Sex in the Men's Room

No Moon for the Misbegotten

I’m so happy I could burst. Thanks to Senator Craig, I now know that there is free, anonymous sex available in bathrooms through the land! You just have to memorize the signals in the right progressive order. I am all over this...

“Sally, what are you doing in here? This is the Men’s Room.”
“Hey, Joe, I’m here for the anonymous sex. I know the signals, I’m tapping my foot, see?”
“This is Shelter Island, Sally, we all know you. You can’t have anonymous sex here. As a matter of fact, it’s going to be all over the Island that you were in the Men’s Room.”
“But I already cleaned out and decorated a nice stall, look.”
“Okay, it’s nice that you painted the inside of the stall to cover the graffiti, but the pink isn’t going to work.”
“And the toilet seat, see, new.”
“A lucite toilet seat with sea shells in it, very nice. But really, I think you’re missing the point. You don’t want anonymous sex with some stranger.”
“Of course not. I thought, if I could just get a man in here, I could throw the latch and maybe we could talk a little, I have some wine chilling in the bowl in a big ziplock bag, you know, just to keep it sanitary. Then, if things go well, I could fix a little dinner by the sink. We could sit by the window over looking the parking lot and watch who leaves with whom.”
“Very thoughtful. But the bathroom sex thing, it’s gay sex.”
“Well sure, almost any kind of sex makes you happy!”
“No, the other gay.”
“Can’t homosexual people use the word homosexual? I want gay to mean gay again, I get confused otherwise.”
“Well, you’re the only one. Now what’s this out here by the window?”
“I told you, I could make a little dinner. I set up these folding chair and this little table. Nice fabric tablecloth, matching napkins. Simple, but nice. And look, I covered all the urinals with the same fabric, looks like a row of canopies. Gives the place a little cafe atmosphere, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but what if a man comes in and wants to use the urinal?”
“Oh, he can pee outside, you all do anyway.”
“That’s true. But I just think all this effort is not going to have the effect you want.”
“Oh yeah? Just watch, first, I get in my stall.”
“Sally, what’s this note on the outside of the door that reads, “Please look inside, are any of the $100 bills yours?”
“It’s bait.”
“It’s entrapment.”
“No it’s not, not unless I use the handcuffs and chain them to me.”
“So, it’s true then, it’s that bad out there for middle aged women?”
“Finding a available, straight, breathing man now? Like a finding a honest politician. But I have run across one possibility on Island. He’s handsome, pretty beat up, but still looks good in his wheelchair.”
“And that’s a catch?”
“Oh sure, it’s a great advantage to have a man in a wheelchair. If you hide his chair, he has to sit and listen to you plus, and at this age, and this is the biggie, he has a handicap parking sticker.”
“I understand. At my age, I’m happy if she looks good, but home cooking is a turn on. Plus conversation.”
“Ah yes, amazing isn’t it, it takes us all this long to realize what a treasure intelligent conversation is.”
“Well, there you go, Sal, you can offer intelligent conversation.”
“No, I’m too dense for that. I get them with linguini and lasagna.”
“But not in a bathroom.”
“Oh, all right... not in a bathroom. I guest I’ll pack up and leave.”
“I’ll help you carry this stuff out.”

The next day in the grocery store;
“And I saw Sally and Joe coming out of the Men’s Room together. I just think a hotel room would have been more romantic, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, but you know her. She’s always been a little odd.”
“No, nuts. She’s always been nuts. But Joe? Geez, I thought he had taste...”

Better Living Through Chemistry and Vicodan

The Trifecta of Pain

Three of my four brothers work in construction and like all construction guys, they minimize any injury and ailment to the point of the ridiculous. If a construction guy saws off his leg, he’ll throw it in the cooler, duct tape the stump, and keep working, that’s the expectation. I see it all over the Island, all the time. I don’t know if any of the workmen on Shelter Island know that duct taping a wad of insulation over a gash isn’t sanitary. They all have fractured fingers now and then and they all splint the broken finger by duct taping it to the next strongest finger. They don’t even go to the doctor for an xray anymore.
“Hey, Donnie, sawed off your leg?”
“Yeah. No biggie. I’ll swing by the doc’s after work. But I still got my knee, so I can finish the flooring before I leave.”

You can imagine my shock when one of my macho brothers started missing work because of crippling migraines. I knew they were crippling because nothing less would keep him from going to work. I suggested going to the doctor several times. But construction guys only see the doc for traumatic amputations and possibly if they missed with the nail gun and now cannot remove their hat or other articles of clothing. Pain is not discussed because they are impervious to pain. Pain is only felt by the weak. Pain is in the non-construction world. No mere headache pain could possibly be enough reason to see a physician!

Finally, after battling these migraines for about five months, he gave in and went to the doctor. Turns out, our systems change with age and for some people, certain foods and combinations thereof, trigger migraines. Who knew?
“So, how did it go at the doctor’s?” I asked.
He listed the top ten foods most likely to trigger a migraine and said, “I told the doc, of the top ten Avoid foods, I ate seven of them this weekend. And the doc just said, “Well, there’s your headache.” “.
I looked at the list and sure enough, everything he loves is on the list.

As the oldest and wisest sibling in my family, I should be mature and always lead by example. Kind words should waft from my lips like gently falling autumn leaves.

“What a moron! I can’t believe you ate all the foods that make a migraine! Especially the cheese, liverwurst, chocolate, you ate the trifecta of pain!”

“Thank you for the support.”

“Look at all the foods on this list! Coffee cake, sourdough bread, corned beef, beer, bacon, pickles.... you could open a restaurant with all this. We could call it, Migraine Cafe, or how about Chez Migraine?”

“Not funny.”

“Good evening, Mr. Flynn. I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to start with something to give you light sensitivity and mild nausea? We have some excellent specials this evening for three day pounders. We also have a dieter’s plate for just a half day headache.”

“You’re sadistic. If I wasn’t so mellowed from the pain shot, I’d get up and beat you.”

“And we have the Crippler’s Platter, our special; featuring bacon, sausage, hot dogs, smoked and aged cheeses, all kinds of nuts and super rich chocolates. Our chef developed this dish himself and says it will give you a migraine to remember and you won’t be able to go out in the sun for six months.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.

“Remember that time you blew pollen in my face on purpose and I had a terrible asthma attack? And you and laughed because I couldn’t even talk?”

“No.”

“How could not remember? You tried to kill me.”

“We were always trying to kill you. That was out job. We were the creepy little brothers.”

“Ah-hah! Not so funny now, eh, Mr. “Give Me Vicodan, or Give Me Death!” Not so funny to be in distress and have your siblings make it worse.“

“I was seven when I did that to you.”

“No excuse.”

“That was forty years ago!”

“Forty, schmorty! I’m ripping the blinds off your windows and taking my revenge!”

“Is this what you women call an ‘issue’? Can’t you dump this on some talk show somewhere and leave me alone? Can’t you see I’m in pain?”

“Ohhhhh, please, I’m just gettin' warmed up....”

I HATE School Concerts !

I hate school concerts. To me they are sheer torture, hours of it. Yet, if I didn't attend those horrible concerts, I'd be branded a bad parent.

Take our Shelter Island School Concerts, please. Each and every concert is four hours of indescribable sounds and is always an experience one never forgets. I have indelible memories of those concerts. I frequently sat near another parent named James, our kids were in the same grade.
“Sally, I can see the earplugs. Take them out. That’s cheating. We all have to listen to every note that is played or sung.”
“Please, I need them. Just for the second grade portion, then I promise to take them out.”
“No. There’s a tolerance curve involved here. Getting through the first graders makes the second graders sound better and the effect is progressive. If you skip a grade, then, when you do take the earplugs out, your brain will explode.”
“Alright. But don’t leave me.”
“We’re all here, Sally. This whole auditorium is filled with parents and grandparents, whose devotion I think is exceptional.”
“Oh, don’t let those grandparents fool you. They’re all turning off their hearing aids. Watch. See how they discreetly reach up like they’re scratching their ears? They aren’t kidding me.”
“What song are the third graders singing, James?”
“I can’t make it out. Just smile, damn you.”
“What key are they in?”
“All of them, now smile!”
“How long do I have to hold this smile, my cheeks are starting to hurt.”
“When you have to rest from smiling, look down slightly, and dab an imaginary tear from your eye. That’s allowed. Your kid will think you were so moved you cried.”
“That works?”
“Oh yeah. Works great. My kids think I’m the greatest Dad in the world.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with giving them money and spoiling them?”
“Nah. It’s the tear thing. They think you really love them if you cry when you watch them.”
“Well, I’m always crying by the end of these concerts.”
“Yeah, but Sally, it’s not the same. You run for the exit screaming, “Let me out! Please God, I’ll do anything.” It took four parents to stop you the last time and frankly we’re tired of it. If we have to stay, you have to stay. We don’t want to cause any psychological damage and have these kids appear on Jerry Springer complaining about us.”
“I bet Perlman parents don’t have to go through this.”
“Sure they do, but with speeches added on the front end.”
“Oh no, not speeches!”
“Yep. Be glad for what you have. Besides, someday, these kids will grow up, have kids of their own and they’ll have to sit in these very seats and go through this too.”
“Poetic justice.”
“And we’ll be the grandparents sitting behind all the parents.”
“With our hearing aids off.”
“And iPods in.”
“Listening to the Moody Blues.....I love it.”

Heat and Homicide 101

If You Can’t Take the Heat, Move to Alaska

It happens to all of us at one time. The power fails, the air conditioner goes out and somewhere in the back of our minds, we think, “How did people survive without air conditioning? What did they do?” When I was kid, we went swimming while our mothers parked in front of fans, or we all went to the movies to sit in a cool for two hours. But what did they do a hundred years ago?

I pondered this for a while. And then it hit me. Guns. Gun ownership was common and everyone had basic firearms knowledge and skill. My own grandparents who left Los Angeles after the big earthquake of 1932, crossed the United States in a Model T Ford (top speed 40 mph), with my six month old mother in a laundry basket, a cat named Heiny Wertzschitzel, a rifle, and a Colt .45. They shot and ate game along the way. Grammie carried the Colt when she had to improvise a privvy behind a tree.

Gram had to use it once, when she and a bull startled each other behind some sagebrush. Makes you really appreciate the advantage of indoor plumbing; you worry about kids barging in, but rarely livestock. I never complained about my kids disturbing me in the bathroom in front of my grandmother. Any woman who has shot at a bull from a squatting position cannot be beat in the bathroom complaint department.

July 12, 1876

In a courtroom, somewhere on the American Frontier

“Mrs. O’Malley, will you please tell the court why you shot your husband in the leg?”
“Yes, yer Lordship. Well, sir, it was Tuesday, me candle and soap makin’ day. Hot enough to make Hell seem cool, it was. There I was yer Honor, bent over the tub dipping candles, halfway done I was, when Himself comes up behind me and tries to exercise his due, if you take my meanin’”
“Yes, Mrs. O’Malley, the court understands. But why was it necessary to shoot him?”
“Well, he’s a very insistent man, he is.”
“Wouldn’t a simple “no” suffice, Madame?”
“I gave him a simple “no” yer Lordship and he stopped.”
“Well then WHY did you shoot the man?”
“He doesn’t like the “no” yer Honor, sir. And to spite me, he brought down a whole line of washin’. Down into the dirt. Half days work, lying in the dirt and sun. I was already half crazy from the heat. Then he looked over at the rope where me finished candles hung... I knew what he was thinkin’ so I thought I’d better give him somethin’ else to consider. And that’s when I shot him.”
“Mrs. O’Malley, this is the third summer you’ve shot your husband. Don’t you ever worry that you’ll miss him?”
“Never, yer Honor. I’m a good shot. I take care to aim low and I haven’t missed him once.”
“We are frustrated with you, Madame. Every summer you shoot your husband and every summer we send you to jail. Your sentence will be three weeks this time since your husband wants to drop the charges and is begging for any early release, something about not wanting to be alone with your eight children.”
“Couldn’t you sentence me to a full month, yer Lordship? 30 days is a nice round number. I’m sure I deserve it.”
“Now, why would you want to be in jail another whole week?”
“Well, yer Honor, Maureen Murphy started her sentence last week for winging her Joe, and tomorrow you’ll be trying Kathleen O’Doud. She’s hoping to get at least three weeks in jail, but I told her not to get her hopes up, it’s only her first shot at her man and you can’t get much for a grazin’. Anyway, we’d all like to have some time together to finish a wedding quilt for Moira Kinney, she’s to wed Henry McGill in the fall. So you see, yer Honor, you’d be doing something lovely for them.”
“I suppose she’ll be before me next summer for shooting at her husband.”
“No, Sir, we’re not giving Moira a gun for her shower, or as a wedding gift.”
“Oh, pray tell, why not Mrs. O’Malley?”
“She’s not like the rest of us, yer Honor. She’s a got bad temper. We’re all worried about how she’ll be in the heat when she’s got a husband and young ones tuggin’ at her.”
“SHE has a bad temper? Thank you, Mrs. O’Malley. Thank you for helping me decide to accept a position in Maine.”
“Not a’tall, yer Honor, not a’tall.”

God Bless America!

What a Difference a Date Makes..

Many of the Fourth of July fireworks and celebrations have been scheduled for the weekend of the 7th and 8th of July, just like many St. Patrick’s Days parades were held the following weekend. This is annoying the hell out of me.

Here’s my beef. I can allow the observation of holidays like Washington or Lincoln’s birthdays to be attached to a weekend because there’s no specific activity linked to these holidays. But holidays that have activities attached to them are date specific, not time released and it is not okay with me to push their celebration to the closest weekend to insure that retailers make maximum sales.

For instance, the FOURTH of July should be observed on the FOURTH of July. Call me old fashioned, but whenever I think of the Fourth of July, I think of a day in July occurring between the 3rd and the 5th. I looked at my calendar closely and I see that there is not a second 4th in July, there’s just the one. Say what you will, St. Patrick’s Day parades do not feel the same on the 20th and Fourth of July fireworks do not feel the same on the 7th. I know these observances are moved to extend weekends and increase retail sales, but honestly, it detaches us from the soul of the day.

“When are you getting Joe from the airport, Betty?”
“On Tuesday.”
“Isn’t that Christmas Day? The airport will be hell.”
“Well, it is the 25th, but we’re observing it on Friday the 28th. Kwanzaa celebration starts the next day and goes through till New Years Day which will fall on the 4th of January the following Monday. It’s really smart and just easier to have the holidays line up to start on a Friday and go straight through till the whole week and end on a Monday.”
“But why not celebrate Christmas on the 25th?”
“Because you can’t tell where the 25th is going to fall from one year to the next and you don’t want your holidays starting in the middle of a week. This way, we all know the holidays will start on the last Friday of the year regardless of the calendar date. Besides, it’s the spirit of the thing that counts.”
“It’s the spirit of the thing I’m talking about. Christmas won’t feel the same on the 28th.”
“Sure it will. A day is just a day. It’s just numbers on the Gregorian calendar. You know that the years and months were adjusted by Pope Gregory and Pope Leo centuries before him. No one know what day Jesus was born. Experts say it was probably in October.”
“But the 25th is traditional.”
“Traditions change. There is a first time for all things. Like the Fourth of July, it gets celebrated on the first Saturday following the 4th now, with the following Monday off and everybody likes it. You’ll get used to the new tradition. The super sales start the weekend before, perfect for shopping.”
“I don’t like it. It’s just not right. I want “the night before Christmas when all through the house” to be on the 24th. I want Christmas morning on Christmas morning and I want fireworks for the Fourth of July to occur on the day of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, which we can prove was on the Fourth of July because they all signed and dated the document.”
“That’s what the signers claim, but was it notarized? Don’t you think a document important enough to start a country should have been notarized?”
“No. I don’t even think they had notaries then.”
“See? No legal validation for the Fourth of July at all. No reason we can’t move it where we want on the calendar.”
“This whole thing feels like a pine cone in my pants. No matter how I shift, I just can’t get comfortable.”
“Here drink this eggnog. The liquor store had a great Christmas sale on rum and this is delicious.”
“I’m not sure if inebriation will solve this dilemma, Betty.”
“Nonsense! Inebriation will definitely solve this. Just stay plastered until New Year’s Day and you won’t feel a thing.”
“Maybe I should just stay drunk till Valentine’s Day on the 14th of February?”
“Actually, we’re observing that on Friday the 16th.”

Women in the Army, Mother and Daughter

How You Gonna Keep ‘Em Down On The Farm?

My daughter, Chenoa, recently completed a hitch in the Army and is home from Georgia for the summer while she plans her next big adventure. From what I can see, she left the Army with two things. First, an annoying southern accent. I’m not too worried about that because with a little nonstop nagging, I can convert her back to her native tongue, an annoying New York accent, so that’s covered. The other thing she brought home is a boatload of wisdom she is sharing with me.

“Mom, a good work ethic is really important. You have to show up on time, identify the mission and keep a good attitude.”
“Really? I never thought of that.”
“And know your responsibilities.”
“Be responsible? Wait, this is getting good. Let me get a pencil, I gotta write this down.”
“Speak clearly to the people you work with. Don’t be afraid to exercise your vocabulary and articulate precisely what you want to say.”
“Vocabulary, speak clearly, get exercise, got it. What else did the Army teach you?”
“Organization helps a lot, Mom. Organize your home and work environment to serve the mission. Decide where things should live and return them to that spot when you’re done using them.”
“Ah, sort of like when I’d always yell at you to, “put it back where you found it”. “
“I’ll show you how to organize a closet, Mom. Similar things go together.”
“Like in my closet?”
“Yeah, now that I think if it.”
“Be patient with people. That’s very important. Not everybody comprehends or works at the same speed.”
“Oh yes, the importance of being patient, like if you were raising a rebellious teenage daughter?”
“Yes, but you didn’t have that. I wasn’t rebellious. Mom? Mom! Are you all right? Let me help you get up in the chair. Why are you grabbing your chest? Do you want me to call 911?”
“No, I’m okay. I just thought I heard you say you weren’t rebellious. I flashed on the time you ran away from home for a month when you were 16.”
“Oh, that. That’s ancient history. It wasn’t like I was an ongoing problem child. What are you doing now? Why are you wedging that knife between the counter tops? You’re not a Roman General, Mother, you don’t need to fall on your steak knife, I get the point. So, maybe I had a few problems with authority. I think I’m over it now. Besides, while I was in the Army, you really seem to have grown as a human being. You’re so different now from when I was a teenager.”
“In a good way I hope?”
“Yeah, very good. For one thing, you’re funny and interesting to talk to. It’s like your personality bloomed while I was away.”
“Right. I really didn’t have any personality before. This is all new, I just got it. I bought a “21 Days to a New You” personality course from late night TV and completed it just before you got home.”
“Well didn’t the Army teach YOU anything when you were in?”
“Not much really, just responsibility, work ethic, focus, organization, patience and such. Things I tried to pass along to my children.”
“You see that, Mom, the Army taught us both a lot. We have more in common now.”
“Yep. Whoda thunk it?”

"Awareness" Ribbons - I'm confused!

Tie a ribbon around this...

I don’t know if it’s a function of increasing age, peri-menopause or the ebbing of my ‘cool’ factor, but I’m losing track of my Ribbon Identity Publicly Officially For Factor, a.k.a., RIP OFF.

When Tony Orlando and Dawn had that hit in the 70’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree”, we all started tying yellow ribbons around trees, oak and non-oak for soldiers returning from Viet Nam. Gradually, everybody was tying yellow ribbons around trees everywhere to signal they missed someone. It was very sweet , politically correct and cool all at the same time.

At some point, somebody decided to make the statement portable by making a small yellow ribbon into a pin you could wear to make everyone who saw you aware that you were waiting for someone. It was always a conversation starter.

Then, I think it was Breast Cancer that joined in next and we all had to wear pink ribbons to remember our breasts, and to remember every October, to bring them to a place with squash pans to have them compressed into discs. So, now we were wearing yellow ribbons for returning loved ones and pink ribbons for our boobs. I was still okay with it and even bought the pen that Avon sold with a pink ribbon on the clasp for $4.99.

The ribbons have evolved into metal enamel jewelry pins. There are yellow pins, pink, lavender, rainbow, stars and stripes, white, purple, dark blue, light blue, jigsaw pieces, and I’ve forgotten the other colors and patterns I’ve seen.

I feel lost because I have completely lost track of what all the colors mean after yellow and pink. I know I’m the only one. It’s worrying me because now there are big magnetic ribbons on the backs of cars and I have no idea what they support. Sometimes I’d like to ask, but when I’ve done that in the past, I’ve gotten much more information than I want. And you can’t shut someone up by taking the big magnetic ribbon off the back of their car and smacking them across the face with it a few times, saying, “I just wanted to know the time, not how the clock works,” it’s considered by some to be rude.

So I’m going to create a plaid ribbon with every color I can imagine represented. That way we can all just wear a plaid ribbon to signify that some problem somewhere is bothering us enough to think that wearing a plaid enamel ribbon pin will help the situation. I’m going to call it the “One for all and all for one” plaid ribbon special. This pin will cover all causes except for the sea foam green pin that will represent Shelter Island and our own local causes.

So, just plaid and sea foam green ribbons from now on. Okay, and maybe a red ribbon pin. I don’t think any group has claimed the color red, and that’s my favorite color, so that ribbon will be just for me. If you wear a red ribbon, that means you’re on my team. Oh, and what about turquoise, such a lovely color....

Life on Shelter Island

“I had one like that, but I left it at the goody pile.”

Summer is in full swing. The tourists are touring, the bicyclists are blocking traffic, all the cars are being locked in the IGA parking lot. Locals never lock our cars here. It’s a little faith test we go through. If we lock our cars, it means we don’t trust our neighbors and that makes us like the rest of New York, so we don’t lock as a matter of principle. It’s a moot point for me since my van now has one window that is all the way up and won’t go down and the other window is all the way down and won’t go up. I never worry about it. I figure, anyone who steals a seventeen year old minivan stocked with beach shells, old Happy Meal toys and towels, has very low self esteem or is severely mentally challenged. I’ll have to get a newer car soon, but for now, Buttercup (all my cars have names) has to get me through this Summer at least. I never really notice how old she is until I park someplace that’s loaded with newer cars.

Last week, Buttercup and I went to the elegant Pridwin and had a delicious lunch of fresh sea bass. I had been invited to speak at the Women’s Community Club of Shelter Island annual luncheon. An amazing group of women with excellent taste and judgment but for their choice of me as a speaker. One of the ladies, whose name escapes me, talked to me about the fact that the newer residents (summer and year round) need to get more involved in this community by joining groups like this one, or maybe our wonderful League of Women’s Voters, or any one of the groups that are here “on Island” , to speak in the lvenacular.

She’s was so right. What makes a community is exposure to each other, to our lives, problems, goals and such. The trick is to know how much of yourself you can expose without going over the legal, or lethal limit. So I came up with a few guidelines to follow. Consider these when you are joining an Island group and they ask that innocent sounding, but deadly question, “Tell us a little about yourself?” The key word is ‘little’. Say as little as you can.

1] Anything you did under the age of 18 that is not Honor Society related, or has to do with rescuing cats from trees, is under the legal limit for exposure, so don’t say anything.

2] On Shelter Island, and I mean ESPECIALLY on Shelter Island, you never slept with anyone but your spouse. Revelations here will not only be over the legal limit, but will be over the lethal limit as well.

3] Don’t expose any secrets. Anyone who has lived on Shelter Island more than six years has at least three secrets that they must take to the grave. And the number gets bigger every year you live here. I’m up to five secrets now and I’m thinking of purchasing a sixth from a friend who has a surplus. Everyone knows that secrets and rumors have a ripple effect when revealed. What’s different here is that anything you unleash, however fascinating and juicy, will always, eventually, ripple back around to you.

4] “I was just picking up a check for a charity.” Memorize this phrase if you’re going to live here. Every man and most of the women on this Island, can identify you by your car. You will be asked over and over, “I saw your car at (fill in the blank), what were you doing there?” Answer: “I was just picking up a check for a charity.” You won’t believe the number of times this will save your ass and your reputation.

5] “I had one like that, but I left it at the goody pile.” This is the other phrase you have to memorize. When you are asked, “Wasn’t that your jacket I saw wadded up on Joe and Susan’s boat? Isn’t she in Ohio visiting her mother?” When you are asked, “Was that your husband acting like an idiot at The Dory with those college girls?” Your answer to any potentially dangerous question is: “I had one like that, but I left it at the goody pile.” (The goody pile is a big table at our town dump where useful items are left for anyone to pick up.)

So, there it is. I hope new residents think of joining some of our terrific local groups and really allowing themselves to be knit into the fabric of the community. Just remember my guidelines and you should do well.

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!