pretty blue light to come on! A pretty, dancing blue flame that she could watch up close.

This went on for awhile. She'd turn on her own private ballet in blue then get bored with it and amble off. Mom would come in, find the burner lit and assume that the resident toddler had performed this offense. Resident toddler would get scolded and told to stay away from the stove which the resident toddler had no interest in to begin with. Finally one day, Mom caught sister in the act and about had a heart attack.

This produced a new game; batter the baby gate. Mom strung up a baby gate in front of the kitchen entrance to keep Audrey away from the stove. Audrey took this challenge in stride and soon figured out that her walker could be used as a battering ram. Oh joy!

I can still see her in my mind's eye; Audrey slowly sliding around the dinning room floor, looking at the baby gate, observing its position. Scooting back, she'd get the gate in her sites so to speak, stand up to full height and run at top speed. The walker would slip and slide and then BAM! crash up against the gate which in turn buckled and had it not been for the kitchen chairs fortifying the works from behind, surely would have given way to the invading forces of Audrey the army of one. Oo-rah!

There came at last a day of victory. The gate could only take so much abuse and one fine afternoon, the sound of splintering wood and screeching wheels filled the house. Audrey came sliding at top speed into the promised land of the kitchen, eyes shinning with triumph, pushing the vanquished gate before her like a train of the old west with a bovine riding its cow-catcher.
Victory!

And did I mention?

2009-09-12T22:56:00.001-07:00

That I am ever so proud of the up to ONE MILLION of my fellow, "right wing domestic terrorists" that swept into DC today.

GOD SPEED!!!

Ground Rules

2009-09-12T22:49:00.000-07:00

My blog.
I will post what I like on my blog.
You don't like it,
leave.

Period.

There is no need to post holier than thou remarks or really any remark at all if you don't agree with what I believe. Remember, you will get back all that you give.

The Shout Heard Round the World!!

2009-09-09T21:21:00.000-07:00

YOU LIE!!!

And with those words, the average, hard working, tax paying AMERICAN was heard in no uncertain terms in the marbled, pretencions halls of our so called elected govt.

A hero has been made in this moment! GO JOE!!!

Effects of the Son

2009-09-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

This morning saw yet another eerie sunrise in LA, eerie yet beautiful.

Wanting to get the full impact of this, I hastened to the nearest hillside that could afford me a full view of the sky. Trouble was, I would have to turn my back to the show unfolding in the clouds as I hiked up the hill.

I tried walking backwards which is actually a very good work out for the legs and rear end but at the rate I was going, it would take longer so I turned round and started hoofing it again wishing I didn't have to miss this.

I soon discovered that I didn't have to miss a thing; the effects of the rising red sun could be seen all around me as it lit up the houses, the trees and the hill beyond in a surreal rosy glow.

Then it hit me: this was like faith. I have never seen the Lord face to face but I can see his effect. I can see it in nature, I can see it in my fellow man and in me.

I can also tell the effects of no son just as surely as one can see the effects that no sunlight can work in humans and in plants.

Now I am not the first to have a revaluation like this, nor will I be the last but for me, this thought was pretty powerful.

Awhile back, I had gotten into one of those circular arguments over in that dive bar of a website, God Like Productions which, unlike its name would seemingly imply, is not Christ Like in nature.
A poster was going off on Christians, snarling in Arial point font;

"And how do you know your precious Jesus wasn't just a fairy tale???"

I replied to him;
"By Faith"
and then went off to look at other threads. Awhile later I came back to the poster's question to find that he had told me in no uncertain terms just what he thought about me, my faith and what I could do with said faith that involved sticking it somewhere the sun does not often shine.

Someone better at this kind of thing than I had taken up the conversion so I went on but never the less I wondered, how does one explain faith to someone who has none? I wish now I could share this example with him or her.

Huffing and puffing and sweaty, I reached the top of the hill. Turing around, what little breath I had left was about taken away in the glory that lay open before me. The sun, now losing its redness never the less still painted the clouds beneath in shades of rose and pink with touches of blue.
The water on the harbor shone like a jewel, patches of silvered light here and there. I watched as a freighter put out to open water. A slight breeze stirred carrying in it a teasing scent of rain.

No, I have never seen the son, but in all things, I have seen his effect.

Autumn in LA

2009-08-31T10:52:00.000-07:00

"Autumn in LA,
it can be so exciting.
Autumn in LA
it can be so inviting..."

Actually, the original lyrics for "Autumn in New York" are much better, conveying the pleasant cool, crispy bright days that only an East Coast Autumn can produce.

Not so in LA. This, pictured above, is our fall. You in other places get flaming leaves of scarlet and gold. We just get flames.
You all in civilized climes get brilliant days of inviting cool.
We get overcast with chance of ash.
You get the smell of leaves and harvest.
We get the stentch of arcid smoke and destruction.

In other parts of the country, fall marks the beginning of the end of the year.

Here, fall often resembles what the beginning of the end of the world is supposed to look like.

Seriously, the way the sky looks much of the time with a blood red sun and the smell of scorched earth, one would not be at all surprised to see the "sky rolling back as a scroll" together with the bodies of those who have died in Christ popping up like popcorn from the local cemetery and flying off to meet him who is surely coming in the clouds at any minute.

It'd look just just like one of those pictures of the rapture that the 7th Day Adventists used to protray so well in their bible books for children. My dear 7th Day Adventist Grandma exposed to me to this notion of apocalytic terror back when I was growing up Methodist. The Methodists did not preach on this and so the thought of all hell busting loose like that was news to me.

And now I'm living in one of those pictures. Lord have mercy!

Saint Maximilian Mary Kolbe, pray for us!

2009-08-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

Today is the remembrance of Saint Maximilian Mary Kolbe, a Catholic priest who in the truest sense of the word followed the example of Christ by laying down his life for another.

From Wikipedia:
During the Second World War he provided shelter to refugees from Greater Poland, including 2,000 Jews whom he hid from Nazi persecution in his friary in Niepokalanów. He was also active as a radio amateur, with Polish call letters SP3RN, vilifying Nazi activities through his reports.
On 17 February 1941 he was arrested by the German Gestapo and imprisoned in the Pawiak prison, and on May 28 he was transferred to Auschwitz as prisoner #16670.
In July 1941 a man from Kolbe's barracks vanished, prompting SS-Hauptsturmführer Karl Fritzsch, the deputy camp commander, to pick 10 men from the same barracks to be starved to death in Block 13[10] (notorious for torture), in order to deter further escape attempts.[11] (The man who had disappeared was later found drowned in the camp latrine.) One of the selected men, Franciszek Gajowniczek, cried out, lamenting his family, and Kolbe volunteered to take his place.
During the time in the cell he led the men in songs and prayer. After three weeks of dehydration and starvation, only Kolbe and three others were still alive. He encouraged others that they would soon be with Mary in heaven. Each time the guards checked on him he was standing or kneeling in the middle of the cell and looking calmly at those who entered, while the others lay moaning and complaining, on the ground around him. He was murdered with an injection of carbolic acid.[12] Some who were present at the injection say that he raised his left arm and calmly waited for the injection.[13] His remains were cremated on the Assumption of Mary.

Upon the occasion of his first arrest by the nazis, the saint was quoted thus:

“Courage, my sons. Don’t you see that we are leaving on a mission? They pay our fare in the bargain. What a piece of good luck! The thing to do now is to pray well in order to win as many souls as possible. Let us, then, tell the Blessed Virgin that we are content, and that she can do with us anything she wishes” (Maximilian Mary Kolbe, when first arrested).

May I be as brave as this when my time comes! St. Maximilian, pray for that I might have your courage and more importantly, your love.

Mad as hell

2009-08-11T12:47:00.000-07:00

I just figured it out this morning; all the yelling, the shouting and screaming that have been going on in the "town hall" meetings over the proposed and so called "healthcare reform bill."

If you look at most of the shouters, you'll note that they are mostly age 45 and above, mostly above.

This got me to thinking: these are not the sort of people who just have meltdowns and scream and rant like most left wing libbys are wont to do at the drop of a hat.

No, these folks are more likely to write letters, send emails, make phone calls or try to get appointments to see their local elected official face to face. But here they are, showing off tonsils and dental work, one vast yawning sea of open mouthed rage.

And then it hit me! It is precisely because of the letters dumped unopened into the trash, the emails deleted, the phone calls hung up on and the appointments that never happened that has caused Joe Sixpack to unleash and go vocal to the extreme at these meetings. They're doing what the left has done for years, throwing a hissy fit to get immediate attention. Sort of the squeaky wheel getting greased school of political activism.

But unlike the left who, like any spoiled child, eventually gets what they demand, these people, these average, law abiding, taxpaying citizens are becoming demonized for their efforts. They're being called "un-American" and "racists". They stand accused of carrying "swastikas" and other signage of the nazi regime into meetings.

We the people have become we, THE MOB that, per dear leader, must "shut up!" and "get out of the way!"

Of course at today's "O"-bot town hall, one citizen had the nerve to actually carry a gun, an utterly legal thing to do in that state, as was his right to carry his sign stating that the tree of liberty needed watering from time to time. This little display of free speech and the right to bear arms nearly caused a mass electrocution over at MSNBC where some commentators nearly wet their pants and the surrounding power cables in concern.

I should also note that this citizen was kept outside with the rest of the angry mob. Only those with adoring and worshipping gazes and reverent tones around dear leader where allowed inside to be in his most august presence.

As a poster over at a certain site posted:

"This is a trillion dollar infomercial for Obama and his death squad."

Couldn't have put it better myself.

It's Bush's fault!!!

2009-08-06T10:30:00.000-07:00

From one of my favorite down and dirty websites, GLP, (God Like Productions):

"Just imagine if the Bush White House put this up on the White House web site
Quote

There is a lot of disinformation about the Iraq war out there, spanning from control of Iraqi oil to it being just a war of distraction. These rumors often travel just below the surface via chain emails or through casual conversation. Since we can’t keep track of all of them here at the White House, we’re asking for your help. If you get an email or see something on the web about the Iraq war that seems fishy, send it to flag@whitehouse.gov"

Using this point of reference, does THIS make it any more clear for some of you all???

If I were to write a book about my life...

2009-07-28T11:47:00.001-07:00

I would call it "Self Inflicted: the story of a sorted and twisted soul".

Years ago when I was doing regional theatre, there was a song I used for auditions. An old Irish drinking song, it contained a verse that ran,

"...and all the harm that ever I did
alas, it twas to none but me."

Story of my life. All the drama, all the harm to health and sanity, 99.9% caused by yours truly to yours truly.

Who knows, maybe I should start on it. I've been reading some recovery memiors lately and see no reason at all why I shouldn't add to the pile.

"The Cross Bearer" by the guy who wrote "Basic Instinct" and other trash movies. He has since recovered and is doing well.

"Angry Conversations with God" in which the author takes God to marriage counseling and confronts her preconcieved notions of God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit.

And then there's me, tainted by the school of thought that holds that the heavenly Father has planned out EVERYTHING in your life, that all that takes place is part of his "precious plan" for you.
BULL-LONEY.
Pure and simple.

So I blamed God when if anything he was trying to patch the holes in my boat as fast as I could make them.

God has a plan for me and while he is willing to be my flight coordinator, he has not written my story in stone.

Just a random thought for the day.

Little Coral Dress

2009-07-14T09:58:00.000-07:00

Most women have the "little black dress", that one special, sexy number that they pull out and put on when they want to look especially devastating. Not me.

Oh, I have a "little" black dress. I also have a number of BIG black dresses, a whole army of black tents designed to do one thing: make my fatness a little less noticeable and with any luck, at least make me appear not quite so offensive to the skinny bee-yatchs that make up most of LA's society.

It also helped to hide me...from me.

Needless to say, I am over the black dress thing. In fact, I am over the whole color black from start to finish expect when used in a cashmere sweater. That's still ok because to me, that's very elegant. Makes me look and feel like a rich bitch. But as for dresses...

This dress is actually 2 years old. I got it in 2007. No, it didn't even begin to fit. I told myself that I would "diet" into it and added it to the rest of my collection of clothing that I had promised myself I would one day be able to wear if only....

But "if onlys" never happen. When you live in a world of "if only", you live in a dream world of broken promises to self and broken furniture.

All those little incidents you would think would force you to take stock of the blubber that is ever spreading over your elastic waist band and into the seat of the passenger next to you on the plane, the bloated fat that prevents you from being able to use most of the desk/chair combos in the class room, gets easier and easier to brush off and ignore. Besides, it's not your fault.

This dress that I KNOW should fit me, that is now stuck around my boobs and that I cannot get off no matter how much I tug and jump around, this is not my fault! The manufacturer is obviously employing blind war orphans to make their clothes! It's their fault!

This lawn chair that collapsed the minute I sat on it was obviously made of defective material that wouldn't stand up to someone the size of a pea let alone me!

And these IDIOTS who ask me when my baby is due are thoughtless clods who enjoy embarrassing strangers...

"If only" land becomes as comfy and as familiar as that one pair of pants you can still wear only because the elastic in them broke and your big tummy is holding them up.

My stay in "If only" land lasted for 6 years. My passport to that strange place finally got revoked on Christmas night of last year. We had gotten home from the annual gorge fest that makes up the Christmas Dinner put on by my husband's family. No random can of this and cream of that here; we are talking gourmet all the way. Julia Child would be right at home in Brother in law's kitchen.

So there we were, DH and I, at the close of Christmas Day, basking in the glow of the season and the lights from the tree when I asked if he wanted something to eat. He did not but I did and proceeded to get something very gooey and lovely from the freezer.

DH remarked that I certainly did manage to eat a lot that day. I was stung by that remark and retorted that of COURSE I ate alot that day, it was Christmas for Christ sakes, what the hell else was I supposed to do on Christmas Day at his brother's Julia Child fest but eat, drink and be merry???

"What are you, ashamed of me or something?" I demanded.

There was a horrible pause and then, almost a whisper,

"Yes."

My first reaction of course was to blame him for HIS lousy and intolerant attitude. A fine thing to say to one's wife, on Christmas Day no less! Tears and much slamming of doors followed. A battle brewed up.

"What do you want me to do, STARVE myself?" I screamed.

"I don't have to worry about that, you NEVER follow thru with ANY diet!" was the reply.

As far as I was concerned at that point, we were THROUGH. That's it! We're done! Happy Frickin' New Year, see you in court, A-hole!

What kind of man was it that would say such hurtful things to his wife on Christmas Day???

The kind of man who loved me and wanted me to be around for other Christmas Days to come, that's what kind.

I took one last wild ride through "if only" land and packed on 5 more pounds on top of what was already there. But come the first of January 2009, that ride was over. From there on out, I walked.

As of this morning, I have put a distance of 40 pounds between me and that person in black who sat blubbering on the couch Christmas night.

I have 40 more to go. And this part of the march will be conducted in color.

I can now actually wear the little coral dress in the picture. This is a milestone ladies' size 18.
To some of you, this may still sound huge. But after flirting with a WOMANs' size 24 last summer, this ladies' 18 is a perfect 10.

Back on track

2009-07-12T15:44:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I didn't post as much...ok, not at all after the Jackson services. Mainly, it was such a friggin' let down with no rioting in the streets. I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to the scum of LA going out of their pea sized brains with rage over being told to stay away.

I know that I was not the only one bummed no end at the lack of community violence.

Of course the fall out at city hall is interesting. I normally don't support Dennis Zine but he is right on target regarding the true cost of this little gathering of the rich and infamous. I hope that he continues to go after those responsible for such items as the 49K lunches brought in from a small mountain town 80 miles away. Not that I don't want to see the police being fed well, but people! This is LA. We supposedly have world class fast food in this dump!

And then there was the lack of burial for Jacko's remains. This crapola of keeping the body until the remains of the brain come back...I hate to tell the family; ain't gonna be nuthin' left that even resembles the brain nor it is going to be able to go back into its original home. At best, in a biohazard bag at the foot of the casket will be the likely resting spot for it.

So that's how it stands right now; LA is still in one piece and Jacko ain't.

Meantime, I've got some better topics in mind for next week's blogs.

Amazing!

2009-07-07T14:45:00.000-07:00

The riftraft of LA were given a golden chance to show the world just how scummy they can be and they passed it UP!!

I am impressed. Either due to the positive influence of the late Wacko Jacko or by the martial law style presence of 5 cops on every corner, the riots that many were predicting or even hoping for, (over on GLP posters were counting on full scale implosion), did NOT happen!

Meanwhile, aside from the pompass windbags that are sharpton and shelia jackson lee, the service was lovely and impressive.

Only trouble is; the story does not yet have a true ending as the casket is not be taken back to the Disney Land of Death for dispo. In fact, no one knows where the casket and its cargo are being held but Jacko will not join Mother Earth tonight.

Rumors are online saying that the family is holding out for his brain to be returned by LA Coroner.

Does he or doesn't he have his brain? Only his mortician knows for sure!

Crazy Town Choo-choo is in sight!

2009-07-06T13:13:00.000-07:00

Well lightening did not strike; I am among the millions who did NOT get a ticket to the Jackson quack-dackeri.

Not that it matters; turns out I could not have sold the tickets for any amount of money as LAPD all up and declared that it was against the LAW for anyone to sell the tickets or for anyone to buy them. To that extent, they are wasting even MORE of the tax payers' money for undercover cops to be mingling amongst the desperate mourners at Staples, posing as rabid, heartbroken Jackson fans who would give ANYTHING to be at the service....ANYTHING!!

Then: gotcha!

Nuts to that. Who ever has them has the right to do with them as they like! Even give them away which I did think about doing too.

How cool would that be to be able to find that one fan who came from many states or countries away, the one who has put everything in their lives on the line to be here, to walk up to them, strike up a conversation, shake their hand and walk away fast as they take in the sparkly wrist-tag and ticket that has suddenly appeared in the palm of their mitt?

I admit; there will always be a roped off pew in the church of my heart for the obsessed. To make the freakin' day of one of the mondo-Jackson fans would be a kick I could giggle about all the way to my grave.

Oh, speaking of insanity; guess who's coming to protest...that's right, Jesus's very favorite Representatives on earth, (not), the WESTBORO BAPTIST CHURCH!!!

Ah, who could ever forget their charming take off on "We are the World" retitled, "God Hates the World!"? Didn't catch that one? Hardly anyone did as their equally repugnutted lawyers pulled the thing off Youtube as fast as people could upload it. Oh, it was a gem I tell you, a pure gem!

Anyway, here is what they have to say about the late King of Pop;

"Staples Center - Michael Wacko Jacko Jackson is in hell! 1111 S. Figueroa St WBC will be there to remind you to stop worshiping the dead. We will be there to tell you to Thank God for the death of this filthy, adulterous, idolatrous, gender-confused, nationality-confused, unthankful brute beast. We will be there to remind you that God Killed Wacko Jacko. There is a God, and a Day of Judgment. For you to wallow and murmur against God for his righteous Judgments is sin and will cause YOU to join Michael in hell. Stop that! Be thankful that God has not already killed you because like that Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar realized after 7 years of being cursed as a crazy wild man because he did not give God the glory warns - God will deal with you WHERE YOU LIVE if you do not put away your sins."

And so on and so on. So remember the address; 1111 S. Figueroa Street. It is my hope that all the locals from East LA and the passengers from the Crazy Town Choo-choo will drop by to extend a warm welcome to these brothers and sisters in Christ.

Oh, Lord, I hope the local channels get this all live.

Need some money, fast?

2009-07-03T17:26:00.000-07:00

Then join me in logging in for the lottery to get a "ticket" to the hottest show in town; the Jackson Funeral!

If chosen, I have NO intentions of going to that quackry. I instead have EVERY intention of selling off my little ol' wrist band to the HIGHEST BIDDER!!

Join in! If you're local, you too could have a chance at paying off that credit card bill in FULL for once!
http://staplescenter.com/memorial.php

Buwahhh-hhaaa-haaa!!!

The Crazy Town Choo-Choo is heading our way!

2009-07-02T16:21:00.000-07:00

Per just about every media outlet I follow, Jacko's hot mess of a funeral is now going to be in LA set for Tuesday, July 7 at 10AM in the Staples Center.

LAPD has even started closing down streets around that famous pile of cement, (as if driving in downtown LA wasn't frustrating enough!)

You know, it was one thing when it was believed that Jacko's send off would be at the infamous Neverland Ranch in the Santa Barbara area. It was one thing to watch the considerable discomfort of the locals as they looked aghast from over the rims of their whine...er...wine glasses at the growing frenzied flocks of Jackson fans and media clogging up their local roads.

But now the Crazy Town Choo-Choo has changed tracks and is chugging its way into downtown LA where we, the legal American citizen tax payer, will be expected to foot the bill for the extra cop power and man power and all the other powers that will be needed to pull off this fuckery of a funeral.

One of the chattering bubble heads on KTLA was pontificating on how the money is already there, already budgeted for emergency use of LAPD and the county sheriff's resources. Fine and dandy only, emergency money should be used for an EMERGENCY like a 8 point and above EQ or a full scale riot which by the way we are likely to see once the state starts issuing IOU's to the locals on welfare.

It should not be used for the protection of spoiled celebs that will show up crying their crocodile tears over Michael Jackson.

Protection will be needed and should be fronted for the businesses that have the misfortune to be around the Staples Center. No, not from the Jackson fans; they'll be too busy tearing at their clothes and pouring ashes over their heads in grief. The Jackson fans, while somewhat odd, are for the most part, very respectful of others and as polite as their idol was said to be.

You see, the Crazy Town Choo-Choo will be pulling into a station that borders a REAL crazy town, a loco place known as East LA. Populated with males sporting shaved heads and numerous tattoos featuring the number 13, the locals are sure to turn up if only for a chance to have another go 'round with LAPD. If they can set a few fires, break some windows, rock some cars and tip over KFI's news van, so much the better!

Perhaps the family should just opt for a tasteful yet original service that's just as "unique as YOU are!" that Forest Lawn, aka the Disney Land of Death, is famous for.

(Check out the movie, "The Loved One")

On second thought, a mob scene that involves law enforcement , riled up fans and frothing at the mouth media types is the sort of unique service that pretty much sums up Jackson's life in later years.

I, an LA taxpayer, just don't want to pay for it.

So Long, Mrs. Slocombe

2009-07-01T16:02:00.000-07:00

NOOOO!!! Oh, dear God, no, not my Mrs. Slocombe, not my role model, (beyond Tyler Perry's Madea), of how I should behave in my old age! Oh, this is too bad!

Forget Wacko Jacko, you wanna talk icons? Mrs. Slocombe is the Ba-ha-la of pop culture icons.
She of the wild wigs of the pussy that was forever going straight up the wall.

When I heard the news of Karl Malden's death earlier, I had wondered which older player would join him in the set of three that would be quick to follow. I never expected it would be Mollie.

God Speed and thank you, Mollie Sugden. Thank you for your talent and for having given birth to Mrs. Slocombe!

I'm looking at the man in the casket...

2009-06-30T17:35:00.000-07:00

It's official: there will be a pubic viewing of Jackson's body at Neverland Ranch this coming Friday. Thousands of highly excitable, emotionally charged people will be descending upon the quiet Santa Barbara area countryside where they will likely scream, cry, kick and punch in order to claim a stake of ground to camp out on for "Camp Jackson".

Of course, that's just the media.

There's no telling what the fans will be like although given some of the wack-a-bee behavior demonstrated during the 2005 trail and acquittal, clearly they can out-do, out-cry and just plain out-weird any of the King of Rock and Roll's fans any day of the week.

I would love to be there with a camera and flim crew just to document the insanity that is sure to break out and make a film of it entitled "Mondo Jackson" ala the famous freak show of a film called "Mondo Elvis".

Never seen it? Oh, I recommend it highly. You can find it on Youtube. In fact, I would recommend any resident of the Neverland Ranch area to check out the film just to get a feeling of the emotional depth charge they might encounter during the turbo meltdown of Jackson's viewing and funeral.

I would assume that this public viewing will entail an open casket. This makes me wonder; what kind? A full couch? A bronze? A bronze full couch?

You realize of course that whatever model the family opts to go with, the sales of that model and any look-a-likes of it will blast thru the roof. Jackson's services may well influence future funeral services for a long time to come. We saw this after President Reagan's service, we saw this after Princess Diana's service. There is nothing like a good over the top celebrity send off to get people off their "immediate burial" and "direct cremation" tendencies. People watch the wall to wall coverage and they are touched by what they see.

Speaking of touching...I would venture to guess that the mortician that is working on Michael will be issuing a plea to the family to NOT touch Jackson's face. That nose...that nose that didn't look any too stable in life I would imagine is even more not stable in death especially after an extended stay in the cooler following a full post autopsy.

Remember, I'm just guessing here. I would give my eye teeth to be in on the procedure if only to see how one should handle an emaciated case that has undergone countless plastic surgeries.

I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the mortician has to rebuild the nose from mortuary wax. If that's the case, the family could have a say in which Michael Jackson nose they would like to see on their loved one. The "Thriller" model? The "Off the Wall" era nostrils? It's their call.

Noses are easy by the way. Seriously, I loved doing noses; got a 5 out of 5 on my noses in Mort school. My lips were fair, my ears resembled cauliflower but my noses were just spot on. Could have happily cranked out noses all day.

I remember that I used to joke that Jackson's booking photo from the last trial should be in embalming text books as an example:

"Your case should NOT look like this when you are through!"

Given the additional abuse the man put himself thru in the last few years, the mortician working on Jackson tonight could consider themselves lucky if the decedent even looked that booking photo by the time they are through.

God Speed, nameless mortician, God Speed!

Feed the Rock Stars

2009-06-29T15:18:00.000-07:00

On one of the local morning "news" programs today, Jacko's manager was being interviewed and made the remark that Jackson had desperately needed to gain weight before embarking on the now needless and never to happen "come-back" tour.

He said something to the effect that Jackson himself had acknowledged that in order to keep his strength on the tour, he needed to gain weight, something that Jackson was otherwise desperate to avoid.

It would seem that in a serious bid to maintain a lithe and boyish figure, Michael Jackson took only one meal a day. No one it seems told him he was fat, no one screamed at him, "Oh my God, you are such a COW, loose that fat before next week!" No, this was Jackson's own doing, his own self enforced slow starvation.

Ironic, isn't it, that the man who helped pen the words for a song to raise money for the starving in Africa in 1985 would himself be a little more than skin pulled over bones at the end.

The man on TV went on that he had encouraged a gain in weight for his client, had hoped it would happen. I should like to know just how was Team Jackson trying to go about this little project?

I would be willing to bet my own substantial weight in peanut butter cups that the chef at his rented "Norma Desmond" hacienda was of the typical LA breed. A whisper thin size zero of a person who serves spinach leaves wrapped in seaweed with one round, perfect pea on top and calls that "Fabu!"

Come on, buddy. If you all were really serious about getting your late client back into any shape other than that resembling a straw, you would have hired a cook that hailed from the Midwest, someone who could whip up dishes that would put meat on them there bones and then meat on the meat.

Someone like me!

You wanna gain weight in a hurry? I'm your girl. We can do this one of many ways. If you'd like a little finesse to your weight gain, I can whip up a platter of a beautiful milanesas.

A specialty of Argentina, milanesas are fillets of razor thin beef which has been dunked in a bath of eggs and parsley and then covered in a heaping pile of seasoned bread crumbs to which pressed garlic has been added.

One at a time, the freshly breaded fillets are fried in a pan of shallow oil, gently turned one side to the other and then carefully placed on a platter and covered. When all of the fillets have been fried, the platter is then taken to the table to join the garlic mashed potatoes whipped with half and half and real butter, and the tender green beans that have been co-mingling with chunks of bacon or better yet, pistachio ham.

A bowl of lemon wedges should be offered in which to christen the milanesa in a fine spray of tarty juice. Take the first cut and hold it in your mouth; breath deeply to take in the intense flavors of garlic, lemmon, and spices. Let the breaded meat slide back on your tongue.

Swallow. Savor. Bang the table with your hand and make "mmmmm" noises.

Repeat, over and over.

A platter of milanesas will send your taste buds to heaven and your weight just as sky high in only one sitting.

If you don't care how the pounds pack on then I would advise pure Midwest fare and none is more Midwest than the traditional Tater-tot Casserole.

Also known as "Tater-tot Hot-dish" in Minnesota, (because they can't spell "casserole"), this unholy combo of seasoned browned hamburger meat, green beans from a can and frozen tater-tots is held together by a thick glue of Cream of Mushroom soup. Slosh the whole thing together in a Pyrex baking bowl and bake at 350 degrees for about an hour or until contents are boiling and the taters are brown.

Serve with hot beaten biscuits or corn bread slathered in honey butter for maximum poundage effect. I was going to say that one could always serve this over mashed potatoes but that would be overdoing it a bit. Save the mashed potatoes for your chicken and noodles instead.

(You know, it wasn't until I met my CA reared hubby that I came to know that chicky-noodles over mashed was NOT a good thing. DH was fairly horrified upon his first offering of the dish and sat me down to go over why this should not be served together anymore.

"Come on, think about it!" he cautioned, "NOODLES over mashed POTATOES!"

I stared back blankly.

"NOODLES and POTATOES are..."

"Good?"

"NNOOOO!!"

The answer he clearly wanted was "starches" but to my church basement casseroled mind naught but good could ever come from the two mixed together.)

But I digress.

The food is only half the battle. In a case like Jackson's, presentation of the food would have also played a key role. I would have insisted that Jackson dine "en famille". No taking a tray in one's room, no phone calls, texting, no shop talk. Just Michael and his children at a small kitchen table.

Should there not have been such an item in the place, I would have shopped for one. A simple Formica topped kitchen table with metal legs and a covering of checked oil cloth on which rests a plastic napkin holder with matching salt and pepper shakers. Some of you know what I'm talking about. In fact, you can likely see it right now in your mind's eye can't you; your Mother's kitchen table.

If they wanted seconds, great! Help yourselves! The bowls are all right there. You want to stage a food fight at the end? Go ahead but you all are going to clean it up!

To follow, I would have sought out what could have best passed for a back porch in that over-priced rented pile of bricks and served up, warming and steaming from the oven, home made cherry pie ala mode.

There is nothing quite like a back porch, a summer evening and pie to bring out stories, good conversation and simple contentment. If I could have imported fire flies from the Midwest, I would have if only to make the illusion of "home" complete.

Two weeks of this and I could have delivered unto his managers a well fed and well minded Michael Jackson.

There are those of course who would say, "Oh get real! The man was an anorexic! All your mila this and tater-tot that would have been floating to the LA river within the hour!"

Likely this would have been so. But let me dream, won't you? Let me dream of what could have been had the hangers on around this lost soul ever really truly cared enough to have gotten him the help he so painfully needed.

Let me dream about what difference a few fire flies and a slice of homemade pie might have made.

Let us dress like tramps in the house of the Lord

2009-06-28T14:33:00.000-07:00

SO there I was last night, getting ready for Saturday night mass and I start to pull together an outfit based around leggings.

(in case some of you haven't noticed, leggings are back, better than ever)

Leggings.

For church.

What in heck was I thinking? I was seriously surprised that I had even considered such an outfit let alone started to put it on. If my Mother was still alive, she would have blisterd the dumb out of me with one withering look.

You see, I was born at the very tail end of the "matching shoes and purse" era. I was among the last of a generation that ever wore gloves with a hat to church or for any other event that would require our Mothers to put on their better girdles as well as their own matching hats, gloves, shoes and handbags.

We dressed up for almost everything back then. Even travel on a train or a plane, ESPECIALLY a plane required you to be turned out in a stylish and respectful outfit that let people know that you had been "fetched up right".

And here I was about to darken the Lord's door with my butt hanging out in spandex. That would have racked me up a "sin of near occasion" at the very least not to mention causing the ground around my Mother's grave to churn over.

Not that there's a dress code at our local church. Their belief is all about just getting the "asses in the pews" and the rest will follow. After all, isn't it more important that people feel free to come as they are to hear the word of the Lord rather than feeling uncomfortable at being made to dress up and then perhaps just not bothering to show up at all?

The trouble is, most of the congregation seems to be following the path of least resistance and showing up as they would for a back yard BBQ or a morning of garage sales. T-shirts emblazoned with skulls or other less than holy art work, shorts, bare legs...you get the picture.

Feeling comfortable and welcomed is one thing but how about a little respect while you're at it?

If you're going to wear a t-shirt; fine but make it a clean one and maybe not one in which the Lady of Guadalupe is depicted as a skeleton.

Underwear should not be optional. Wear it and be thankful you don't have to put a slip on under it all the way we did back in the day along with the gloves and purses that never stayed clean no matter how careful we were.

I'll be honest; I hated wearing the frilly dresses my Mom picked out for me. She'd be going all Shirley Temple at her polka-dotted, puffed sleeved best while what I really wanted was a sailor

dress like the one below. Infact I did have one and would have happily worn it all the time but Mom said that I looked like an escapee from the Von Tramp Family Singers and would hide it from time to time just to get me to vary my wardrobe.

I guess it could have been worse. I could have been a boy and then she'd really have given me something to howl about by dressing me like the poor soul pictured below:

Say, if you're wondering where I'm getting these great old catalog images, stroll over to:

http://www.wishbookweb.com/

and take a trip down memory lane. From the 30's to the 80's, the Christmas of your childhood dreams is on parade.

Having a fondness for dolls, of course the first section I always go to is the doll part and that's where I found this little lady:

Yes, this baby doll is ASKING you to spank her. The manufacturer has even gone as far to stitch directions for where your hand should go, right on the ol' fanny where it says, "Here".

And watch groups thought "Tickle me Elmo" promoted potential violence???

Of course I went right over to ebay to see if anyone was selling this little gem of a bygone era but so far, no luck. What a conversation piece THAT would be!

Just do me a favor; if you're thinking that an adult version of this outfit would make for a swell Holloween costume, fine! Go for it along with some gin in that baby bottle.

Just don't wear it to church.

Come Saturday Morning...

2009-06-27T14:27:00.000-07:00

...I'm going to the local Salvation Army
to see if they have any more 36 inch Shirley Temple Playpal dolls
in their original dresses for half off the asking price like they did
last Dec. only someone got there before me and snagged her.

And, no, they didn't have any more.

Damn.

Infact the whole place was pretty well picked clean by the time we got there. You see, the last Saturday of the month, that SA store cleans out their whole stock by offering everything in the store at half off. We once got a bee-u-tee-full deep purple sectional there for only $100.00.

It was clean and in very good shape, matched our existing couch and marked the beginning of our being able to entertain more than one or two people at a time. Prior to that, we all had to sit on the couch in a row or on the floor; your pick.

So now we have a conversation "area" centered around the coffee table. Very swank.

Well we watched "Ghost Adventures" last night.

It was "ok". Zack didn't run around screaming like he used to. In the first season, so much as a moth would flutter by and Zack would leap in the air 3 feet, and run screaming down the halls like a girl all the while shouting,

"Omigod!Omigod!Omigod!

Speaking of moths, most of the "orbs" that get captured on their night vision cameras are in fact moths.

"Our camera captured this image of an orb following us" Zack will intone in voice over and from the purple couch my husband will yell;

"It's a MOTH, stupid!"

I feel sorry for the ghosts that encounter Zack. In addition to having very bad hair,

he has a very abrasive attitude towards the departed in which he'll bark out commands for them to "show themselves!"

"Make a sound if you can hear me!"

"Make that picture come off the wall!"

"Make that light go and off!"

No one likes being barked at, not even a dead person so of course, they ignore him all the while likely giving him a ghostly finger.

The spirits however do like Aaron.

Paitent, long suffering Aaron, always so polite, so sympathic to the passed over.

"I'm sorry you had to die," he'll tell them, "I'm sorry you were stabbed, strangled, decapitated," or, as in the episode in a truly hellish prison, raped to death by other imates in the shower,

"I'm sorry you had to die like that!"

The spirits appreciate respect and so they reward Aaron with all kinds of strange sounds, knocks, bumps and harshly whispered salutations such as

"Get out!"

"I kill you!"

"Die!"

that turn up on his MP3 recorder. This may be directed towards Zack who I think is a little jealous of Aaron. This may explain why he's always such a jerk towards him. Poor Aaron will start to say something and Zack will hold up his hand and yell,

"SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!"

Zack will stand there poised for flight, eyes all wild, claiming that he heard something. Now, for all he knows maybe Aaron is trying to be helpful by warning him about something.

Aaron: "Hey, Zack!"

Zack: (holds hand up in dismisive nature towards Aaron)

"SHUTUP!SHUTUP!"

Aaron: "But, Zack..."

Zack, (flails arms about wildly) 'SHHHHHHH!!!"

Aaron: "Dude, your hair, it's ON FIRE!"

Zack: (flails whole body about wildly)

"ARRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

camera shows Zack tearing off down the hall. Camera pans back over to Aaron who looks at camera and shakes his head.

The website for the show announces that on 10/30 they will be doing a 7 hour lockdown in a horrible old state mental looney bin, the kind that makes "Cuckoos Nest" look like a day at Preschool. One can access it on the web.

7 straight hours of Zack screaming and Aaron shaking his head and getting attacked by ghosts.

Can't wait!

Well, Heck!

2009-06-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

THAT was easy! Very easy!

Oh, what JOY! DH, (Dear Husband), will be so pleased...it's not like I'm online most of the time as it is...now I can be on even more. He'll be thrilled!

(not)

So....so....ah. Hmmm....can't think of a thing to say now that I have the floor all to myself...

Jacko is room temp! Oh, you all knew that, huh?

What's the little video thingy do up in the toolbar? Let's check that out....

Ok, let's try it again...

Well, it's doing something....damn this is sloooowww tonight. Anyone else with slow internet tonight?

If I had known it would take this long....

Still waiting....it's gonna be time to go soon. "Ghost Adventures" starts soon. We love that show if only to see two things:

1) how bad Zack's hair looks

2) to see how high he'll jump and how loud he'll scream. Man screams like a girl.

Seriously, I cannot get over how the hair person on set does his hair! It sticks out all over like a cartoon characters. Sometimes it looks like that spikes in the statue of liberty's crown.

Keep telling DH that one day when we get a video camera, we need to film a take off on the show with him as Zack. We'd be a Youtube hit.

AHA! Finally! Long day 'mong all, the vid is up!

Ok, that's enough blogg blah for one day. Let's post the puppy and see if it bites.

2009-06-26T19:13:00.000-07:00

I don't actually have anything to rant about just now...I'm just going along here, trying to figure this out, see if it works and all.

Took all of 15 minutes to come up with the name. You see, I wanted a cool name, one that stood out. Some of my favorite blogs like "Thorn in a Pew" or "The Crescat" or "Ask Sister MaryMartha" (life is tough, nuns are tougher), have such unique and interesting titles for their little virtual world.

However, I figured that Google may not allow some of my ...some of my....ok now I DO have something to rant about; I wanted the pic of the globe down after the word, "world". I can't even get it to delete! WTH??

Ok, went to delete the pic and now the whole POST is gone! What the????

AHA! I see how this works now....let me add that globe back in....ok that worked. Anyway, I figured such snappy catch titles like "Bitch in a Box" or even my old nickname of "Bagpipe Bitch" would not be welcomed. I mean my family might one day read this hot mess and the last thing I need is disapproving looks via email.

(Or even Sister MaryMartha might venture on here! One shouldn't piss off nuns!)

Alright, let's post this puppy and see how it looks!