Paris Hilton Goes to Jail Island Style

Paris in June

Well, today’s the big day, the day we’ve all been worried about, Paris Hilton starts her twenty one day jail sentence for driving drunk without a license while having her license suspended for driving drunk without a license. I’ve been up all night worrying about her. Since we lost Anna Nicole, it falls upon Paris to be our official worthless celebrity slut. Her every move must be documented and reported to keep us from stressful news like the increased US naval maneuvers in the gulf guarding the increased exports of Iraqi oil by Halliburton/Exxon. Lite and trite beats might and fight when it comes to news broadcasting.

Thinking about the punishment Paris has to endure got me to thinking, Shelter Island (my home island off the east coast) is always looking for ways to increase revenues. What if we ran a Sheltered Celebrity Shelter? Then important celebrities could do their “time” here and we wouldn’t even have to build a separate building for them, just assign them to live with a local family.

“You have to get up, Paris.”
“What? It’s only 7 a.m.!”
“Yea, but it’s summertime. We have to get to the IGA by 8:30 to get a good parking spot and get out while it’s still cool. The cool only lasts until 10 AM. We gotta shop, get home and unpack the groceries.”
“Why don’t we go tonight if you’re so worried about the heat?”
“IGA closes at 6 PM.”
“So we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Nowhere to go. It’s the only grocery store on the Island. Except for Fedi’s which is our version of 7/11, but it closes at 7 PM.”
“How can you live here?”
“After we bring in the groceries and unpack, we have to organize the garbage and recycle.”
“What do you mean, organize the garbage?”
“We have to separate the all the recyclables; glass, plastics, paper, from the non-recyclable garbage.”
“That’s so sick. Can’t the garbage men separate that stuff at the curb when they pick it up?”
“There’s no garbage pick up here.”
“What? How do you get rid of your garbage?”
“We take it all to the dump ourselves and put all the recycle in the appropriate bins. It’s very exciting. You meet everybody at the dump and get to talk to lots of people.”
“Ewww! That’s is whack! Tell me the truth, I’m in hell aren’t I?”
“And the non-recyclable garbage has to be bagged in special yellow Town Bag that we buy at the store.”
“Why does your garbage need to be in special bags?”
“The sale of the bags pays for the operation of the dump.”
“Can’t the bags pay for garbage men too?”
“No. Then we’d have to charge more and the bags are pricey enough as it is.”
“When my father sends my money, I’ll buy you a garbage truck. Wake me when the mail comes.”
“No mail delivery, Paris. We all pick up our mail at the Post Office. We can do that after the dumps. We’ll run into the same group at the Post Office as at the dumps because we all do things in a pattern and we all empty the garbage out of our cars before we pick up packages.”
“Great, I’m doing time in Green Acres. Well, after the shopping and the dumps and the Post Office, can we at least go shopping?”
“Sure! We have a few stores.”
“How few is few?”
“Umm, Cornucopia, Bliss’ and Jack’s Marina.”
“How many floors in Cornucopia?”
“One. One floor, one room.”
“Which is the shoe store?”
“Well, Bliss’ has Topsiders.”
“Topsiders? Are they Italian?”
“No, practical.”
“Did you say a marina?”
“Yes, Jack’s has marine supplies and toys, puzzles, and games.”
“Of course! When I think “toys”, I always think, “marina”.”
“I’m going to need to hit a good liquor store tonight and get some tequila after today.”
“Both liquor stores close by 7 PM. Who are you calling on your cell?”
“My lawyer. Shhhh. Hi, this is Paris. Get me off this island that time forgot! Get me in a real jail, puhleez!”
“Oh, Paris, don’t go. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“Why would I want to get used to this? You people are insane!”
“No, but it helps.”

Lease a Man

Please Re-Lease, Don’t Let Me Go.....

I have a coworker who is young, thin, beautiful and intelligent, but I like her in spite of her faults. The first time I saw her she was wearing pants that appeared to be spray painted on, with strange curved seams. I thought it was a new fashion.

Last week, I looked over at her desk and she had a framed picture of a HORSE on her desk. I thought that was weird. Then I looked above and she had several pictures of the horse on her bulletin board. I commented that she must really love her horse. She said she did and added that he was leased.

“Leased?” I asked incredulously. “You can lease a horse?”
“Yeah. That way you can trade up for a better horse as your riding skills increase.”

I’ve heard of leasing cars, but a horse? A living thing? Initially, I thought this was off the map of logic.... but then again.....that’s where I live.

“Well, why don’t you just leave him?”
“I would Mom, but why bother? His lease is up in a few months and I can trade up.”
“Oh, I keep forgetting the new Male Marital Lease Laws. We were always stuck with them you know, for years and years, until we went through an expensive divorce. Now, you kids just have to wait till the lease is up. I think it’s wonderful.”
“I have my eye on this really nice man I saw in Sag Harbor. I think he’ll be available to lease just as I’m free.”
“Is it a trade up, honey?”
“Oh, yeah Mom. He has a better job than this one. I checked his bank statements. It will take me five years to max out his credit.”
“That’s so nice. We haven’t been on a real shopping trip in a long time. Do you have to have relations with him?”
“Yeah, they always expect it. But you only have to be good at it for about six months. By then I’ll have us in a new house and he’ll have to work two jobs to make the mortgage, he’ll be too tired to bother me.”
“And what about the kids darling?”
“I’m trading them in too. I’m sick of their attitudes and their messes.”
“Are you going to get more, or be childless for awhile?”
“Childless for this next Marriage Lease, Mom. I want to relax for this one. After this I might lease some kids who are just about ready to leave for college. They’re a lot more expensive, but you only have to see them at holidays.”
“Your sister just got a new husband.”
“What? She didn’t tell me!”
“Well, she wasn’t really looking. She was just visiting her friend Sherry in the city, on a shopping spree when they walked by a restaurant. She saw him in a window and just had to have him.”
“She has a real problem with impulse leasing... I hope this doesn’t end up like the last one. Those early turn in fees really killed her finances.”
“Oh, that construction guy. Wasn’t he something?”
“Who knew the human body could produce so many sounds and smells? He was gross. I never understood why she kept him as long as she did.”
“You’ll understand when you’re a little older, dear. Sometimes it’s just easier to keep a man that’s already broken in to all your likes and dislikes. He was gross, but remember how he used to rub her feet and cook for her?”
“Yes, I remember. Why can’t you get everything you want in one man?”
“You can’t, baby. That's why the new lease law is so nice. You get some of what you want with every man and leasing really works better with your life because you need a different kind of man at different stages.”
“Thank goodness for President Clinton, Mom. I know you didn’t vote for her, but you have to admit, she sure has come through for the girls team!”

Pissed Off Pilot!

Maybe he should have used a Palm Pilot....

AP Sat, Apr 7 Las Vegas: A Northwest Airlines flight was canceled because the pilot was yelling obscenities during a cell phone conversation while people were boarding, and cursed one passenger, a federal official said Saturday.
The pilot of the Las Vegas-to-Detroit flight was apparently in a heated cell phone conversation in the cockpit, then went into a lavatory, locked the door and continued the conversation, ..."Passengers who were boarding the aircraft could hear his end of it." Authorities were told that the pilot cursed one passenger who confronted him. There were 180 passengers and five crew on the flight to Detroit. ...Passengers were accommodated on other flights to their destinations. They also were given meals and hotels during any additional time in Las Vegas.

“Julia, I cannot have this conversation NOW! You know I’m already on board!
Well, can’t it wait till I get there? It’s only a two hour flight. Why are you crying? Don’t cry Julie, what did you do? WHAT IS IT, JUST SAY IT FOR F...K’S SAKE!”

“Captain, please.... you need to keep it down.”

“Fine! I’ll go in the bathroom! Will that make you happy?”

“Sir, just keep it down... the passengers....”

“Scr...the passengers!” Slam!

“Okay Julie, I’m in the can. Just spit it out!
What about my car? You’re talking about the Chevy right? Not the Porsche. You didn’t drive my Porsche, right?
Julie...JULIA! Repeat after me....I did NOT drive the Porsche. Just say it!
Ahhhhhh, noooooo, not my new car..........what were you thinking?
Well, if you weren’t driving it who was?
Roger? Roger who? Roger Wilcox? My co-pilot? Are your sh....g me? I’ll kill him!
Wait a minute... what was he doing driving my car? Why is he at the house? Is that why he’s not on this flight with me now? Because he’s there?
He’s there NOW? No, don’t put him on the phone - tell me WHY he’s THERE Julie!
What problems? We aren’t having any problems....since when?
Where were you and Roger going in my new car when he drove it through the back wall of the garage?
Of course I’m shouting, you slut! You’re leaving me in MY new car????
(Knocking at the door) “Captain, I really hate to disturb you, but.....”

“Good! Then don’t!” Slam!

“Julie, so help me God, you better be there when I get home and Roger too so I can kill him!”

(Sheriff arrives on board, addressing Head Flight Attendant) “I don’t know, Officer... something about killing someone named Roger. He sounds really upset.”

“This is the Sheriff! Open the door, Captain! Okay, let’s hear your story, Mac”

“911? Hello again. This is Margaret Johnson, the Head Flight Attendant, we just spoke. Yes, the Sheriff came. Yes, they talked for a few minutes. I don’t know, now they’re both trying to fit in the bathroom and scream at the person on the other end of that cell phone. Something about a broken porch on the garage...”

Coloring Easter Eggs and Homicidal Ideation

Every Bunny Loves Some Bunny Sometime

“WHY do I have to do this, Shelly?”
“Because you’re a parent, Joe. Now sit down and when she comes in, look interested.”
“I can’t look interested in coloring eggs. This dye is going to get all over my fingers and I’m going to have to go to work with multicolor fingers tomorrow.”
“Man up, will ya? The dye won’t touch your fingers if you use this wire dipper.”
“This flimsy thing? This won’t support an egg...my father didn’t color eggs. We did this with our mother.”
“You are sooo not getting out of this.....”
“What’s all this stuff?”
“This is the Deluxe Easter Egg Decoration Kit. Stickers and wax crayons, so she can design, the dye doesn’t take where wax is.”
“You’re not serious. When did they add all this crap?”
“It’s not crap. It’s Easter Egg art. It encourages creativity in children. If you don’t encourage your daughter’s creativity, she’ll be on Oprah in ten years complaining how you stifled her.”
“Not if we sell her to Sudanese slavers first....”
“Tried it already, they want too much to take her....”
“What are these strips for?”
You hook them together, reinforce them with tape and they create a little stand for the egg.”
“A stand? I thought we were just going to throw them in a basket?”
“Some eggs are so beautiful, they get their own stand. You just have to ooooo and aaaaahhhh.”
“Yuck and bleecckk are out? Shouldn’t she learn early to handle the truth?”
“She is our child, Joe. Truth will never be part of our relationship, just lying, manipulating, and empty threats. And we can expect the same from her.”
“What happened to honestly, love, kindness, Shelly? All the stuff in the psycho books?”
“That’s overrated. It’s just to sell books. Don’t think for one minute that they have it any more together than we do. Besides, the people who wrote those books have never lived in this house. How long do you think a stranger could stand our delightful Catherine?”
“Catherine the greatest six year old lying con artist on the planet?”
“That’s the one....”
“Maybe we should send her to them as a test case.”
“Good idea in theory, Joe, but Dr Phil, the current psycho king, has only raised boys. He thinks girls are innocent, sweet, and guileless.”
“Please can we send him Catherine? So he can have a learning experience?”
“No, Joe, it’s too cruel. I don’t want to watch him drink hemlock on his show. But it might knock Anna Nicole Smith out of the news....”
“What’s the latest on her? Is she still dead?”
“Yes, but she was buried with a camera, so we get regular reports on all the networks.”
“Oh, thank Gawd.”
“Alright... we’ve got six colors in six cups, three dipping things, stands, crayons, stickers, paper towels, and two dozen eggs. I think we’re ready for Catherine. Call her in, Joe.”
“Can I have a shot before I get her?”
“No liquor Joe, not now. We’ll have drink after it’s over. I have the pre-prepared Pina Colada mix in the blender in the fridge. Let her in.”
“Hey Catherine! Where’s my Easter bunny?”
“Daddy!!!”
“Hey, look ...we got everything ready....eggs, pretty colors, stickers...we’re going to dye Easter Eggs this morning! This’ll be fun!”
“This is stupid ! I hate real eggs ! They smell ! I told Mommy - I just want chocolate bunnys and chocolate easter eggs. Don’t you ever listen to me? You’re not good parents. Patty has nice parents. Her parents bought already-decorated eggs. They didn’t make her do it herself! They don’t treat her like a slave! I don’t know why they can’t adopt me!”
“NO! SHELLY! STOP! Put down the toaster oven! Catherine, go to your room! You’ve upset your mother. Put it down, baby.... she isn’t worth it....that’s my girl...let go of the toaster.....you just sit here. I’ll get the Pina Colada’s.”
“I spent the last two hours boiling eggs, Joe. Setting up cups, melting dye tabs...”
“I know, I know....listen, we’ll sit here and color eggs together. Just you and me, okay?”
“Okay, I don’t care.”
“Sure....don’t cry, baby... look, I’ll put one egg in each cup to get us started. We’ll turn this into a nice morning.”
“What about.....HER?”
“Don’t think about HER. She’ll be gone in twelve years. We just have to hang on.”
“We shouldn’t have drinks at ten o’clock in the morning.”
”It’s that or we kill the child, Shelly.”
“Make it a tall one, Joe.”

The Men of Shelter Island

How Ya Gonna Keep Em Down On The Farm?

Sat Mar 24, 2007 TORONTO (Reuters) By Jonathan Spicer - Real men don't pose for the cover of a Harlequin romance. And that's something the publisher wants to change.
Marleah Stout, Representative of Harlequin Enterprises, the world's biggest publisher of romance novel series said, "We're looking for some guys that are not your usual models, but have that iconic look that women go for -- sexy, sensitive, beautiful and fit," said Harlequin spokeswoman, who attended the open casting.
"We want real men ... exactly what you think in your mind when you're fantasizing or imagining that ideal man."
Toronto-based Harlequin, a division of newspaper group Torstar Corp., sold 131 million books in 94 countries last year. It estimates that a third of American women have read at least one of its titles.

“And what group do you represent, sir?”
“We’re the men from Shelter Island. We’re here to be the new models for your Romance novel covers.”
“All of you?”
“Yes, of course. Is there a problem?”
“Well, there’s twenty of you....and we have certain criteria. I don’t want to be rude, but there’s certain things we require, like hair...”
“Hair? Oh, we got hair! Gerry! Show the lady your back! Look at that! You ever see back hair like that in your life? Looks like he’s wearing a sweater!”
“I see. Uh, well, we also want six pack abs. I don’t see anything like that here.”
“Ooooh, Miss... six pack abs? You’ve come to the right place. Johnny! C’mere and bring the beer out of the ice chest in the car. Now watch this. Okay John, you and Bill, show this nice lady how you can balance a six pack on your stomachs. Look at that.... now that’s talent! Bet ya never seen nothin’ like that before!”
“No, I can honestly say I haven’t. What are those tattoos with the erratic pattern that you all have?”
“Maps of Shelter Island. Island man has to have an Island tattoo. The women all have magnetic maps on their cars. Some wear necklaces of the map. It’s sacred to us. Look. Here’s the Heights... this is Ram Island, and of course, Little Ram, and here’s Coecles Harbor...”
“Stop! I got it! I don’t want to see anything else. Look, I’m sure you’re all nice men. But we need a certain type. Romantic and rugged, that’s what women want.”
“Romantic and rugged? Why didn’t you say so? Joe, get the drills from the toolbox. Joe and me, being sensitive artists in our souls, realized a while ago that different drills have different pitches and David here, sings opera. Joe and me are going to play a little Turandot on Bosch and David’s gonna sing Nessum Dorma. You’re gonna love it.”
“Thank you, that was so special. I never heard the power tool arrangement before. The truth is, you’re just too sexy for our covers. You might overwhelm the women of America.”
”We know. We overwhelm our women on the Island. It was their idea for us to come here.”
“Really? Let me have a phone number. Let me do a conference call with them.”
“Sure.. I get it. You want to work out our fees with them....close the deal, eh?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Hi. Is everybody on the line? This is Cheryl Hinch with Harlequin. Whose idea was it to send the husbands to our audition? Okay, somebody has to stop laughing and talk to me.”
Voice 1: “I won the pool! You called us within an hour!”
Cheryl: “Very funny! How am I gonna get rid of them? They think they’ve got ‘it’ going on.”
Voice 2: “We know, we know. We were just hoping somebody could bring them a little closer to reality.”
Cheryl: “Bringing your guys closer to reality could be a federal grant project. I don’t have time for this. I’ll put the leader on the phone and you can tell them to come home.”
Voice 4: “For how much?”
Cheryl: “Blackmail? You’re blackmailing me to get rid of these guys?”
Voice 1: “Send them home with Chanel bags and Gucci shoes, or we leave them with you.”

“Well boys, it wasn’t a total loss. We had a nice day off island and geez, wait till the wives see these consolation prizes we got; bags, shoes, champagnes, chocolates, Broadway tickets....it’s the jackpot for us tonight! Who knew we were this hot? Next year, more of us will go in. They love us! Maybe we’ll do a calendar....”

Happy St. Patricks Day!

Who’s Your Paddy?

An Irishman walks into a bar and orders three glasses of Guinness, drinking them one at a time. The bartender explains that the beer goes flat when poured and informs the man his beer would be much fresher if he ordered one glass at a time. The Irishman explains he began this custom with his two brothers, who have moved to America and Australia, respectively. This is his way of honoring them. The man becomes a regular at the pub, well-known for always ordering three beers at once. One day he walks in and orders only two beers. Assuming the worst, the bartender quietly offers his condolences. The man looks confused for a moment, and then explains, "No, me brothers is fine. It’s me. I gave up beer for lent."

Now, I just to clear up a few things for the Irish Americans reading this column.

1] The new TV show, The Black Donnelly’s, about a hard drinking family of black Irish in Boston, that fights with themselves and everyone else, is actually a fictional TV show, not a documentary (like my mother thought).

2] Senator Barack Obama is not black Irish. It is Obama, not O’Bama.

3] The Church has gone through terrible scandals in recent years and it’s giving everyone the impression that all priests are child molesters. We know that’s not true, many are just alcoholics. But, for all the rotten apples, there’s a good many wonderful priests. So defend the faith once in awhile and come to church once in awhile too. I know you think the Church is full of hypocrites, but there’s always room for one more...

4] It’s perfectly fine to start celebrating on the 15th if you think the whiskey will hold out for two days. Practice the custom of the non-Irish and put the cap BACK ON the bottle once in awhile.

5] In addition to Do Not Drink and Drive, Do Not Drink and Dial. No one wants to sing Galway Bay with you over the phone. And also, Do Not Drink and Drone on and on....

6] Do not challenge your non-Irish friends to a drinking contest. We have a genetic advantage and it’s not fair to exploit it. This rule is suspended, however, if they are buying the drinks. It is rude to refuse a gift.

7] Keep your explanibrations to a minimum when addressing sober people. Explanibriations are your attempt to explain things while inebriated. It irritates the sober people, but intrigues fellow drunks, so chose wisely before you begin the story.

8] Unlike other cultures, who don’t like stories repeated, we specialize in it. Just remember, there is a 2% embellishment limit to each repetition. When the story has run out of truth completely, it moves into the category of ‘family legend’.

9] If you’re celebrating in public, remember, there’s a difference between a punch that you drink, a punch that you throw, and a punchline. We stand in the punchline to get to the punch. We do not throw THE punch, or throw A punch at anyone in public, our we will BECOME a punchline for another joke.

10] If you’re celebrating at home, remember to give all non-combatants a chance to get under the table before the serious fighting starts.

11] Just as we now have Designated Drivers, we need Designated Door Answerers. When the police come, send the sober DDA to the door. Do not make any background noise or invite the officer in for a drink. He doesn’t know the words to Whiskey in the Jar. Of course, he would if he was Irish, but we know he’s not, because he’s working on St. Patrick's Day.

I think that covers it..... Have a Happy St. Patrick's Day!

LOST LUGGAGE !

Would you like that to go?

Maya Angelou said you can tell a lot about a person by how they handle three things; a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights.

Today, I was handling #2, lost luggage. My son had spent Winter Break in Seattle with his Dad. Dad bought him a new xbox and several games which were in the suitcase that was not appearing on the luggage carousel at the Delta Baggage Claim in JFK.

We got there before the luggage and watched at a safe distance as each bag came down the chute. 95% of the luggage that appeared was black, so 95% of the passengers crowded the carousel, masking a mild anxiety that someone else would grab their black bag by mistake. I’ve seen it happens dozens of times, somebody yanks off a bag, checks the tag, it’s not theirs, they heave it back on the carousel. Only 5% of people in America are smart enough to employ this useful observation and buy distinctive luggage. My son and I waited in comfortable chairs for the appearance of a bag covered with a garish pattern of brightly multicolored blocks. Eventually, the carousel stopped, all the black bags were gone. All the designer bags and their imitations were gone. Myself and three other people stood at the bottom of the chute of the motionless carousel, looked up and prayed to the Lord, from whence cometh our help and our bags - or not.

One man, who was not handling the lost luggage test well ( and probably just throws out tangled Christmas lights, I bet), began cursing and hailed the nearest Delta employee who assured us that all the bags were in. It was time to suck it up.

Myself, two other women and the Cursing Man, absorbed the shock as we made our way to the office, the tiny, dimly lit, Baggage Claim Office. It was armed, I mean, staffed with only two, very frightened looking employees. The two other women and myself instinctively slowed our pace just enough to let Cursing Man go first. It was like we all knew, that in addition to not handling lost luggage well, waiting patiently in line wasn’t going to happen either.

And we were right. Cursing Man launched into a tirade that involved slamming the claim form on the counter and castigating the Delta girl, like it was her fault. You could see she was doing her best. The other gal, obviously more experienced, stepped in and took over. I know under her Delta jacket, she had a concealed weapon, because she gave Cursing Man the ‘look’ of a fearless complaint department employee and said calmly, “Raising your voice doesn’t help, sir.” But in her eyes, I could see, “Beneath this counter I have a gun pointed straight at your crotch, go ahead, make my day....”

When I got to the counter, I got the gal with the gun, so I was very nice. I could hear her release the hammer and slide the gun back into the waistband of her skirt. I filled out the form and everything went very smoothly as she gave me my claim number and told me how I could check on their search progress on line. I’ve always found that when you are nice to people who have tough jobs, they are so appreciative, they will go the extra mile for you. She put her name and direct number on my claim form so I could call her if I needed to. I KNOW Cursing Man didn’t get her direct number...

Outside, waiting for a cab, I heard a string of profanity about lost luggage. I was shocked, my son had become Cursing Man.

“Jacob! Where did you learn such language?”
“Look Mom, they lost my *&@!* xbox! I’m going to sue their &^!*@ till they bleed!”
“Jake, lost luggage is going to happen once in a while. You have to learn to handle the unexpected things that life throws at you. How would Daddy handle this?” I knew as soon as the words exited my mouth, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Dad would have demanded to see the President of Delta!” came the accurate response. Cursing Man was a pansy compared to Jake’s Dad when it came to situations like this. Only the appearance of security guards would calm him down.
“Jake, an xbox is just a thing. It can be replaced...”
“Yeah? Well what if it was a suitcase with your jewelry in it?”
“Not the same thing. Jewelry is far more important than a stupid xbox,” I said as I mentally pushed him in front of oncoming traffic.
Let me tell you, Cursing Man has nothing on Well of Deep Rage Woman...

Anna Nicole Smith Homocide!

Devil to Faust, “Deal or No Deal?”

Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think the media has spent enough time covering the death of Anna Nicole Smith. Occasionally, some fragment of significant news is still breaking through. Her mother is now appealing her burial in the Bahamas and with new men coming forth daily to admit that they also, might be the father of Anna Nicole’s baby, all hell’s breaking loose!

When people pause and ask, “What is the big deal over this stupid woman?” I say, “Are you kidding? She’s the ultimate train wreck of humanity in one neat, surgically enhanced, package! You just can’t take your eyes off the wreck as it passes by.”

A real beauty with a white trash mentality, no value to society, a sailor’s mouth, a President Bush sized ego, and the morality of a paper plate, all in one! Watching her reality show was one of my guilty pleasures. I was glued to the set every week. I just couldn’t believe how she could abase herself and humiliate everyone around her with complete aplomb. She started at the bottom and drilled straight down, all the while confident that her face and boobs would get men to do whatever she wanted - and they did! I remember she whined and nagged Howard K. - on camera - until he dressed like a clown and roller skated down Hollywood Blvd. for her - or for her money. I recall watching his face and seeing his barely masked loathing for her. I think Howard K. sold his soul for her money, he made the Faustian bargain.

Anna had a frumpy assistant named Kim with purple hair. She tortured Kim (e.g. making her get up at 3 a.m. to make Anna hot chocolate and play checkers with her) until the girl finally must have realized that no amount of money was worth being a slave, and she jumped ship. I hope Kim is doing well, wherever she is. But, Howard K. stayed and made her his only client. If you saw the show, you know this highly educated, sophisticated man could never love a woman this vain and superficial. Anna Nicole Smith was so shallow they won’t have to dig the grave deeper than two feet to bury her.

The real one I’m watching now is Howard K. You see, I think he facilitated her suicide, or even put arsenic in her capsules, just waiting for her to take the right one. How else could he escape? He’s invested his entire professional career in her tenuous fortune. We never heard of their ‘relationship’ until Larry Birkhead sued for paternity of the baby. Then, all of a sudden, their ‘love’ was revealed and they got married in a ceremony apparently not recognized in the US since Howard K is never referred to as her husband... I think Howard wanted it that way. Anna decided that Howard would marry her to block Birkhead’s claims, so Howard did, but not legal enough to make him feel married. The price of the Faustian bargain got bigger, with no end in sight.

As the list of potential fathers of Dannielyne lengthens (Larry Birkhead, Anna’s bodyguard Hans, Howard K., Prince Husband of Gabor, Dan Rattiner, the entire horn section of the NYC orchestra and Howard Stern the DJ, to name just a dozen), our fascination and disbelief about how many men one woman can sleep with during her 48 hour window of fertility increases. I think in addition her boob implants, she had her hips replaced with industrial strength titanium, spring loaded hinges.

I know some media mogul will finance a Anna Nicole Smith version of the Vagina Monologues. It will begin with the audience getting a program and a shot of penicillin.

I will continue to be fascinated. I predict Anna Nicole will remain in the coroner’s refrigerator for another month while her mother’s appeal is addressed. The question of homicide will not surface since everyone knows she did too many drugs anyway. I predict Larry Birkhead will be the winner of the paternity race. I predict a judge will lay Anna’s will aside and award Dannielyne all the money. Howard K. will be removed as Executor owing to conflict of interest. But Howard K. will bill the estate for years of service and the bill will be so huge, it will be appealed for years.

This circus is going to be in town for a long time.

BIG BUSH IS WATCHING!!!

Compuphonavision, Big Bush is Watching...

Apple just announced that their new iPod will double as a phone. Okay, let me get this.... my iPod (radio) will also download movies (theater) so I can watch Titanic get hit by an ice cube on the two inch screen, it gives me internet access (computer) and now it can be a phone with as much poor reception as I need. So my iPod doubles as a computer, theater, and phone. My computer doubles as a radio, TV and phone. My TV can give me radio and internet access, but I can’t talk to it yet. So if the TV gets phone access, the circle will be complete.

All of our cell phones have Global Positioning Chips (GPS) now (post 9/11) so they (we) can be found anywhere, anytime. All our computers have GPS chips now so they can be found anytime... in case they run off. Our cars have GPS chip in their navigation systems, so we can find them or a voice can find us. It’s in the works to add a GPS chip to iPods and Blackberries now, I don’t know what the reason will be for that, but it will have to do with ‘public safety’ since that’s the code word to get anything by the people. It’s a good thing America has a totally trustworthy government so we can be confident that these listeners and locaters will never be abused.

The hottest selling bathroom home item today, according to Modern Home, is a fish tank toilet tank. No, I’m not kidding, check yahoo.com. The tank is a fish tank with live fish and a phony tank behind it with the flush water. It is a howl to see!

But then I put it together.... this is probably a government funded project. They want us to get accustomed to the idea of watching our toilet tanks. Soon they’ll replace with fish with emblems of sports teams, so you can symbolically flush teams you hate. Then, they’ll add a TV screen attachment that can be mounted on the wall in front of the commode. It will activate when you sit down and you can watch TV while you’re there. Overtime, you’ll want more technology. So they’ll develop a switch to flip from TV to computer function with a swing arm attachment that holds your keyboard and toilet paper. Now you’ll be able to email while you’re on the can. No more trying to sneakily use the bathroom while you’re on the cell phone and hold your thumb over the speaker while you flush, you will be able to email and download, while you download, and no one will know....

But the government must know more about you, you’re so fascinating. Soon, there will be sensors in the seat that record your weight. The information will be sent to your refrigerator that will keep a record of how many times it is opened and will record what is taken out and by whom. This info will go to the government who keeps tracks of food supplies and you will be banned from buying fattening foods when you use your debit card at the market. You’ll swoop the card through the machine and a loud ‘Bad Person Alarm’ will go off like a siren. You’ll have to surrender all the unapproved items. But you won’t be allowed to complain because it’s for your own good. The black market on Entenmanns will be huge!

But weight... there’s more information the govenment can get from your ass. A scanner can imbedded in the seat. It will check you for colon, prostate and uterine cancer while you’re there and send the results straight to your insurance company for early denial of coverage. You’ll get your denial letter before you even see your physician, which you have to admit, saves a lot of time for both you and the doctor and you won’t have to waste one sick day!

Oh, I know you probably think this is silly. But there was a time when I thought it was silly to think that my government could ever monitor my phone records, listen into my phone conversations, check my bank records, all without a warrant. Soon, with the event of the RFID card (Radio Frequency Identification Card) next year, which has a GPS chip and we will be mandated to carry at all times, the government will be able to find all of us anywhere, anytime. But it’s all for our safety, isn’t it? Big Bush, I mean Big Brother, I mean the Bush Administration only thinks of the people and how it can use them, I mean, how it can be useful to them. Sorry, what am I thinking? Sorry again, I mean what am I allowed to think?

NEW YEAR...NEW LINGO..

You Said It!

Language is a very organic entity. We need excellent command of it to be successful. Language changes constantly as outmoded words are abandoned and newly defined words enter the lexicon. I’m starting the New Year with some winners gathered from multiple internet sources, including the Washington Post and some dusty corners of my brain.

1. Cashtration:
The act of buying (or building) a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Intaxification:
Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize that it was your money to start with.
3. Technosnob:
A technology snob who loads his conversation with techno terms that only Bill Gates can understand.
4. Technobobs:
Technosnobs on a skewer slowly turning over an open fire.
5. Bozone:
The immediate area surrounding stupid people that blocks all intelligent input; see also: Bush, George W.
6. Dopeler effect:
The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when you’re intoxicated.
7. Blackhold:
People whose presence in a room causes the lights to dim because they are so dense, not even light can escape.
8. Ignoranus:
A person who's both stupid and an a--.
9. Foreploy:
Any misrepresentation about yourself for the specific purpose of getting some action.
10. Glibido:
All talk and no action.
11. Sarchasm:
The gulf between the writer of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it. My mother always worries my double entendre jokes may often some people. I never worry about these people, because they are in the sarchasm.
12. Inoculatte:
To take coffee intravenously to as a means of remaining conscious at work. Every employee of Dan’s inoculattes every Tuesday night before the paper goes to press.
13. Decafalon:
The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
14. Coffee:
The person upon whom one coughs.
15. Hipatitis:
Terminal coolness.
16. Hampititus:
Being terminally cool in the Hamptons.
17. Osteopornosis:
A degenerates degenerate disease. 
18. Karmageddon:
Making a huge mistake that you know will come back and destroy something.
19. Reintarnation:
Coming back to life as a hillbilly, often the result of karmageddon.
20. Caterpallor:
The color you turn after finding half a bug in your food.
21. Flabberaghasted
Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.
22. Ab-dicate
To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
23. Explanibriation
To attempt an explanation while drunk.
24. Lymph
To walk with a lisp.
25. Flatulance
Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
26. Balderdash
A rapidly receding hairline.
27. Pokemon
A Rastafarian proctologist.
28. Oyster
Another word for a New Yorker, easily identified because he sprinkles his conversation with Yiddish-isms (nu?).
29. Husbian:
The masculine half of a lesbian couple.
30. Whiff:
Someone who constantly splits hairs by asking, “What if...”.
31. Swift:
Someone who smacks Whiffs.
32. Terrorgram:
Someone who terrorizes the English language with appallingly bad grammar. Like Dr Phil, who consistently says, “I feel badly about that...” Note to Dr. Phil: You wouldn’t say, “ I feel sadly,” or “I feel gladly,”, so you DON’T say, “I feel badly...”. You “feel bad” - and you should.

Gift Wrapping for Idiots

Wrap It Up!

Last week in Dan’s Papers was a very nice article suggesting how to create a wrapping zone in your home for gift wrapping.

First, find an area, it could be a room or a corner, that you can designate as your Wrapping Zone. I found a perfect spot. I cleared away the clutter and began getting organized.
“Mom, what are you doing with all my stuff?’
“I need this space, Jake, for wrapping Christmas presents.”
“But this is my study area. I need the laptop and my school stuff. Don’t you want me to get good grades for college?” he asked - like I’m gonna give up my Wrapping Zone for that...
“You know I’m really sick of this, ‘my children are my life crap’. You need to understand my needs. My gift wrapping skills are horrific. Gifts from me look like they were wrapped by KoKo the Gorilla. You’ll be leaving home next year, but I’ll still have to wrap gifts - ever think of that?”
“Oh, I see Mom, improving your gift wrapping skills so you can impress people with fancy paper and fluffy bows is more important than my educational needs?”
“I’m glad you understand, son.”
“No, Mom! I was kidding! How can you be so shallow?”
“Listen, all my friends bring beautifully wrapped gifts to all our social occasions. The paper is folded right, the bows match and a good wrap job increases the perceived value of a cheap gift by 32%.”
“Is that what you’re about now, Mom? Impressing people? When did you become a Martha Stewart wannabe?”
“I was born a Martha Stewart wannabe. I’ve lived my life looking like the top graduate of the Helen Keller School of Home Decorating. Tasteful gift wrapping is my first step on the long road of rehabilitation from ludicrous to lovely.”
“If I give up my space, is there a stop somewhere on this road where you stop buying everything that’s red? We have a red couch, red dishes, red bath towels, everything's red Mom. Are you going to buy anything in Martha Stewart colors? You know, those soothing muted tones....”
“Yes, there is a stop for that, Jake. It’s a little further down the road.”
“How far?”
“Somewhere around your thirtieth birthday I think.”
“Forget it. I’m keeping my study space.”

I had no choice but to adapt and overcome.
“Where are you going with the all the wrapping stuff, Mom?”
“I’m taking over the back seat of the car for wrapping.”
“Sounds good. What’s the lunch box and flashlight for?”
“Because I’m gonna be out there all day and all night, Jake. “
“It won’t work, Mom, I don’t feel guilty.”
“Do me a favor, son, keep an eye on the weather report. If I’m out there in the freezing cold too long, come and get me.”
“I’ll bring you a blanket and I still won’t feel guilty.”
“And bring some hot water in case the scissors freeze to my hands.”
“Creative, but it’s still not working.”
“Be sure to feed the cats, answer the phone and if it’s your grandmother, you have to talk to her for as long as she wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll bring you the phone, it’s cordless.”
“I’m really not trying to guilt trip you, son. I don’t expect anything for birthing your nine pound self. I don’t mind that the doctor had to use a crowbar. I don’t mind the years of watching mind numbing Disney videos followed by your Godzilla obsession. I don’t mind putting your needs ahead of mine everyday of my life until just now when I wanted a chance at wrapping a pretty present.”
“I’m glad you don’t mind, Mom, cause I don’t mind years of listening to you nearly sing on key, listening to you whine and yammer that I never talk to you, cutting my hair to save money, enduring your ability to get lost in a parking lot, watching you screw up phone numbers and check books constantly because of your dyslexia, oh, and you never got me a dog.”
“Geeeeezzzz...you are good at guilt tripping, Jake... I feel just terrible.....”
“I learned from the best. Close the door on your way out, Mom.”

When Christmas Shopping really meant something....

Flying Fingers vs. Frozen Feet

Well, it’s official, I did all of my holiday shopping by internet this year and everything is being gift wrapped and sent straight from the source along with a printed gift card from me limited to 100 characters.

It’s wonderfully convenient to shop by internet. At the same time, I recognize the end of a era for me and one that my kids will never know... the Christmas (and Hanukah, relax...) shopping days at a big mall.

I recall when I was young, listening to my mother, grandmother and aunt coordinate what day were we going shopping. Next, came the car selection. My aunt had the most reliable car, my grandmother had the one with the biggest trunk and my mother had the one with the best heater. Biggest trunk usually won out. We all brought blankets and piled into my grandmother’s old Buick. The heater had broken years earlier and my grandfather, who courted my grandmother on a horse drawn buckboard, saw a car heater as an unnecessary luxury. The back seat of the Buick was huge and my mother and aunt discussed building a small fire there for warmth. But the idea was vetoed because the ring of stones would surely shift while Grammie drove. So we toughed it out.

The goal was to get there early in the morning, if you could hear the mall music from your parking spot, you did well. But my aunt was (and is) notoriously late, so we always parked within sight of the mall. In that day, women never left the house in slacks, we were all in dresses. As a kid I got to wear leggings under my skirt, but my Mom, Aunt and Gram had to endure the cold with only nylons to keep their legs warm. Gram had a sealskin coat, but she was still frozen by the time we got to the front door of the nearest store.

The mall music blared with seasonal standards, we, and everyone around us, would softly sing along. It was crowded. Our coats were now a heavy encumbrance. We waded through people who were wading through us. We shopped for hours and piled our cart high. We waited in long, long lines for checkout. Everyone in line struggled to maintain a good attitude despite tired feet and crying kids.

After the shopping we schlepped all our big, colorful, bags to any place in the mall where we could sit and have hot chocolate, a final warm-up before we braved the cold again. My Mom, Gram and Aunt would try to remember exactly where we had entered the mall and try to figure out if there was an exit closer to the car. Global warming was nowhere in sight then. Winter was freezing cold everyday from mid November till March and that was that. The post-shopping walk, tired and package laden, was a real killer with icy winds whipping up your skirt, like getting goosed with freezing fingers. It was not unusual for my Grandmother to carry a flask of Baileys and add a shot to everyone’s hot chocolate (except mine, I was still under 13) as a bracer to the cold. Today, that would be outrageous, but it was not an issue at all when I was young. People had a shot to warm them up. They didn’t get drunk and they weren’t alcoholics. It was even the custom on our street to leave a shot in the mailbox on Christmas Eve for our mailman, Mr. Brady. Poor Mr. Brady. He was probably crocked by the time he got home, but I guarantee he wasn’t cold...

After we got home and hid everything in Grammies attic. My grandfather, who liked to cook, would have some hearty soup and Irish soda bread ready for us. He made hot buttered rum and smell of it was sweet and comforting. Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole records were stacked and playing on the stereo while we ate hot soup and reveled in our gift choices.

My grandfather grilled my grandmother on how much she had spent. Grammie was able to show him the sale prices marked in red on each tag. My aunt and I used different red pens to carefully mark down all those tags on the ride home... I knew I was growing up when I was trusted to maintain a poker face when Pop looked at the price tags.

Holiday shopping together is a bonding event for women. Like men who hunt together. There is something about braving overwhelming odds and surviving that unites people.

Here’s to all our Moms with frozen legs and feet, bad mall music, and hot chocolate with Baileys!

Sounds of the Season...

Things you hear at Christmas time...


“WHERE ARE THE DECORATIONS?”

“We had Christmas with your family last year, this year is my families turn.”

“Why are toys so expensive? I never got this much!”

“Why should I spend $80 for a toy? They’re just gonna climb in the box and play in it all day.”

“I just can’t send cards to everyone anymore. Between the cards and stamps, sheesh...I’m just gonna send to family and our closest friends.”

“Why do they always put the gorgeous paper that I want next to the only blah paper that I can afford?”

“We’ve got to clean this house...and you’re all helping! STOP! Don’t run for that door! Get back here you cowards! Get back in here all of you! George! Get out of the car! You get those kids back in here!”

“Hi Mom, it’s me. The coast is clear. I asked for help cleaning the house, George and the kids disappeared...seventeen seconds...I think it’s a new record. You and Dad can bring over the presents now. I got wrapping and bows, can you bring tape?”

“No, there is no acceptable Rap version of White Christmas. Put down the Bing Crosby record and move away from the stereo...”

“Who erased the Charlie Brown Christmas from the Tivo? It’s not stupid. It’s traditional. That’s right, you watched it when you were two and you’ll watch it again when I’m ready and you’ll like it.... Because it puts Mom and me in the Christmas spirit, that’s why. Fifteen is not too old to watch it, neither is fifty. ”

“Brad, since your car can find the liquor store with or without you driving, will you get me some rum on your next trip? Huh? For rum balls and fruitcake. Okay, then get two bottles. No, we’re not going to drink a bottle of Captain Morgan. We’re not playing pirate and slave girl on Christmas Eve. No, I don’t care if you put a bow on it, the answer is no..... I know, but that was when we were young and childless. If we do that in front of the fireplace now we’ll scare off the reindeer and your back will be out for a week.”

“Regifting is only for those who can keep track of who gave them the gift in the first place, Karen. You don’t want to give somebody the same gift they gave you. Well, think... who would give you a cookbook? ...Of course Mom. Right, so you can’t give that to her for Christmas. No...I don’t think the black nightgown that Benny gave you would work for Mom. Husbands freak if they see their Mother-in-laws in sexy nightgowns. Better put her on the list of people who are getting new gifts this year.”

“Joe, tell your brother to stop teaching the kids to stuff minimarshmellows up their nose. Why? Because he’s YOUR brother! My family doesn’t do that...we should go to my Mothers this year.”

“Because it’s an Island tradition to go to the tree lighting....it’s not lame... when you’re grown, you’ll remember it fondly. Well, there’s a few people who sing in tune, but that’s not the point. The point is that everyone sings. You won’t be embarrassed. Just sing out. The angels will rearrange the notes on the way up. By the time the carol reaches heaven, it’ll be beautiful. Yes. I do have an answer for everything. Now put on your coat and get in the car. You can get a head start on complaining about the cold.”

007 License to Kill Okay, what is 006 then?

The new Bond movie has a new, very hunky Bond and the benefit of special effects. I’m kinda glad. I know Bond is the quintessential misogynist, egocentric, irascible bad boy with a good heart. If he were an actual person in real life, his inability to emotionally connect, commit, or even reliably participate in your life would make you cut the brake lines on his speedy car yourself. Still, there’s a strange existential appeal to a person who lives by their rules and never gets caught. I think that’s why men and women love Bond. For men, it’s the guy they wish they could be. For the women, it’s the one we can’t tame, but it sure is fun to try.

But what about the other “double o’s”? What levels come before 007? Do you have to go through each level like getting a Black Belt?

001 - License to Nag: 001 allows you to nag in any fashion you can create. You might ask the same question over and over in different forms. There’s so many ways to nag, it only takes a little imagination. Nagging allows you to follow people through the house restating your opinions over and over until they capitulate. It takes focus and perseverance to wear the enemy down. In time, they will do anything you ask if you just shut up! Then, they are putty in your hands.

002 - License to Yell Real Loud: 002 seems to work better for men than women. Men have that nice deep voice that can be heard through slammed bathroom doors. A loud yeller can be very intimidating. It makes the victim think they might go over the deep end at any time.

003 - License to Silence: More intimidating than yelling, the silent treatment. As a 003, you can refuse to speak to people for days while giving them hateful looks. Very effective. If you don’t talk, they don’t know what you’re thinking... are you planning to make cookies or torch the house?

004 - License to Smack: This is the first level where you get to hit people. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a stinging slap. As a 004, you can administer one head twisting smack, or smack back and forth till you see teeth fly, it’s really up to you. What a pleasure to slap people who really need it; like people who cut lines, people who are holding up the drive up banking line; shoppers who are still deciding at the checkout, which color blouse they want. You perform a real public service when you give this person a wake up smack.

005- License to Beat Senseless: The 005 level allows you to beat senseless anyone who is assigned to you for a beating or anyone you see who deserves one. When you see a Porsche park in a Handicapped space and an able bodied male pops out, you can beat him till he IS disabled enough to qualify for the space. When you get your order from a fast-food drive through and the order is wrong, if you go in and they argue with you, as a 005, you can beat them with their french fries basket until they remake your entire order and give it to you for free. Many people choose to stop at the 005 level because they get all the advantages of the 007 level in terms of coercing people, without having to qualify with all those weapons. What's the real advantage of being able to assemble a Baretta handgun, in the dark and underwater and having to kill the person, when a simple beating to within an inch of their life, will get the point across without having to stop what your doing for body disposal? Leave them alive so they can crawl away....

006 License to be Passive Aggressive: Far more powerful than nagging, being silent, smacking or beating people is being passive aggressive. Pouring bleach on someone’s clothes, slashing tires, leaving the seat up, erasing messages...all done anonymously of course. What better way to drive anyone nuts than to act out and not give the other person a clue about what they’ve done to irritate you, or an opportunity to work it out? When they blame other people for the action, you can foment their anger with encouraging gossip. Then sit back and enjoy the satisfaction of them decking an innocent party.

007 License to Kill. Everyone thinks this is the big deal level. But it’s really reserved for those who washed out of 006....

The New Old Fashioned Thanksgiving!

Kennebec Journal, Kennebec, ME 11/11/06
4 p.m., a Wilson Pond Road caller reported his mother’s neighbor, who he has a farm property line dispute with, was standing on his lawn with a rifle in his arms, making turkey noises.

“Joe! What are you doing on the lawn with a gun?”

“Just once Mary, I want to have the whole Thanksgiving experience. I want to hunt my own turkey, kill it myself, dress it and cook it. What’s the benefit of living in the country if you can’t have an authentic Thanksgiving once in awhile?”

“I don’t think sitting in a lawn chair with a gun and calling turkeys over from the neighbor’s farm qualifies as a hunting experience. And what do you mean, dress the turkey?”

“Dressing the meat... cut off the head, gut it, pull out the feathers, you know...”

“No, I don’t know and I’m not doing that when I can buy a Butterball at Fred’s Market.”

“It’s all part of the frontier experience, Mary, geez, have a little adventure. I make the kill, bring home the beast and you dress it. Division of labor.”

“If you insist on doing this, you dress it. I’ll cook it, but that’s it.”

“Right. You'll be too busy digging up potatoes and yams for the feast.”

“What potatoes and yams? We don’t have a garden.”

“And turnips. I love turnips.”

“How much of the Discovery Channel have you been watching, Joe? Where are all these crazy ideas coming from?”

“A man has to test himself. He has to know how to survive in the wild, Mary.”

“You wanna test yourself? You wanna survive in the wild? Get in the car, Joe.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s Wednesday morning, Joe. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I’ll show you danger that will make your heart race, thrills that will chill you to the bone, and endurance tests the likes of which you cannot imagine.”
(one half hour later, the parking lot of Fred’s Market)

“Joe...run... grab that last cart! Push that woman down if you have to!”

“I got it!”

“Run for the door, Joe!”

“Oh my gosh, Mary.. I drowning in a sea of people, where are you?”

“I’m here darling! Reach up, grab my hand! Pull me in!”

“Got cha!”

“Push the cart, Joe! Push through the throngs of people to the fresh turkey bins!”

“Hooray, we made it!”

“Reach in the bin, Joe, grab anything you can hold onto and yank it out. Once it’s in the cart, it’s ours!”

“I got one!”

“Onto the stuffing and cranberry sauce, follow me, Joe!”

“I don’t know if I can make it, Mary! You go on without me..”

“No, Joe! We’re in this together. All the way to the checkout line and beyond to the parking lot! Come on, me bucko!”

“Mary, oh Mary....I had no idea. I never appreciated you like I should have. I just want you to know that you’re the best wife....”

“No time for that now, Joe! We’ve got to get to the stuffing and the cranberry sauce. The potatoes are on the way to the Pumpkin pies. We can do it Joe, We can make it if we work together.”

“Not the Pumpkin pies, Mary. We’ll never make it to the Bakery section. Let’s be thankful for what we have and go for the checkout.”

“Chickening out on me Joe? Haven’t got the guts? Where’s the man I married? The man for faces turkeys alone in his yard armed only with a rifle and a lawn chair? Where’s that man?”

“He’s right here baby... with you all the way. Now where’s that Bakery?”

“That way Joe, see the sign?”

“I see it, sweet cheeks. You just get behind me and grab my belt.”

“Oh....Joe....”

“We’re here, Mary, reach out and grab the pies!”

“I got ‘em, Joe! I got two! Head for the checkout!”

“My heart is pounding, Mary. I feel so alive! It’s the thrill of the hunt. I knew I was born to it.”

“Now comes the hard part, Joe. We’re in line. We must survive for two hours while guarding everything in the basket. We can trade with the others for things we missed. I’ll throw my body over the basket, Joe. Watch my back.”

“I got you covered, darlin’, I brought my gun.”

“Oh Joe, you were right. There’s nothing like the thrill of the hunt together!”

Weight ...Wait a Minute...

“Judge ye not...”

If you’re thin, don’t bother reading this column, just keep turning the pages till you hit some wine tasting section because you’re not going to understand any of this. Today’s column is just for those of us who battle the bulge.

Okay, gang, here we are again. Facing the holidaze. We just spent a lot of money at IGA to give away candy and get the same candy back. How dumb are we?

Now, what to do with the candy? We can’t throw it out because that would be wasteful. But if we keep it, it will call to us all day ....”Stop vacuuming... come to me.. come to me.. .”. I can hear a Snickers bar call me through six feet of concrete. I mean, it’s just a minibar... three Weight Watcher points. How bad could it be? We begin to rationalize... “I could eat five minibars and still have enough points for a skinless chicken breast and a huge salad”.

Oscar Wilde said, “The best way to dissipate temptation is to give into it.” That logic works perfectly this time of year. My trick is to limit the temptation. Throw out the second tier candy now. We all know the first tier is all the chocolate candies, then there’s the second tier stuff, Sweet Tarts, DumDums, and such. We only eat that because we’re out of the other. So, toss out the second tier stuff as soon as you can. The first tier candies only last a week at most. That leaves two weeks of sensible eating before Thanksgiving strikes. If you don’t throw out the second tier candies now, the candy will last till Thanksgiving.

Do your best till Thanksgiving and then just relax and enjoy the day. Try to eat your Thanksgiving dinner with other heavy people instead of family members. That way you can eat in peace without your family monitoring every morsel you put on your plate. What kills the joy of a feast faster than a relative pointing out that you’d save 16 calories with butter sprinkles instead of butter? And don’t you love the way they say it - like you didn’t know that? It always puts us on the defensive, which moves them into attack mode. They launch into a lecture of whatever they did for four whole days that allowed them to shake off five pounds. Then they say the stupidest thing, “You know, five pounds to me is like fifty pounds to you.” That’s like equating a stolen kiss to a rape. Thin people are as cruel as they are clueless. We know the difference between five and fifty pounds, two pant sizes. Fat does not mean stupid.

Another plus of dining with other heavy people is you can have dessert without feeling eyes on you from all corners of the room. If you dine with relatives, you can only have one sliced of pie. It has to be pumpkin, because everyone knows that’s the lowest calorie pie and therefore you are allowed one criticism-free slice. Then you get to watch everyone else enjoy the pecan pie, fruitcake and rum balls. I have an Aunt I haven’t seen in years. I avoid her because she feels perfectly comfortable demanding to know my clothing sizes. She, who has always been thin, eats more in one sitting than I do in a whole day. That seems to be the case with most thin people. Just once, I’d love to sit on one of them and squash them, as a kind of perverted poetic justice. Well... it’s the thought that counts...

Do your level best between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then enjoy Christmas dinner guilt free if you can. Thin people usually give us a break on Christmas day, but only if they get to say, “Don’t worry, you can start dieting after New Year’s.” So we take the one day pass and surprisingly to those who watch us, we don’t really eat more than anyone else does. It just stays on us longer and piles up. My goal isn’t to lose any weight over the holidaze, my goal is not to gain more. If I can just hold the line till January, I will consider it a successful holiday.

So, my dear fellow weebles (weebles wobble but we don’t fall down), do your best and don’t feel bad if you have to body slam a skinny person now and then. It provides us an emotional release and might keep us from emotional eating - which is what the skinnies warn us against anyway...

Man Laws

Man Laws for the Holidaze

There’s a funny commercial series running now featuring Burt Reynolds and other men sitting around a table creating “Manlaws”, like “no fruit slices in beer”. I write a lot of columns from the women’s perspective, but I know men have a perspective too, however incorrect and misguided. I consulted with a few of my brothers and got their opinions on some holiday issues that surface this time of year. I have removed the obscenities, corrected the grammar and I’ll share these Holiday Manlaws with you now.

If you want me to carve the pumpkin, you can’t supervise or criticize. Also, two teeth are the limit I will cut out for a pumpkin’s smile, live with it.

Don’t show me a picture from a magazine expect me to be able to carve a designer pumpkin that looks like the picture. I cannot carve the Mona Lisa into a pumpkin!

Don’t tell me to take the kids Trick or Treating and then tell me not to let them eat too much candy! They are collecting a sack of candy! They will have a Hersey’s hangover by morning.

Just get accept it now - mittens WILL be lost tonight! I can’t keep track of two goblins, a ballerina, a zombie, and eight mittens all at the same time!

It wasn’t my idea to schedule a football game on Thanksgiving Day. You’re right, it breaks up family time. You’re right it’s horrible background noise for those conversing in the other room after dinner. You’re right I should have enough interest in my family to turn off the TV. You’re right about everything, okay? Now can I watch the game?

They say, everyone is entitled to fifteen minutes of fame. Let me have fifteen minutes as Head of the Household. Let me stand at the head of the table and carve the turkey without one word from anyone as to how it should be done, how they do it, how it was done by their father. It’s a dead bird and I have a large knife, I think I can take him.

Don’t make low calorie gravy or anything suggested by the American Heart Assc as Thanksgiving substitutes. There are no calories or cholesterol in a Thanksgiving dinner.

Give me three days to digest my Thanksgiving meal before you start telling me your Christmas decoration plans and how easy it will be for me to add a new wing by Christmas.

If you buy a Christmas decoration that has to be mounted on the roof, you mount it. Don’t buy anything that can’t be mounted from halfway up a ladder or lower.

If you want me to untangle Christmas lights, you and the children must leave the house. Untangling lights is one of the oldest forms of torture dating back to the Middle Ages. It comes in right after a root canal with no anesthetic and terrible rash in a place that can’t be reached. I am not responsible for anything I say or throw while untangling Christmas lights.

Clear an area for a tree and practice the art of silence. A tree will appear in the designated spot soon. As soon as I have the money, time, energy and rope. Nagging clogs up the area of a man’s brain where the To Do list is.

I don’t care how long it takes. The tree has to be plum. If it’s not straight, it will drive me crazy. You can’t obscure it with bulbs and tinsel... I’ll know it’s not straight. Just get behind the tree and turn it the way I tell you till I’m happy. For all the stuff you do that drives me nuts, you owe me this....

Please don’t buy any toys that need assembly. If you buy a toy that needs assembly, look at the directions. If you can’t read Japanese, neither can I. If you bring home a wagon that needs assembly and the directions are in Japanese, but you got it anyway because it was ‘on sale’ and you assumed I can figure it out myself, stop and pick up a bottle of Henessey’s as well. I may or may not be able to put the wagon together, but at least I’ll pass out before I try to kill you.

I can’t say it, because I know how much you love being a martyr, but I do like it when you decorate the house. I do love all the little things you do for the holidaze, but you didn’t hear it from me.

Pregnant Again ? ? ?

Pregnant again?????

You really have to stop drinking... I recall the very first time I told my ex I was pregnant. He was thrilled. Then I told him I was pretty sure he was the father and he was even happier! (Hey, I'm a busy woman, okay?)

Holy Moly! Well, you just jumped off the career track for the next ten years. Welcome to Mommyland...here are the guidelines:

1. Husband has to sleep in the barn until the vasectomy heals.

2. If he insists you have a natural, drug free childbirth, agree. But only on the condition that he has a natural, drug free vascetomy...

3. The last book you read, is the last book you will read for years to come.

4. You will notice stollers and pregnant women everywhere.

5. With 2 babies in diapers, you will not know who you are, where you are, or what day it is till 2020. You will not remember when you last changed your underwear or when you last brushed your teeth.

6. Your life, as an educated, coherent, intelligent adult with something to contribute to the world is over. You will develop that secret lobe of the female brain, the Mommy lobe. You will know all the words to Wee Sing videos and all the songs to every Disney movie. Your exercise will be limited to fetching items for the kids, running to save things from being thrown in the toilet and speed packing diaper bags.

7. Pick a Soap Opera. Your days will be so repetitious that you will rely on a soap opera to help you keep track of what day it is, provide adult conversation sounds in the background so you don't lose your ability to converse and to remind you that sometime in the future, you will be able to wear clean clothes again, just like they do on TV.

8. Remember that most parenting books were written by men, who were never in the trenches! I refuse to listen to their advice because they have never experienced the unrelenting aggravation and fatigue that Mom's live with.

Truth be told, if those kids are alive when your hubby walks through the door at 5PM, you have done your job!
I was on my hands and knees at 6AM one morning fishing a Happy Meals toy out of the toilet when my daughter squeezed a big puff of baby powder in my face causing me to sneeze so hard I shot out my tampon and released a full bladder. Unless you have lived in the trenches of motherhood, don't think for one minute you can do this job better than me....

Parenting books make good wedges to level tippy table, good coffee coasters or kitchen trivits. If you want to use a parenting book for parenting purposes, attach it to a ruler first to create a nice flat paddle.

9. Welcome to fast food. You will have every fast food menu and prices memorized in no time.

10. Get ready to hear, "Oh, you're not working, you're just home with kids." over and over. Ask that person to babysit for you someday. Stay away from the house until they offer you enough money to come back.

11. But seriously.....my advice

Buy the Dr Spock baby book; a good warm humidifier/mister; stock up on nice second hand kideos, books, toys; stock up on pediatric tylenol, cold formulas, and vick vapor rub; buy a crockpot, a large lasagna pan, a compact food processor and LEAVE IT ON THE COUNTER, and lots of gallon size ziplock bags.

You will refer to the Dr Spock book a hundred times and it will save lots of worry. A crup cough comes suddenly and usually at night. Have a humidifier ready. Vicks vapor rub opens stuffy noses and tight chests quick and easy. Have tylenol ready for an earache.

Learn crockpot and casserole cooking. When you cook, make lots, always freeze some in gallon size ziplock bags and you'll always have something you can pull out of the freezer for dinner.

The food processor can turn leftovers into baby food, which can also be frozen....You don't need to pay 1.29 for a jar of creamed corn... you can puree it yourself in the processor for half price. Once you get in the habit of using a food processor, you will cut your food prep time and food costs in half.

Ziplock bags hold sets of toys, pack easily in a diaper bag.

To sterilize little toys that have been in little mouths, I used to put them in a ziplock with a 1/2 cup of bleach, fill with water, let sit a few minutes, drain, rinse off toys. Ziplock hold snacks, books & toys, 1 travel size powder and one clean diaper, or 2 dirty diapers.

Put stuffed animals in ziplocks, freeze for 24 hours to kill imbedded dust mites. (Do I know this mom stuff or what?)

Here is my famous, NO NEED TO PRECOOK the noodles lasagna recipe: Men love this.

Sally's Lasagna Time: 20 minutes prep to oven

1 box lasagna noodles
1 large tub ricotta
1 lb mozarella solid ball is far cheaper
4 oz parmesan cheese, solid block is far cheaper
4 oz romano cheesse, solid block to save $
1 lb fresh spinach (must be fresh)
1 lb whole mushrooms (must be fresh)
1 lb Italian sausage (optional)
1 large jar your favorite spagetti sauce
garlic powder

Use your food processor to slice mushrooms, set aside. Use processor to grate all dry cheeses together. (You will be amazed that this takes only seconds). Mix dry cheeses with ricotta in large bowl. Rinse spinach, cut off stems with scissors (because scissors are faster that a knife). Cut up and fry sausage. You're all done with prep.

Grease pan, put in thin layer of water, just enough to cover the bottom.

Arranges in layers:
1. Dry noodles down first
2. spinach and mushrooms using half your quantity
3, generous sprinkle garlic powder, some sausage pieces
4. cheese mixture, by the spoonful, using half your quantity
5. Pour sauce over all, using half your jar.
Repeat 1 thru 5.

Bake at 350 degrees UNCOVERED, one hour.

Let stand 1/2 hour after it comes out of oven.

The juices from the veggies get absorbed by the noodles. Letting it stand 1/2 hour after you pull it from the oven, lets the juices 'set' inside the noodles and you will never have hard chewwy lasagna noodles.

This is all the good advice I can give you. Find a friend to come and visit you when you have forgotten all words longer than two syllables. A true friend, so that you don't have to clean the house or find a clean shirt, just rake a path and clean a spot on the table.

your pal, Sal

Football Season & Homicide

Football Season and the Art of Home Management

Football season has officially begun. Thousands of men across the country have stood in front of their significant others and said, “Football season has begun. Before we get near the Playoffs, is there anything you want moved, discussed or painted? Speak now, or shut up till after the Superbowl.”

Women lament being football widows, yet, it can work to our great advantage if we simply abandon being sensitive and caring. Those emotions just hold us back anyway.

Things to do while he watches the game.

1. Get a new hairdo. Anything you want. He’s not going to notice till mid January 07.
2. Redo the bedroom. New carpet, new bedroom set. He’s sleeping in his lazyboy on the weekends and too tired to notice anything new during the week. By the time he notices the new furniture, it will have some wear on it and you can fall back on our old reliable line, “That’s not new. We’ve always had this. I just moved it / cleaned it / painted it / rearranged it.”
3. I don’t endorse having extramarital affairs, but if you must, do it during football season and end it during the playoffs. It will give him a feeling of relief to hear you say, “Okay, if you’re going to watch the game, I’m going to blah, blah, and blah.” And you can actually say “blah, blah and blah” because after they hear “Okay, if you’re going to watch the game..” the rest is a blur to them. They’re just relieved that you won’t be in the house prattling in the background while the game is on.
4. Experiment with new recipes the YOU like! He’s fine living on nachos and beer for the next four months. Buy that bright red Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer! He won’t see it. He’s just going to and from the fridge.
5. You can redecorate any room and in Spring, when he notices the changes, he won’t say anything because he’s not sure exactly what has changed and if he asks you, “What’s different?” he knows he’ll hear, “I put those curtains up six months ago, and you’re just seeing them now? You never notice anything I do to make this house look nice! I don’t know why I even try, blah, blah, blah....” . Then he feels like a fool. Not because he didn’t notice your improvements, but because he knows better than to open his mouth and admit it.
6. Try to plan your pregnancies so that you’re not due during football season. It’s so hard to drive yourself to the hospital while you’re in labor. It’s so embarrassing when no one visits but your Mom and girlfriends. And then, after the Superbowl, you always have to explain to him where this new baby came from. I have a friend whose was in labor/giving birth DURING the Superbowl. Her husband and father rotated between the delivery room and the visitor’s lounge, updating each other constantly on the respective events which they regarded as equally important.
7. Women who aren’t used to being football widows consistently made a critical mistake that jeopardizes their lives. Never, under any circumstances, ever, not even to announce a tornado about to hit the house, stand in front of the TV during a game and say, “We need to talk...”. He’ll be instantly enraged and not hear anything you say. He’ll agree to anything to get you to move. However, the agreement won’t stick because it was made under duress. Standing in front of the TV during a game is the worst thing you can do in a relationship. The female equivalent would be your husband getting drunk in front of your family at Thanksgiving Dinner and exposing himself to your mother, it’s that bad...
9. I always used football season to covertly change his wardrobe. New socks would creep in and old favorites would disappear. I’d buy my hubby underwear in the correct size. Men think they can wear size 36 for as long as they can stretch the waistband to fit them. Their theory is, they aren’t overweight if they can wear size 36 underwear. One season, my hubby went from size 36 to size 40 underwear... Threadbare flannel shirts evaporated and his flower power jeans from 1968 too. The trick is, not to clean the closet. Just pull out the old stuff and jam in the new things. That way, the new stuff absorbs the old smells and makes the transition easier.

So just remember, football season equals abandonment to a woman in love and control to woman in her right mind.

Mosquito Ace

Is it my imagination, or are there more mosquitoes now than last summer? Despite all my best efforts, I seem to have six bites going at any given time.

Don’t you hate it when you’re in bed, all comfy in that drowsy, just about to fall asleep mode, when all of a sudden you hear the unmistakable high pitched buzz of a mosquito zooming by your ear?

I don’t care how drowsy, comfy, or sanguine you are, nothing will break your reverie faster than knowing that a mosquito is just waiting for you to fall asleep so they can have dinner - and you are the menu. They might start with your arm for an appetizer, moving to your legs for the main course, and top off their repast with your face. I can’t speak for others, but when I hear that zizzy sound, I fling the covers off, flip on the light and the battle is ON!

Mosquitoes have been around far longer than people. If there’s any credence to Carl Yung’s race memory theory, then mosquitoes have millions of years of predatory race memory built into their tiny brains. Whereas, we have only a few hundred thousand years of practice outwitting them, so the advantage is theirs.

Sitting in bed, I wait for one to fly by. They have a slow screwball pattern and yet, when I clap my hands through the air, I miss them. It always surprises me, they aren’t flying that fast, I should be able to catch them in flight, but I never do. And for reasons unknown, a fly swatter, which works great on flies who certainly fly faster than mosquitoes, can’t seem to get them either.

I figured out that their millions of years of experience has given them a sixth sense about things coming at them at a rapid rate of speed. Of course a mosquito being hit by a human hand must equate to us being hit by a building, there’s a good chance we’d see a building coming at us. We have to assume that their visual acuity is at least as great as our own. If I can see a building coming, they can see a hand and that’s why they can get out of the way so fast.

So, since they know what a human hand looks like, I’d have to come up with a new strategy. I had a small white rectangular scarf box about 10 inches long, on my bed one night leaning against the white wall. I’d heard the zizzy sound and was up and on patrol. As I glanced over at the wall, I saw her land up high up in the corner. I knew from experience than she’d fly a little closer and a little closer as she snuck up on me (I am so on their game).

As she got to the point where she was just past arms length and hence still in her safety zone, she landed. Landed because she thought she was safe. Landed so she could stand there on the wall and laugh at me. She was waiting. Waiting and choosing which part of me looked most succulent tonight. Slowly, I wrapped my hand around the box, all the while watching the TV and tracking her in my peripheral vision. The white box was camouflaged against the white wall. A box looks nothing like a hand or a fly swatter. This was an object not familiar to her. People never grab boxes to swat mosquitoes, she wouldn’t know that I could reach into her safety zone with this box, the advantage was mine.....

She lifted up and landed about an inch closer. The tension was incredible...predator versus prey....I saw her rub her front legs together, the way they do when they’ve made their decision and visualized a little landing zone on an exposed piece of your flesh, and BAM! She was all over the wall! Just a red smear with broken black fibers! AHHHH VICTORY IS MINE!

That box stays on my bed now. I’ve killed seventeen mosquitoes on my bedroom wall so far. I know because I’ve left all the smears there. Just like a pilot marking off kills on the side of his plane, I leave the smears and smudges there, in testament to my skill and determination. The smears could serve as a warning, if the newcomers cared to pay attention.

But that’s the problem being a Mosquito Ace, there’s a always another mosquito coming along. One who thinks she faster than me. Another one who just has to try, another one who just has to die....