Wednesday, December 31, 2014

The Word for 2015 is...

I have decided after much inner thought, people observation, and four glasses of red wine that the word for 2015 is going to be… BIG.

Why stay small when you can go BIG? 

BIG love.

BIG laughs.

BIG smiles.

BIG times. 

BIG hearts. 

BIG noise.

BIG truths. 

But definitely NOT big waste… and absolutely NOT big waist. 


If you’re struggling with how to make your dreams come true just focus on the BIG Picture and I guarantee suddenly the avenues to get there will be paved with gold and at the end you’ll find BIG success.  

There are many ways to make your life BIG.  You can start by watching the movies Big and Big Fish, and then listen to and sing along with Fleetwood Mac’s Big Love, Billy Joel’s Big Shot, Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, and Bette Midler’s Big Noise From Winnetka. You’ll be singing with a BIG voice before the second chorus. 

And to ensure BIG personal confidence all you ladies and fellas look at your naked selves in the mirror and say out loud and proud I HAVE BIG SEXY PARTS! 

It’s the mantra for the New Year!  

I HAVE BIG SEXY PARTS! Ooh yeah, BIG SEXY PARTS!  (repeat until you believe it)

Be sure to check out my new self-published self-help book called I Went From Big to Bigger to Biggest: A Personal Pursuit of Big.  It’s been endorsed by Dr. Phil. Dr. Oz, Dr. Kildare, Dr. Who, Dr. Quinn, and Oprah. 

So what are you waiting for?  Start now and keep it BIG in 2015! 

Sunday, December 21, 2014

A Christmas Letter From The Wellingtons

Dear Family and Friends,

Life in the Wellington house has been simply fabulous this year.  Me and Big John and our two beautiful children, Missy and Jack, are so grateful to God and our Credit Cards! 

Missy had her braces removed in August just in time for the start of her senior year of high school. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. She has suddenly become quite popular with all the boys, especially the football team. Those braces were well worth the price. A perfect smile is a gateway to popularity! 

Young Jack has emerged from those awkward shy preteen years without severe acne. Thank goodness for that!  There’s no need for ProActiv in this house.  I just wish there was ProActiv when I was in my teens. Oops, is that TMI… too much information? 

Jack’s turning into quite the young man. He spends hours in the bathroom every day.  He showers before school, after school, and before bed. So clean!  And in between showers he’s always locked in his bedroom studying.  I’m so happy we’re living in an era with an Internet full of great knowledge for young teen boys. I foresee straight As on his next report card!

Big John’s altruistic nature is to be admired.  He’s spent all year helping his new assistant Sheena move up the corporate ladder. She’s such a lovely young lady, and beautiful too. Those many late nights working overtime have certainly helped. Last week she got promoted to sales rep, and will be joining Big John on all his business trips. All I can say is, “Keep it up, Big John!” He’s such an inspiration!

As for me, Susie, well, I’ve decided to start a business with my good friend Madge. We were college roommates many years ago.  She’s now a retired golf pro. Our company is called Golf Girls, and it’s focus is promoting young women golfers.  Our motto is Let’s Tee Off Together!  It’s so good to have Madge so close to me again. 

As a special treat all the Wellingtons got FitBits this year.  We have a friendly family daily competition to see who can walk the most steps. I don’t want to brag but my early morning power walks are keeping me the winner. Madge keeps telling me my tushie is looking cushie! 

On Christmas Day we're hosting our annual holiday celebration.  Everyone’s invited so come join the fun, but don’t come too late or you’ll miss Big John. He’s leaving in the early evening for a business trip that just can’t wait. 

Happy Holidays! 

Peace and love and fa-la-la-la-la!!!

The Wellingtons… Susie, Big John, Missy, and Jack

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Humpty Dumpty Fell

She was a pleasant enough woman on first meeting. Her appearance was that of a Humpty Dumpty; round stout body with short arms that flapped without any direction, looking older than her actual years. 

The rumor was in dog years she was about 8 or 9. 

She talked the talk and never missed a beat. Smooth. Like satin.  

But that first impression had a slight crack in it. Something was amiss. Something not good. 

She sat perched against the wall in her office with her computer inches from her face.  

She typed all day.  Her stubby little fingers banged the keyboard loudly echoing in her bare, cold, unadorned, unfriendly office. 

Grunts. Guttural grunts. Not the least bit lady-like. 

Those near her said she farted often. 

So frugal and cheap she would re-use tissues over and over again.

Late one night her gall bladder decided to fight her. Hard angry gallstones. It caused her lots of pain she couldn’t release so she took it out on everyone around her. 

That slight crack traveled all around her Humpty Dumpty shell. Seeping through the crack was her one true self…

Mean. Angry. Hateful.

One sunny afternoon a fire engine siren was piercing the air.  She stepped down from her perch and stood in the window to watch it race by.  She loved the possibility of other people’s misery.

Then something happened…

The hateful Humpty Dumpty lady fell out the window. Was she pushed? Was she shoved? 

No one’s talking. 

She hit the sidewalk with a thud.  Scattered pieces everywhere.  

Passersby stepped over her broken-ness. 

We had a choice. We could pick her up and put her back together or…  
Then someone remembered the next day was street cleaning day.  

We decided to let the street sweeping truck do it. 

Sunday, December 07, 2014

The Woman in Apartment 6

I don’t socialize with neighbors. I believe in being friendly. If I see them around the building I say hello and sometimes follow it with short friendly chit-chat.

When I moved into my apartment I smiled to everyone, and I still do. Hello. Beautiful day!  How’s it going?  Everyone responds in kind. Well, almost everyone… 

One day shortly after I moved in I went to the mailbox. There was a woman, 40s, well-groomed, getting her mail. 

I said hello.  

She didn’t look at me or respond. 

I thought she didn’t hear me.  I said hello again, but this time a little louder.  

She didn’t look at me or respond.  

I thought she might be deaf so I waved my hand to get her attention. I smiled and said hello being sure to move my lips so she could read what I was saying. 

She didn’t look at me or respond.  Not a word. Not a grunt. Not a smile. 

I thought her behavior rude. 

A week later I happened to come out of my apartment to check my mail when I noticed her carrying grocery bags from the lobby into her apartment one bag at a time.  She went inside with one bag and left the others in the lobby.  I decided to see if she would speak when she came for the other bags.  I even thought I’d offer to help. 

I pretended to read my mail.  I waited and I waited and she never came out. If there was frozen food in any of the bags it would have melted.  As soon as I went back into my apartment I peeked out the door and there she was racing down the hall to get her groceries. 

She’s been living in the building over 20 years and she’s never been friendly to any of the neighbors. No one in the building knows her name. They all have similar stories of her lack of friendliness. 

She lives alone with her cat. Occasionally there’s a guy or two but they never last long. I’m sure they get offended by her unfriendliness. 

Just yesterday I was walking by her door as she was coming out. Our bodies almost touched as we passed each other.  I smiled to say hello but there was no eye contact. 

No word. No grunt. No smile. 

So sad. 

She’s the mean ‘ole bitch in Apartment 6. 

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

The Unhappy Toaster

There is nothing worse than having an unhappy kitchen appliance. 

Mine is my toaster.  And it’s my fault it’s unhappy. 

All my other kitchen appliances seem quite content with me these days. The blender. The Cuisinart. The coffee maker. The whole bean coffee grinder. 

I will admit I do have issues with my microwave. Every time I turn it on I feel a strange tingling down below, in my testicles. I’ve tried ignoring it but I just can’t. That tingling doesn’t tickle the testes the way I like my testes tickled. It’s somewhat alarming. 

I don’t want to alienate my microwave altogether so I use its timer as much as possible. Sometimes I set the timer without any specific reason. I think it’s very important to practice good appliance ownership, not showing favoritism to the appliances that bring the most joy, but loving them equally.

The other day I decided for lunch I wanted a Trader Joe’s Quinoa Cowboy Veggie Burger with Black Beans & Roasted Corn. With other brands of veggie burgers I toss them in the toaster and when they pop up I put them between slices of bread and have a mmm mmm good sandwich. 

For the Trader Joe’s Quinoa Cowboy Veggie Burger with Black Beans & Roasted Corn the toaster did cook it but in the process the burger crumbled. 

There was a faint odor of something burning, and when I looked inside the toaster I saw pieces of burger had fallen to the bottom of the toaster and other pieces had clung to the heating coils.

I had to lay the toaster on its side and slowly guide as many pieces out as I could. My poor toaster was choking on the pieces and couldn’t regurgitate all of it. Some pieces were too charred to be saved.

Dear Toaster… I could blame the Trader Joe’s Quinoa Cowboy Veggie Burger with Black Beans & Roasted Corn for being limp and weak and not as strong as a Boca Burger, but I won’t. I should have know better, and for that I am very sorry.

Tomorrow I promise to have tuna fish for lunch. 

Saturday, November 08, 2014

Tweeting Not Tweaking

I've been tweeting a lot lately. That's T-W-E-E-T-I-N-G not tweaking. There’s a difference. Did you know that?  I didn’t but now I do. 

On Twitter I’m @mc528.  

If you need a little persuasion to follow me and my witticisms-of-life I present to you some of my recent tweets:

I want to write a book and call it "The Secret Sex Lives of My Office Mates." I know many of their #secrets and I'm ready to tell the world.

#LawrenceWelk  reruns on a Saturday night. The gowns, The blow dried hair.  The songs. Total cheese. Total joy. Totally retro.

So many movies. So little time.  So many books. So little time. So many donuts... well... I find the time.

Does anyone remember the #DefrancoFamily 's "Heartbeat It's a Lovebeat"? Listening to it now. I have an urge to get up and gyrate.

I watch what I eat. I exercise. I walk miles.  But when I look in the mirror I frown. I'm guilty of looking at myself thru a jaundiced eye.

Listening to #BobbyVinton 's "Melody of Love."  I suddenly walk to #polka all night long. Care to join me?

It's time for me to find a new hobby.  I'm thinking #Thimble collecting.  They're small and easy to hide when friends come over.

I never saw an episode of #HoneyBooBoo . I'm not interested in being a voyeur to white trash living.

Internet Radio just played a #DonJohnson song called When You Only Loved Me.  Wow... a throwback to a time I'd rather forget.

Pride Greed Envy Anger Lust Gluttony Sloth... Yep, I'm guilty.

Every time I closed my eyes last night I kept seeing dolphins swimming in my sleep.  I woke up craving the ocean. Go figure.

Did #CrystalGayle ever cut her hair, or does it now trail a couple of miles behind her?

In honor of Native American Day I've been listening to #BuffySainteMarie - Pow Wow Rock!

I'm just a simple suburban boy with a dream. A big dream. A really big dream.

Follow me.
I’ll follow you. 

Friday, October 10, 2014

The Saga of Evelyn and Arnie

Evelyn had the body of a cheerleader when she got married. Everything about her was perky including her perfectly formed cupcake breasts. 

Arnie had tight abs, bodybuilder pecs and big biceps when he got married. He loved wearing a speedo and he wore it well. 

Together Evelyn and Arnie had beautiful nights together. They oohed and aahed in unison until the first signs of dawn. 

Neighbors listened through the walls and were jealous they never oohed and aahed as well as Evelyn and Arnie.  

In the morning Evelyn and Arnie went to work tired. 

As the years wore on Evelyn developed flabby thighs. Her belly was no longer cheerleader tight.  It had a donut appeal. Her perky cupcake breasts sagged and bounced aimlessly if she didn’t wear a bra. 

Arnie fared no better.  His tight abs gave way to a sagging sugar beer belly. A 32 inch waist was long gone. Elastic waist pants replaced the speedo. He needed a man-bra.

At night they slept soundly.

Then one day Evelyn received a gift certificate for being Employee of the Month. When she went to the store to redeem it she couldn’t find anything she wanted. 

As she was leaving the store she noticed a display for the Fitbit, the activity tracker that measures steps taken.  On an unexplained whim she bought two.  

For weeks the Fitbits stayed on the counter between take-out containers of eggplant parmesan and orange bacon chicken. 

One bright sunny Saturday they decided to open the Fitbits.  They gasped at the suggestion of 10,000 steps per day. But since they had them they decided to give them a one week trial. 

One week became two… then three… then four… 

They walked together. They walked alone. In rain. In snow. They walked.  
They walked to the farmers market and bought organic food.  

Evelyn’s thighs got thinner. Her belly less doughy. Her breasts stopped wandering aimlessly without a bra. 

Arnie’s sugar beer belly got less jiggy.  He stopped sporting elastic waist pants.  His man boobs got more manly. He secretly bought a speedo.  

The other night while watching “Modern Family” Arnie looked at Evelyn and she looked at him.  There was a spark, a familiar spark reminiscent of how they used to look at each other.  

Before “Modern Family” was over Arnie turned off the TV and took Evelyn’s hand. He led her upstairs. 

The next morning they went to work tired.

They now easily surpass 10,000 steps each per day, and on the weekends between many oohs and aahs they hit 16,000 steps each. 

For Evelyn and Arnie the Fitbit revitalized their marriage. 

Ooh.  Aah. 

Saturday, October 04, 2014

The Perfect Party Pistachio Cake

I love cake. 

I love ice cream.

I love a scoop of ice cream resting comfortably on a slice of cake as my utensil-of-choice gently slices through for a perfect ratio of cake to ice cream. I slowly bring it to the tip of my lips. I part my lips and savor the glory that is ice cream and cake. It’s a party in the mouth.

Mmm, mmm good…

Way back in the 70s my mother made a Pistachio Cake that was totally delicious.  It was a simple cake, and the recipe came from one of the popular women's magazines of the day.  I assume it was the 70s but it could easily have been from the late 60s.  Through the years whenever she made it I would, as a husky boy with a huskier appetite, devour piece after piece with the appropriate amount of vanilla ice cream. 

When I moved to California the Pistachio Cake became a fond memory, and truth be told, I never thought about making it myself.  I don’t know why. It just happened. 

After my mother died I was going through her recipes, all neatly typed on 3x5 index cards, and came across the Pistachio Cake recipe.  My fingers trembled at the thought of making it. In my hand was the secret recipe. I could feel the happy memories engulfing me. I even had a tear release itself from my eye. A tear of pistachio joy. 

In my snotty way I have considered myself a real good cook, a real good baker who only uses fresh ingredients and makes everything from scratch. In my kitchen the rule is no “package” ingredients whatsoever,  It would be like Picasso using a paint-by-numbers kit. 

Now I make one tiny exception:  The Pistachio Cake 

I’ve made it for friends and they all love it and they’ve asked for the recipe. So without any further explanation I have decided to share it with all of you: 

1 pkg. white cake mix
1 pkg. Royal Instant Pistachio pudding
4 eggs
3/4 cup Crisco Oil
3/4 cup water
4 tsp. almond extract

Combine all in bowl. Beat for 3 minutes.

Bake at 350 degrees for 55 minutes. 

When cooled cover with powdered sugar. 

If you really want to give it an even more 60s/70s throwback feel instead of vanilla ice cream use a big scope of Cool Whip.  

The Pistachio Cake is a perfect way for me to remember my Mom… maybe your Mom too. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

Doing the Sidewalk Walk

I like to sidewalk walk a lot.  It keeps me fit and sexy.  It keeps me from tripping into the gutter and  chipping a tooth. It keeps from getting hit by speedings cars with drivers too busy texting to pay attention to someone on the street. 

I guess you could say I have a deep love of sidewalks. 

This past weekend I was sidewalk walking in my neighborhood when I stumbled across a side street I was going to have to cross.  As I slowed myself to look left and to look right for any cars I happened to look down. And there right before my feet was the following: 

And yes, those are my feet, size 10 1/2, in their Reebok sneakers with day-glow green laces observing the message that lay below me. 

What was I to do? If this was the end of the sidewalk then what was I going to meet across the street? Was this an omen?  Was something deadly waiting for me? 

Now I’m not one to be scared of messages scrawled across cement. I know all about graffiti. I’ve seen walks and pavements gang tagged. This was different. The penmanship was crisp and clear and easy to read.  The author spelled everything correctly.  There was even a period at the end. 

This was a strong statement that could not be ignored. 

Now I assume you must be thinking I’m insane. Sure I’ve crossed many streets before.  Thousands of streets in thousands of neighborhoods, but never was a message written on the sidewalk warning me the sidewalk has ended.  

Was this what Nostradamus meant, and was it intended specifically for me? 

I could easily have turned around and returned from where I came, but I refused to let a message stop me from going where I needed to go.  And I needed to go ASAP. I was getting the shakes,,, the shivers… and a pounding in my head.  

I took a deep breath and leaped across the street. And once across the street this is what I saw:  

Phew!  Nostradamus be damned. It wasn’t the end of my world. I was where the sidewalk starts.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and quickly ran to my destination… The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

I am Michael hear me roar and nothing — not even a sidewalk warning — comes between me and my coffee.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Shame of Rust

Shame. It does a lot to your self-esteem, and not in a good way.  It drives some people to unthinkable acts of self-destruction.  It’s a jolt of everlasting guilt on the soul. It’s that pimple that just won’t go away. 

You can only imagine the assault on my self-esteem when I woke up one morning and found rust stains in my toilet bowl. 

For days prior the water in the tank was smelling stagnant and appeared rusty. With every flush the water flow marks in the toilet got darker. The embarrassment! The shame! The fear of having guests who needed to pee or poo! 

I tried bleaching and scrubbing and bought every available toilet cleaner on the market. Nothing seemed to work, and with every flush the rust seemed to glow brighter, taunting me, accusing me of being a bad house-cleaner.  

I couldn’t sleep. I would stay awake thinking I didn’t deserve anything better than a rust stained toilet. I was constipated with thoughts of rust. There were no sweet dreams for me. 

The shame became so overwhelming that I seriously contemplated replacing the toilet with a brand new rust-free toilet. But I refused to let the rust stains win. I am Michael hear me roar and I do not accept defeat, especially from a toilet. 

So what did I do? I did what anyone overwhelmed by shame would do. In the dark of night I secretly logged on to the Internet for help. I searched and searched and read horror stories of rust and rusty toilets and the demise of those whose toilets were forever rusty. 

Then I came upon a solution, a rather simple solution, involving cream of tartar and hydrogen peroxide.  Could it be that simple of a solution? 

One-quarter cup cream of tartar mixed with hydrogen peroxide to form a paste. The paste is then rubbed on the dry rust stains and left there for an hour, or two, or overnight depending on the severity of the stain.

I carefully prepared the concoction and rubbed the paste along the rust. After waiting a few hours I approached my toilet, took a deep breath, and flushed… and Yes! Yes! Yes! Hallelujah! The rust stains disappeared. 

The shame is lifted. Friends are invited to use my bathroom again. 

Now I gratefully peer into my toilet bowl and smile a shame-less smile of total rust-free glee.  


Tuesday, September 02, 2014

Burping The Tupperware

Years ago I was invited to a Tupperware party.  I had just moved into a new apartment with more cabinet space than I needed so I figured I’d go and buy a container or two to fill a cabinet. I told myself not to spend more than $30.  

What I didn’t know was the Tupperware party was being hosted by a Drag Queen.  From the moment she made her grand entrance singing and dancing about the joys of Tupperware I was hooked.  I wanted Tupperware. I needed Tupperware.  I had to have Tupperware. I ending up spending $238 on Tupperware.

My new Tupperware filled my new cabinets nicely.  

It wasn’t until I used my new Tupperware for the first time that I experienced the true joy of “burping” the Tupperware.  

After making more pasta with chicken and sundried tomatoes than I could possibly eat in one sitting I reached for the Tupperware to store my leftovers. I carefully spooned the food into my new Tupperware container and as I put on the lid I remembered to “burp” the Tupperware in order to keep the food fresh.  

As that burp exhaled from inside the container a delicious whiff of the pasta with chicken and sundered tomatoes escaped filling my nostrils with an “aaaaah” moment.  The memory of the first bite repeated itself.  

I burped and whiffed a second time… and a third… and each moment felt better than the one before.  I was getting hungry all over again, but I didn’t eat the leftovers. I wanted to burp and whiff again and again.  And I did. 

Ever since that first moment when I discovered the joys of Tupperware burp and whiff I cannot cook any food without cooking extra.  I look forward to storing leftovers and sneaking into the refrigerator late at night for a quick burp and whiff.  Sometimes I can’t control the urge, and after numerous burps and whiffs I whip out a fork and eat everything. 

If I’m at someone’s house and see they have Tupperware containers in their refrigerator I create a diversion so I can sneak into their refrigerator, grab the tupperware, and give it a good  burp and whiff. Most times it’s a delicious burp and whiff followed by a recipe request, but sometimes, on a rare occasion, it’s a burp and whiff then stink and barf. When that happens I am forced to end my friendship with the Tupperware offender. 

Tonight I’m making lots of roasted chicken with roasted potatoes and roasted vegetables with fresh rosemary. 

Can’t wait until after dinner to… well, you know… 

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Alphabet Hallucination

This morning around dawn I seemed stuck in a dream.  Or I was coming out of a dream and stuck between sleep and being awake.  Or I was awake and stuck in an early morning alphabet-filled hallucination. 

I always sleep through the night. I never have insomnia and I never have to use the bathroom in the wee hours.  Once I turn out the lights I’m asleep within minutes and don’t wake up until morning.  

One night the Los Angeles swat time surrounded my building.  Helicopters swirled above the building. They were loud. They didn’t wake me.  It wasn’t until the helicopter floodlights lit up my bedroom like a sunburst that I finally woke up.  My body thought it was dawn.  That’s how sound I sleep.

Once I wake up I’m full of cosmic energy ready to jump our of bed and dance to Pharrell’s “Happy” (which is quite the enjoyable sight to see). 

But this morning I couldn’t get myself from the sleep state into the awake state.  I was in limbo, the purgatory of sleep, and there was only one thing on my mind.

I couldn’t figure out how to spell the word “leisurely.”  The alphabet was bouncing around in my brain like millions of pingpong balls.  My frustration was bordering on hysterical.  I kept wanting a dictionary but no dictionary was within reach.  The one I keep beside my bed was nowhere to be found.   

Leasurelee… leezureley… My mind was hurting. 

Leasurelee… leezureley… My mind couldn’t remember. 

Leasurelee… leezureley… My mind cried out for help from the Spelling Bee Gods.  

The alphabet teased me relentlessly, bullying me with its letters, taunting me, laughing at me, humiliating me, shaming me… 

I was scared I might never be able to spell correctly. It was like I was drowning in a sea of alphabet soup and there was no lifeguard to save me, no life jacket, and when I reached out the letters pulled away forcing me down down down to the bottom of the broth.

I held my breath. I gathered what little strength I had…

Leasurelee… leezureley… liesurely… no, no hell no!

Leasurelee… leezureley… L-E-I-S-U-R-E-L-Y… yeah! 

I swam to the light and emerged from my alphabet hallucination… 

And I sang Clap along if you know what happiness is to you… because I’m happy…. so friggin’ happy… 

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

An Inked Wrist Destination

My eyes wander always looking north and south and east and west aware of everything and everyone around me. Sometimes I see things no human eyes should ever see, and sometimes I see things that get me all revved up. 

Not too long ago I was eye-wandering at a film conference and noticed a woman’s wrist. It was a slender wrist that was very lady-like.  It was a wrist you could imagine being in a generic wrist watch commercial.  

Then I saw something that got me all revved up.  Adorning her wrist were a few bangles and underneath the bangles I glimpsed a colorful wrist tattoo.  

As her wrist moved so did my eyes doing my best to look between the jingling bangles and identify what the tattoo could be.  I turned my head in all sorts of directions for a better look.  And there it was… a map of some sort.  Possibly a treasure map? There were different colored lines going in different directions. I needed to see more.

Just as she was about to walk away I eye-wandered north and within seconds we were eye to eye. Smiles. Hello. 

She asked me something about the seminar we just attended, initiating proper film conference conversation, but I was too tattoo-focused to answer her accordingly. 

Then it dawned on me. It was a subway map. Was it from my beloved Boston? Was she a fellow Bostonian and possibly from the same suburban landscape as myself? 

I immediately inquired. She seemed pleased, and somewhat relieved, for the change of subject.  Grinning like a cheshire cat she announced it was a tattoo of the Chicago subway map.  I immediately asked “Are you from Chicago?”  She was, and proud of it.  She said if she ever moved back she could always find her way around the city.  

Because I live in Los Angeles in Los Feliz should I tattoo my wrist with the 181 Bus Route?  The bus stop is in front of my apartment and it goes northeast and west.   Whenever I need to take a bus (usually once a year) I waste time online checking to see if the 181 stops at my desired destination. If it were tattooed on my wrist I could save that precious search time and use my time more wisely… to get in another game or two of Candy Crush. 

If the Chicago girl moves to another subway city wouldn’t she, out of habit, keep looking at her wrist for directions and wind up lost in places she didn’t want to be, or where she shouldn’t be?  

Because I’m thinking of someday moving out of this apartment and into another neighborhood I’m going to forego the 181 Bus Route tattoo. 

I’ve decided to tattoo the cab company phone number on my wrist instead.  It’s an 800 number.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Sweaty Patchouli Lady

Oh patchouli… that fragrant oil with the distinct scent… it’s making me gag. 

Back in the 80s when I was self-proclaimed “hip” I owned a vial of patchouli oil.  I would liberally baste myself in its fragrance.  

With my permed hair and eternally black clothing I was convinced I was the envy of all suburbanites and urbanites.  If someone turned their nose in aromatic disgust I knew instantly they were not my kind of people, not of my tribe. 

As that decadent decade of synthesizers and alt music and bad hair faded into oblivion I left the patchouli in the sock drawer and got on with my life.   

Every now and then I pass someone on the street or in a store or at a restaurant and a whiff of patchouli permeates my space.  For a split second I’m brought back to a time and a place and the skewed memories of who I thought I was. 

Not too long ago I was at the gym rigorously burning calories on the elliptical machine when a woman came along and stepped on the machine next to mine. 

Whiff whiff… that aroma… whiff whiff… a sudden memory of the 80s… whiff whiff… that stench!… I felt I was about to gag. 

The woman, with long hippy-ish hair, soft cheekbones and thin physique, was wearing patchouli oil. But something was amiss. The patchouli wasn’t the patchouli I remembered. 

Then I noticed beads of sweat crawling down her neck, prominent underneath her bosom, dark against her armpits, and realized that…

Patchouli + Sweat = Gag

I was forced to stop my cardio. My sense of smell was in bad-patchouli overload.

A few days later the same thing happened, but this time she was a few elliptical machines away from me. I smelled her before I saw her.  

I watched people jump on the machine next to her. Their nostrils flared taking in a big whiff of the sweaty patchouli lady. They responded like one responds to a really stinky sulfuric fart or the sudden spray of a skunk. They looked around with the “it’s not me” face and quickly bolted to a machine away from the sweaty smelly patchouli lady.

Does she think she smells alluring? Does she not smell the difference of her body once she puts the oil on and after it’s mixed with her gym sweat? 

Next time she jumps on the machine next time I’m gonna have to tell she stinks and hopefully she’ll move to another machine or else she’ll be on the receiving end of my projectile vomiting.

I’m so grateful I rarely sweat… especially back in the 80s. 

Friday, July 11, 2014

It’s In The Bible

Absurd excuses abound in our every day life.  We hear them from elected officials, so-called “religious” folk, the neighbor across the hall, friends, enemies, co-workers, and the Internet. Our brains are constantly being flooded with absurdities in the social media obsessed 21st Century. 

People are spewing hateful tirades and hideous beliefs. They have the audacity to say all it’s in the name of “God” and the proof/truth/excuse for their actions is “In the Bible.”

I’ve perused the Bible and can’t seem to find those phrases everyone seems to quote when they’re defending themselves. 

Sadly I think the Bible is the most mis-interpreted and mis-quoted book of all time, and the least-read book of all time. It’s lost its way (and its real messages). It seems to me people twist and turn the passages any way they want to support whatever idiotic thing they say. 

All these distorted interpretations of the Bible are just an excuse for bad behavior: 

I hate you because of the color of your skin.  Why?  The Bible says so.

God loves me and hates you. Why?  The Bible says so.

Loving who you love guarantees you eternity in hell. Why? The Bible says so. 

Sherri Shepherd is leaving The View because it says so in the Bible. True! 

Everyone should attend a tea party and forfeit coffee. Why? The Bible says so. 

Throwing bombs at non-believers and killing them is the right thing to do. Why?  The Bible says so. 

Well… I’ve decided to backup all my absurd beliefs and inane spewings with the phrase “It’s in the Bible.”  This way no one can dispute me because it’s in the Bible, and no one questions what’s in the Bible. 

Here’s what I say:

No one should be allowed to watch Fox News. Why? It’s in the Bible.

Never wear sandals when crossing a parting sea. Why? It’s in the Bible. 

Malbec wine should not be served with poisson. Why? It’s in the Bible. 

Everyone who doesn’t go to the gym regularly should not be allowed to eat ice cream. Why? It’s in the Bible.

I dare you to prove me wrong… Why? Because it’s in the Bible. 

The most important thing I know for certain is that absurd excuses for bad behavior give God a throbbing migraine. 

How do I know that? 

God told me.  

Sunday, July 06, 2014

How Yummy is Your iPhone?

I shouldn’t walk around my neighborhood anymore. Every time I do I see something a little odd and it pokes at my brain for the rest of the day and causes me to do things I normally wouldn’t do. 

Today while walking along I saw a man coming out of a coffee shop and heading up the street towards me.  As he approached he licked the front of his iPhone. Oh yes he did.  With his tongue hanging like a dog’s tongue that’s been in the heat too long he licked the front of his iPhone from bottom to top in one long quick swoop.

He saw me see him do this and there was no twinkle of laughter or look of embarrassment or shock of shame.  My immediate thought was this wasn’t his first time licking his iPhone, and probably not the first time licking his iPhone in public. 

Well… that got me thinking… what does an iPhone taste like?  

I thought about it and the thought consumed me. I suddenly had this desire, this need, this uncontrollable urge to lick my own iPhone.  But since I was outside I didn’t want anyone seeing me do it. (We all know how judgmental people can be.)

So… as soon as I got home I pulled it our of my pants and lifted it to my face. I closed my eyes and let my tongue hang low and with one quick swoop I licked it. 

Here it goes...
It tasted just like bacon.  

Who knew that Apple was so innovative, so 23rd Century in a 21st Century world, giving iPhones flavor?  

I suggest taking the iPhone taste test… maybe yours tastes like bacon too? Or maybe yours is coconut shrimp flavored or coffee flavored or pizza flavored or southern fried chicken flavored? 

My secret desire is when I get my next iPhone it’ll taste like a Dunkin’ Donut. I’d lick it every morning for sure… and I’d sneak out of the office to lick it whenever I needed a mid-day snack… and then I’d lick before bed just for the fun of it. 

So what are you waiting for? 

Give it a try and give it a lick. 

How yummy is your iPhone? 

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

Tick Tock Crazy Hateful Midge

It must be difficult being Midge.  

She’s an old lady bully.   Actually she’s probably not as old as she looks. In human years she’s probably early 50s though she looks mid to late 60s. Her hateful heart has aged her and not like a good wine. She’s the bad tasting vinegar that needs to be flushed down the toilet. 

Sadly everybody knows a Midge.  For you she might be Laura or Lisa or Thelma or Adriana or even Shawanda.  For me she’s Midge.  A midge is a small two-winged fly that swarms near water or marshy areas where it breeds. How appropriate for the Midge I know.

People warned me not to befriend her, not to trust her, but in that small corner of my brain where I naively believe there’s goodness in everyone I felt the human duty to give her a chance.  I assumed kindness would beget kindness. I was wrong. 

We worked together a few years ago. When I first got there Midge made it clear she was the office leader. Her boss was the big boss and she embraced the power of the position.  There was no questioning Midge. If you didn’t agree with her she would bully you relentlessly until she got her way. 

One day she had a loud tick tock crazy fight with Jimmy the personnel manager and decided she hated him with a passion so intense it was scary.  From then on he could never do anything right and everything he said she mimicked.  She would instant message terrible things about him to anyone who had their instant messenger open.  Others in the office were afraid to call her on her bad behavior.  It was the “better him than me” attitude. 

I tried eating lunch with her a few times but always suffered severe indigestion afterwards.  I then tried water cooler small talk but always left the conversation with a dry mouth and a fear of water coolers. 

A few days after her fight with Jimmy I saw a crouching Midge, her fat ass looking like a beat up beach ball ready to pop, in the parking lot wandering between cars. That evening when Jimmy went to drive home he found his car antenna bent into a knot. 

Jimmy knew she bent his antenna, and when he confronted her she denied it which only made the situation worse.  Shortly thereafter Jimmy took a job at another company. And shortly thereafter I was fortunate to find a better job. 

I often wonder what makes someone like Midge such a hateful bully.  

Her heart is as shriveled as a pitted prune.  

Maybe someday she’ll tire of being so hateful and make a spiritual change for the better.

Until that happens… if you ever meet Midge… run the other way! 

Thursday, June 12, 2014

The Supermarket Maze

I love spontaneity.  For me it’s like a double expresso after midnight, a quick high of carefree adrenaline to offset my otherwise dullard existence.

In the name of spontaneity I sometimes have white wine instead of my beloved red, pork instead of chicken, quinoa instead of rice, and if I’m feeling dangerously spontaneous I wear my red jockstrap with my white gym shorts. 

Other times I hit shuffle on my iPod just to mix rhythms.  Ooo wee my hips go crazy and my head gets dizzy keeping up with dangling dance beats.  

Sometimes when I wake up and the blues hang heavy over my bed I add cinnamon to my coffee grinds to give my tongue a delicious zip with that first sip.

Those moments of spontaneity are mine to do as I please and when I please. 

There are things in life I don’t like to spontaneously change, especially when I’m not in a  spontaneous mood.  

Currently my favorite supermarket has begun rearranging its store shelves. For the store I’m certain it’s not the least bit spontaneous but the result of months of research and planning, but for me it’s a spontaneous change I didn’t want.

It took me by surprise and sent me on an emotional tailspin. I felt like a mouse in a maze searching desperately for the cheese, and I wanted the cheese and I wanted it badly, and the cheese was no where to be found. 

I clutched my shopping list tightly as I roamed from aisle to aisle.  Where did they put the English Muffins?  Where did they shelve the Pepperidge Farms Milano Melts?  Where oh where did they hide the coffee? Where the fuck was the coffee! 

Nacho chips replaced cereal.  Canned vegetables assaulted me when I was expecting olive oil.  Peanut butter seemed to disappear. The shelf where it happily sat for years was now empty and lonely. 

I was so discombobulated I almost bought decaf beans instead of caffeinated beans, which is the ultimate mortal coffee sin. And we all know all the cinnamon in the world cannot save a cup of decaf.

After taking what felt like hours to find everything on my list I zoomed my cart around other shoppers, almost knocking a few to the ground, to get to the checkout.  The cashier noticed my discomfort and assured me the changes will only enhance the shopper experience.  I didn’t believe her.

I asked how long until the changes are done and she said another few weeks.  

I paid for my groceries and ran from the store. When I got home I realized I purchased two cans of Fancy Feast cat food instead of two cans of Chicken of the Sea. 

Damn. I hate cats. I hate cat food. 

From now on I’m buying my groceries online.