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Thursday, December 10, 2015

A Treasured Christmas Memory

Though the years I’ve enjoyed many Christmas’ with fun Christmas food and fun Christmas caroling and fun Christmas eggnog with fun Christmas adventures. 

I’ve given and received great Christmas gifts, mediocre Christmas gifts, and downright shitty Christmas gifts. Aah, those Christmas memories do light the corners of my mind. 

I remember the time I stripped naked and wrapped myself in red wrapping paper and took a photo and used it as my Christmas card with the caption, “Guess who’s all wrapped up with no place to go? Ho! Ho! Ho!” 

I remember the time I tried making Christmas cannoli. The shells came out delicious but the cream, the supposed easy part of the recipe, I over beat and it turned liquid. I had a kitchen disaster not even Gordon Ramsey could fix. To this day, I cannot eat a cannoli without thinking of The Great Cannoli Debacle of Christmas Past. 

Where's the friggin' cream?

I remember my favorite Christmas joke. The same joke I relentlessly tell every year:

Santa comes down the chimney with gifts. A girl appears and says, “Santa, will you spend the night with me?”

Santa says, “Ho, ho, ho, Santa gotta go. Got lots of toys to deliver, you know.”

The girl removes her top and says, “Santa, will you please spend the night with me?”

Santa says, “Ho, ho, ho, Santa gotta go. Got lots of toys to deliver, you know.”

Finally she removes all her clothes and says, “Santa, will you pleeeeease spend the night with me?”

Santa says, “Ho, ho, ho, Santa gotta stay. Can’t get up chimney with pecker this way”

Aah… but semi-nude photos, cannoli nightmares, and demented Christmas jokes do not light a Christmas candle to the Christmas memory I have when my little niece bought me a Christmas gift with her own money at her grammar school store. 

The gift was wrapped in festive Christmas paper with a bow to match. It was a beautiful looking package, but what was more beautiful was the look in her eyes as she gave it me. That look was bigger and brighter than any star of Bethlehem.

You’re probably wondering what the gift was? It was a level. Yes, a level to make sure things are even and not askew. 

My treasured level!
I love that level.  It has moved with me from place to place and every once in a while I do a level check around my apartment making sure nothing is at an inappropriate angle. 

It’s been years since she gave it to me, and she probably doesn’t remember, but I do, and I always will. 

And that is a favorite Christmas memory. 

My goodness, is that a Christmas tear in my eye?

Tuesday, December 08, 2015

The Journey of a Dollar

I’ve been thinking lately about the dollar bills passing through my hand and wallet. They have their own personal history of which I willingly and unwillingly participate when I accept them from someone and before I pass them on to someone else. 


I am a link in the chain of the history of a dollar bill. But what is that history? 

Today I sat in my easy chair, with a glass of red wine by my side to keep me company,  and pondered this question for hours…  I looked deeply into my wallet and saw the history of the stained and crinkled dollar bill that stared out at me… 


That dollar bill left the mint and was sent to a bank in New York City where it was accepted by a tourist, a German, who was exchanging euros for dollars.  That German tourist was a bit of a perv and took the dollar to the seedy part of town and stuffed it into the g-string of a lap dancer.  

The lap dancer, at the end of the evening, tugged that dollar out of her g-string and used it to pay a cabbie for a ride home.  

Later that night the cabbie gave that dollar as change to a D-List Reality TV celebrity whom he dropped off at the airport. The D-List Reality TV celebrity, upon landing in Los Angeles, used that dollar as part of her purchase of drugs from a cabbie/drug dealer who took her from the airport to her dilapidated house in the seedy section of Beverly Hills. 

Later that night the cabbie/drug dealer used the dollar to purchase a cup of coffee at an all night diner in Eagle Rock. The poor old waitress was tired, after working a double shift, and spilled coffee on the dollar when she tried sliding the dollar off the table while also grabbing the used coffee mug. 

The next morning I stopped at the diner for a doughnut and a coffee. The same waitress was back at work for another double shift, and gave me the dollar as change when I paid with a twenty. 

The same fingers I used to stuff that dollar in my wallet I used to touch the doughnut. Being the doughnut-holic that I am, I licked the remnants of the doughnut from my fingers for a lasting mmm, mmm good. 

Cough. Cough. Cough. 

Oh no… The germs and specks of DNA from the German tourist, the lap dancer, the NY cabbie, the D-List Reality TV celebrity, the LA cabbie/drug dealer, and the overworked old waitress are now part of me. 

Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! 

I have to leave now and make an emergency trip to the drugstore and use that dollar to purchase Purell, mouthwash, and plastic gloves, and then I’m heading to the clinic for a throat culture. 

Wednesday, November 04, 2015

Gym and Me Through the Years

I have been going to the same gym for over ten years. And over the past ten years my waist has meandered from 32 to 34 to 33 to 32 to 34 (okay, 35… 36) and back down again.  

The gym has also gone through changes.  Broken equipment. New equipment. Renovations. Brand new equipment. 

The men and woman who work out at the gym have changed too. New faces. Faces embracing the joys and horrors of Botox/Plastic surgery. Old faces. New old faces. Young faces getting older. Old faces getting worse. 

Let’s not even mention the various big pecs, skinny pecs, cut abs, bloated abs, pot bellies, muscled legs, big asses, small asses, concave asses, and the ever frightening skinny twig chicken legs. 

I often asked myself why I go to the gym as often as I do. The answer is simple: Fear.  I fear having the genetic pot belly that has conquered generations of my family.   

I was there...
One time I let myself get rather large. I was in complete denial and refused to acknowledge what was happening around my mid-section. I somehow convinced myself elastic waist pants were the next fashion rage. I bought them. I wore them. I convinced myself I looked good. I didn’t. 

Denial is a strange bedfellow… and without thinking, I went to a nude beach… oh no… oh yes I did… 

While lying naked on the sand I looked down to make sure I wasn’t burning my nether region when I realized I couldn’t see my… thing… my little me.  My fat flabby jiggly stomach was blocking the view, a view I loved to see and was suddenly having a hard time remembering. 

Shame forced me to grab a towel and cover myself from head to toe.  I immediately ran to the gym praying to the God of Pot Bellies to pass over me and let me get back to the size I was before I succumbed to the excesses of sugar, chocolate, peanut butter, and fried chicken. 

Through sheer determination and a lot of sweating, I was able to get back into shape. 

Not me... yet

It was because of this that I realized I’m just like all the other gym folks. I fluctuate and I change and I age and I do the best I can. 

As of this moment, my waist is feeling happy at 32 inches and my upper torso enjoys a medium/large t-shirt.

The extra large t-shirts and elastic waist pants are hidden in the back of the closet. 

Just in case…

Thursday, October 22, 2015

A Clown-Free World

If there is one thing in life I would never want to be it’s a clown. And a nun, but that is a totally different story. (Or is it?)

I don’t like clowns. I don’t like their oversized clothes. I don’t like their color choices. I don’t like their fake face make-up. I don’t like their floppy shoes. I don’t like their failed attempt at being funny. 

I’m certain I’m not alone with these sentiments. 

I think clowns are sad creatures desperately in need of attention. Hey, wait a second… am I describing a Kardashian? (Now that’s funny!)

Has anyone ever laughed with a clown? At a clown?  Every time I see clips of circus audiences all I see is the forced laughter masquerading the fear and the dislike of clowns. 


As a child, I remember watching Bozo on television and thinking, “What the hell is this creature supposed to be?” The only reason I didn’t change the channel was that I was too damn lazy to get off the couch - yes, I was a husky kid -  and manually turn the channel. (In those days there was no TV remote.)

Some people like to live in a meat-free, gluten-free, and gmo-free world. I prefer to live in a clown-free world.

You can only imagine my horror when watching one of my favorite sitcoms, Modern Family, and discovering Cam has/had aspirations to be a clown.  Luckily, we’re in the modern age of TV remotes so I didn’t have to drag my fat ass off the couch and I quickly changed the channel. My admiration for Cam faltered, and I began to secretly hope Mitchel would divorce him for a clown-less man. 

Some people might think I’m being a bit harsh, but to those people I say, “What makes you think clowns are funny?” 

Maybe I have this dislike for clowns because my second grade teacher - Ms. Crabtree - accused me of being a class clown. I hated Ms. Crabtree, so maybe I equate clowns with her, that haughty mean spirited unfunny overbearing know-it-all bitch. Whatever, the way I feel about clowns is the way I feel and I don’t foresee that feeling changing in this lifetime. 

One thing for certain, you won’t be seeing me at a Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey show anytime soon. 

Now let’s talk about nuns… 

Sunday, October 11, 2015

The Non-Flushers

Today’s rant is all about the men in my office who go to the office mens room and #1 and #2 and never flush when they’re done. What gives?

I am so tired of going into the bathroom and seeing un-flushed urinals, and yes, un-flushed toilets too. This has been happening a lot lately and it has to stop. I don’t want to look in the urinal and know the man before me took too many vitamins, needs to take vitamins, or ate too much asparagus for lunch. 


As for the un-flushed toilets, if they’re afraid to put their hand on the flusher then they need to lift their leg and use their shoe to press the handle. It’s surprising what happens… Flush!  #1 and #2 disappear! 

This begs the questions, “Who raised these men to be Non-Flushers?” Did they grow up leaving their  #1 and #2 un-flushed in their house for their mothers or fathers to see, and flush for them? 

I am totally disgusted by their behavior, and had to resort to posting “Flush Me” signs over the urinals and on the toilet doors.  These grown men (or should I say boys?) need a sign to tell them to flush, and yet they don’t heed the warning. 


Maybe they don’t understand what the word “flush” means. 


I don’t care who they think you are, but they are no better than any other man who uses the bathroom. Their piss isn’t prettier and their shit is any more attractive than anyone else’s. No one wants to see what come out of their body.

Of course I am keeping an eye to see who goes into the bathroom so I can determine who the non-flushers are, and seek revenge. I want to catch them in the act and push their noses into the urinal and into the toilet like you do a dog when they mess on the floor. “Bad Pisser! Bad Shitter!”

Don’t they hear the urinals and toilets begging, “Flush me! Flush me!” after they’re done?  

If they can’t learn to flush then they need to have their mens room privileges taken away.  

And let’s not even talk about most men’s lack of aim… 

Thank goodness I’m not the janitor. 

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A Kardashian Got a Bikini Wax

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

The big news of the week is not about war, starvation, plague, terrorism, or the abuse of human rights. 

The big news of the week is a Kardashian got a bikini wax!  Yup, a Kardashian vagina has been waxed and steamed and is now ready for business. 

And by business I mean exploitation.  Why have a vagina if it can’t generate attention and  income? 

But which Kardashian had the bikini wax? That’s the vaginal question on everyone’s lips.

Expect numerous TV appearance by all the Kardashian, sitting with closed legs, promoting their vaginas, but not admitting who got the wax job. 

There will be a cell phone app people can download for $2.99 so they can look at close-up photos pre and post waxing, video of the actual waxing (taken on an iPhone which makes a great marketing/money making tie-in with Apple) and then vote for whose vagina it is. 

Over the next few weeks, the water cooler conversation will be “Did you see the vagina waxing? Which Kardashian vagina is it?”

The winners of the contest will receive a signed glossy eight by ten of the waxed vagina signed by the Kardashian who’s vagina was actually waxed.

Humankind will be overjoyed when the news is announced. 

I can’t think of any better way to spend $2.99.

All the news channels are preparing for the winning results so they can spend hours, if not days, discussing the bikini wax, the effect it has on the Kardashian empire and the Kardashian sex life. 

There’s a part of me that admires anyone who can be so blatant with self-promotion, so greedy for attention, and so forthcoming with their vagina. 

Then there’s the part of me that wonders what’s missing in their lives that they so desperately need attention. 

Do they ever get tired of themselves?

The other day I got inspired by the Kardashians bikini wax mania and started to trim my pubes but got bored before I finished. Now one side of my penis looks like a manicured suburban lawn and the other side looks like a clogged drain. 

Whatever. 

It’ll grow back. 


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Potential Dangerous Donut Trend

Fact of life: Donuts are delicious.

Jelly donuts are my personal favorite though I’ve never said no to any donut offered. 


I have been known to go to the airport extra earlier in order to purchase a large cup of Dunkin’ Donut coffee and one jelly donut and one chocolate donut. It’s what I consider my pre-boarding-airport-foreplay. I sit outside the terminal savoring each bite and sip as the flavors cascade over my tongue… ooh… ooh… aah… and once on the plane I nap in absolute donut-afterglow. 

It’s with much dismay that I recently read about the donut licking stunt pulled by an overrated egotistical brat… you know who I’m talking about… the girl with the Grande ego.

I fear that her fans (I assume she has some) will start a donut-licking spree across the country, posting selfies on social media boasting their conquest with snapshots of their tongues covered in powdered sugar, icing, or cream with trays of licked donuts in the background. 

Oh sure, she’s saying she’s sorry, but I think her apology is code for her fans to rally behind her and do the dirty deed themselves. 

I fear a world where all donuts shops lose their “A” ratings and sink to a “B” or a “C,” or worse, are forced out of the donut business because they were licked to death. 

There is no saving a licked donut. 

I imagine piles and piles of licked donuts with no place to go. Who would want them? No one, not even the dumpster rats. 

I implore everyone to be on donut alert. When you have a few free moments take a walk around the neighborhood and stop by the donut shop to make sure there are no hooligans with wagging tongues circling the donuts. 

Keeps your eyes open for any donut lickers. Call 911 when you see one in action. We must be vigilant!  


Save the donuts and prevent this potential dangerous donut trend from beginning and spreading. 

Without donuts my world will not be a happy place. 

And no one wants to see me when I’m in an unhappy place...especially the girl with the Grande ego.

Wednesday, July 08, 2015

The Island of Black Souls

Some people are assholes and wreak havoc in our lives. 

When someone wreaks havoc in my life I banish them, in my mind, to the Island of Black Souls. 

The Island of Black Souls is an island in the middle of a vast murky ocean where people who’ve done me wrong go, never to be in my life again. Their eternity there is not summer breezes and Pina Coladas. It’s where they are taunted daily by their bad behavior. 


Who currently lives there?

The bald man from Vegas with a disco wig who criticizes everyone, including me. He proudly proclaims he’d never be friends with anyone who wasn’t “good looking.” This vain bald idiot doesn’t think anyone knows he wears a cheap disco styled hairpiece. On the Island of Black Souls he’s not allowed to wear his disco wig, and everywhere he goes he’s surrounded by mirrors.  Mirror, mirror on the wall… 

The egotistical movie production manager who is terrible at his job and blames everyone around him for his incompetence. “Lying” and “Backstabber” is his first and last name. On the Island of Black Souls he’s a film production assistant constantly berated, bullied, and abused by a crew that looks just like him.  Hey you, idiot… you suck… you’re worthless… you’re stupid… clean the bathrooms… get us coffee… now! 

The so-called “friend” who insisted on breaking something in my apartment every time he visited whether it was a towel rack or wine glass or a plate or chipping the freshly painted wall. Craaazy! On the Island of Black Souls everything he touches breaks, crumbles in his hand, and disintegrates.  He’s now afraid to masturbate… 

The judgmental self-righteous vegetarian who bullies and lectures everyone about eating the “right” way (aka her way), and who doesn’t have a nice thing to say about anyone who eats otherwise.  She told me I eat too “ethnic.” On the Island of Black Souls she’s forced to eat meat, is in a constant state of intestinal constipation, and every vegetable she finds in the island’s bush is rotted and inedible. Eat… Mangia!… it’s good for you… 

The castaways on the Island of Black Souls hate each other. Every night they’re forced to eat dinner together and every night the menu is the same: Roasted crow with potatoes deep fried in rancid lard, and slices of humble pie for dessert. 

When it is time to settle down to sleep their dreams are of me happy dancing and me happy singing and me happy laughing and me happily enjoying my happy life… without them.

And every morning they wake up screaming and begging for forgiveness. 

Oh, revenge is sweet… even if it’s only in my mind.

Monday, July 06, 2015

Big Butt Booty

Nobody wants a flat ass, or worse, a concave-in ass. You know the kind I mean. The ass that isn’t really an ass at all. It’s like two unappealing and unsexy tiny mounds of Play-Doh separated by a crack. There’s nothing to grab.  Clothes sag where the butt should be, and naked, well, it’s not a pretty picture.

It appears the trend now is surgically enhanced asses. Big butts. Butts so big they can be used as landing strips for DC-10s. 


A firm butt is nice to look at (and touch) and a somewhat big butt is a two-handed joy, but extra big butts… well, sometimes too big is too much and too much can be freaky. 

At the gym the other day I was nearly blinded by a woman walking towards me. She was quite tall and thin, nearing six feet, and was wearing a blue sports bra (not too big breasts) and matching blue spandex. Her prominent camel toe was eye-catching, but it was her surgically enhanced butt that was the real eye-catcher. I was surprised she was able to remain vertical. She was that wide…that big… that freaky. Her tiny waist gave way to hips that could pass for flotation devices.  

I had to stop what I was doing and watch her. I actually followed her around the gym just to make sure I saw what I saw and I wasn’t hallucinating. Hers has to be the biggest butt booty I’ve ever seen. Unnaturally shaped. 

That woman has a lot of cushion for the pushing… and it made me wonder… what’s going to happen when big butts are no longer trendy?  

Can the surgically enhanced butts be successfully surgically deflated? Once deflated will all that extra skin flap around like Dumbo’s ears?  

If this trend continues then airplane seats will need to be wider, theatre seats will need to be wider, toilet seats wider, arm chairs wider, doorways wider, bathtubs wider, Xerox machines wider to allow for big butt copying, hallways wider, cars wider… and the list goes on and on.  

Our whole physical world will need to be wider to accommodate these surgically enhanced big butts. 

Truth be told, big butts scare me. 

I‘ve been having this recurring nightmare where I’m in close proximity to a really big surgically enhanced butt and I get sucked into the crack never to be seen or heard from again. 

I am now constantly on alert at the gym fearful the blue spandex woman will be working out next to me.

She’ll get too close and whooooosh!…  I’ll be sucked in… 

Will anyone miss me? 

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

The Anti-Shopping Cart Pusher

Sometimes you notice bad behavior and feel the need to let others know what you’ve seen.  It helps to deflate that nightmare-inducing moment of awe that haunts you and makes you think, “WTF?” 

This is what I witnessed today…

I was minding my own business roaming the aisles of my favorite grocery store.  With coupons in hand and empty canvas bags in my shopping cart, I was on a grocery shopping coupon saving mission. I was filling my cart with salsa and yogurt and coffee when I heard someone yelling. It was a somewhat high-pitched tone that made my ears perk up like a dog.

I hurried to the next aisle over, the epicenter of the yelling, and in the process I almost dropped my coupons, but luckily I caught them in time. That’s what I get for careless shopping cart speeding! 


There in the other aisle I saw a middle aged woman yelling to someone whose back was facing me. 

How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t push shopping carts. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it! Do it yourself!

She then grabbed a box of Oreos off the shelf, threw them in the cart, and stormed away like a child, abandoning the shopping cart and the person whose back was facing me. 

I slowly maneuvered my shopping cart down the aisle to get a glimpse of this person. It was a man who looked to be in his late 80s.  He was holding steady with a cane.  When he saw me he smiled and feebly juggled the cane and the shopping cart making room for me to pass. 

WTF?  

An old man with a cane who could barely walk was being forced to push his shopping cart. 

Moments later the woman came back down the aisle and threw more items into the cart. As she walked away she snapped, C’mon Dad. I haven’t got all day!

She called him Dad. 

Wow.

I saw the Anti-Shopping Cart Pusher and her Dad again at the cashier next to me.  She stood there doing nothing while he emptied the shopping cart for the cashier. 

He paid.  

She walked away leaving him to push the cart and groceries out of the store. 

Wow, again. 

That daughter needs a good spanking.

She also needs to be sent to bed early tonight without any after dinner dessert. 

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Bald is Beautiful

I’ve always wanted to know what I’d look like bald, so I shaved my head.  I didn’t leave a quarter inch of follicle. I took it down to the scalp.

The first few days I was in the “I am bald” shock-phase and wore a baseball cap everywhere.  I needed time to adjust and brace myself for what friends might say.  I feared the “You look like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family” comments, though, when I think about it, Uncle Fester did have a charm and sexiness about him. 


I gradually took off my baseball cap while driving.  I’d look in the rearview mirror and see a reflection I’d never seen before.  I was tough-looking, like a recent parolee from prison.  It gave me a boost. I accelerated the gas pedal with a “don’t mess with me attitude.” 

I then started slipping off the cap while walking the neighborhood.  I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the storefront windows. Yeah, I was looking badass. 

The first thing I noticed about being bald was the chill, the cold skull. If a gentle breeze blew around my scalp I felt a chill, a tickling.  It made me rub my head. It felt good. 

I also noticed I have a nicely shaped head with hardly a bump or a valley, though there is one blood vessel that seems to be prominent just above the hairline. 

With a slight beginning of follicle growth my baldness looks like an atlas, like the map of South America. If I’m ever lost in the southern hemisphere all I’ll need is a mirror to find my way around.  And that protruding blood vessel looks a lot like Peru. 

The good bald news is I can stand tall and proud and proclaim I’m contributing to saving water during this California drought. Shower times are much shorter because I don’t shampoo, rinse, repeat, condition, and rinse.  


This bald head is here to stay… for the summer at least. As winter approaches I might need to grow it out to keep me warm… or I’ll invest in a few battery powered heated knitted hats. I’m sure I can find them online, maybe on Amazon. 

But for now… 

Bald is beautiful… and badass… and so am I.

Thursday, May 07, 2015

There’s a Homeless Man Pooping in the Bathroom!

My adventures in life continue… and today I couldn’t believe what I witnessed. 

I went to a gas station/minimart to buy gasoline.  As I was standing in line waiting my turn to pay, a woman, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, started shouting:

There’s a homeless man in the bathroom. He’s been in there a few minutes. Too long. He’s pooping in the bathroom!

All eyes turned to this relatively normal looking woman. This was no joke. She was serious. 

I can’t go in there after a homeless man poops. That’s #2, pooping, not #1. He’s pooping in the bathroom. It’s gonna smell! 

The workers in the minimart didn’t know how to respond. They looked as dumbfounded as everyone else. It was getting hysterical… as in funny and out of control. 

I’m a lady. I can’t go in there. A homeless man is pooping. I have to tinkle real bad! 

At this point she’s rocking from side to side, holding her hands over her nether region. I was suddenly afraid she might let loose with a river of pee. I slowly backed up. 

I’m a lady!  I have to tinkle!  You’ve got to help me. I can’t go in there after a homeless man poops! 

The manager of the minimart, somewhat scared, moved towards the restroom.  I don’t know if she was going to knock on the door or not, and neither did she. 

I’m a lady! I have to tinkle real bad!”

Before the manager could knock, the restroom door opened. All eyes were anticipating a homeless man… not knowing what kind of creature would emerge.

A middle-aged man in business clothes came out of the bathroom.  And to say he was surprised to see everyone staring at him is an understatement. The woman began to bellow as loud as possible. She no longer was shaking her legs and holding her nether region. 

You’re not homeless. Oh dear lord, I thought you were homeless and pooping in the bathroom. 

The poor mortified man forced a smile and without saying a word made a quick exit. 

I thought he was homeless!  

She ran into the bathroom. 

I paid for my gas.  

And as I drove home I wondered if the man really did poop or not. 

Wednesday, May 06, 2015

Locker Room Selfies

Today, like every day during the week, I went to the gym.  It began pretty uneventful. I started on the treadmill and walked 5,000 steps while watching reruns of “Roseanne.” 

After treading the treadmill I worked on my biceps and triceps.  I do confess they need a lot of work.  Sometimes when I flex in the mirror, naked, in the privacy of my own bathroom, I notice my upper arms tend to shake like human maracas.  And if I add a little bopping up and down to the rhythm of my shaking arms my man-boobs do a little dance, and my… well, use your imagination because that bounces too, but not as much as I’d like.

So after my workout I headed to the locker room. As I did I put my water bottle on the counter which is in front of the mirror. That’s when I heard a groan, a harrumph, that caught my attention. I looked to my right and saw a man in his shorts with no shirt and he was taking a selfie. I was blocking him from seeing himself in the mirror. 

Suppressing a giggle, I said an inaudible “sorry” and moved out of the way.  

While opening my locker and gathering my things I watched him through the corner of my eye. He posed like a model taking photo after photo. 

He flexed his biceps and took a selfie.

He stood sideways, breathed in, and took a selfie.

He lowered his shorts to get a line of visible pubes and took a body shot selfie. 

He rubbed his chest and took a selfie. 

Apparently he didn’t care that he was being watched by others around him. 

After taking numerous selfies, he admired himself by examining each photo. Self-satisfaction never looked so funny. 

I wanted to imitate him and take selfies of myself, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate the humor, nor would he appreciate my less than stellar biceps, triceps, and pecs. 

I wish I had taken a photo of him taking a selfie to share with you, but that wasn’t possible. There’s a “No camera phones” sign in the locker room, and I didn’t want to break any rules, nor did I want to have my nose broken if he caught me taking his photo. 

This could be me... someday...

Tomorrow I work on my chest, and I’m increasing the weights. 

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Snapshots from a Wanderer

I’ve been wandering lately… down the street, up the hill, across the avenue, around the boulevard, and back again just to make sure I take 10,000 steps per day to meet my daily goal for that damn Fitbit. I’m addicted and it won’t let me rest until I see it hit 10,001, and then I feel challenged to reach 11,000 then 12,000 and, well… I walk until I drop!

As I wander I notice things, and I feel the need to take a snapshot and share these snapshots with you. 

On the back window of an SUV I saw this: 
David wants a spouse to complete his family.  Must love dogs and cats, specifically Rocco and Sydney. The perfect woman might be behind him at the next red light. 

The City of Glendale has humor:
And these whimsical flower displays are perfect.  Bet you can’t look at it without smiling! 

Duck art has take over:
Quite “ducky” I say!  Quack, quack… this duck desecration opens May 15 at a theatre near you. 

Are you ready for death? 
It’s open daily and has free parking. What else could you ask for? Enter if you dare! 

Public display of affection:
I didn’t have the heart to say I see divorce in their future. Instead I yelled, “Make sure you get a pre-nup!” 

I’m not quite at 10,000 steps yet today, so I’ll be on the streets soon taking one step at a time.  

I wonder what else I might find when I wander tonight… 

Saturday, April 18, 2015

My Bologna Has a First Name…

It was French Class during my senior year of High School.  Spring had sprung and prom and graduation were coming soon. 

My acne was clearing up nicely thanks to the huge doses of prescription tetracycline and bimonthly visits to my dermatologist whose name was ironically Dr. Hamburger.  (Yes, it’s true!)

Oh, such an exciting time is a teenager’s world. 

My French teacher decided it would be a wonderful idea for the Seniors to perform popular commercials in French at the Junior High School’s upcoming Spring Assembly.

Everyone formed groups and chose a commercial to translate and perform. I teamed up with Marianne and Susan to sing the Oscar Mayer song. The popular commercial was a little boy sitting on an edge of a dock with a fishing pole singing the joys of bologna. 

In our little version I would be the boy with the fishing pole and Marianne and Susan would sit on either side of me with their own fishing poles. We would be the Bologna Trio! 

If you forgot the original commercial with the overly cute little boy here it is:


Assembly Day arrived and Marianne and Susan and I took to the stage. We began to sing: 

Ma mortadelle a une premiere nom
C’est O-S-C-A-R
Ma mortadelle a une seconde nom
C’est M-A-Y-E-R

It was at this point I made the fatal mistake of looking left to Marianne.  When I did we both realized how silly we must look and how silly we must sound and we laughed ourselves silly. We tried to continue singing… 

J’aime le manger tous les jours
et si tu demande pourquoi je dirais

And then it happened. We lost all control and fell over each other in loud silly laughter. Poor Susan soldiered on and finished the final line of the song. 

Oscar Meyer a une facon avec M-O-R-T-A-D-E-L-L-E

Sadly no one heard her sing. Marianne and I were laughing way too loud, as was the audience. 

Our French teacher wasn’t pleased, but we didn’t care, we were graduating soon. 

And that is my fondest memory of French Class Senior Year. 

Monday, April 13, 2015

Pucker Up or Bloom



Tulips.  


Two Lips.

Both are red.  

Both are Beautiful.

If you had to choose one which one would it be? 


Monday, April 06, 2015

Helen Reddy Was Right: God Is A Woman

Back in the early 70s the great Helen Reddy rose to the top of the Pop Charts with her worldwide anthem “I Am Woman.”  The poignant lyrics gave woman a powerful voice at a time when it was most needed. 

I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an' pretend
'Cause I've heard it all before
And I've been down there on the floor
No one's ever gonna keep me down again

When Reddy accepted her much deserved Grammy for Best Rock/Pop Vocal Performance Female she ended her acceptance speech with, “I want to thank God because She makes everything possible.” 


It was a pivotal moment in Pop Music and Pop Culture, and her statement was the water cooler conversation the following day.  In the back of everyone’s mind was the question: Could God really be a woman? 

Forty years later that probing question appears to be answered, and the answer comes from a Man of the Cloth, a Catholic Priest from Massachusetts who was dead for 48 minutes before being revived by paramedics, and he’s not afraid to say who he met while dead. 


Seventy-one year old Father John Michael O’Neal claims he went to Heaven and met God, whom he describes as a warm and comforting motherly figure.  Yes, a motherly figure.  It was a major heart attack that took him on his near death experience and I am thrilled he was revived (sent back to earth by God) to lay the God-gender question to rest once and for all. 

Now I know you naysayers might be thinking that God dressed in drag for some heavenly humor to give the newly dead priest a chuckle…  or that Father O’Neal’s near-death interrupted the weekly Heavenly Drag Show where the dead dress as living earthly divas… but you know and I know what Father O’Neal saw was the real thing. As a Catholic I was taught that Priests never lie which means Father O’Neal speaks truth when he says God is a Woman. 

So sing out Helen Reddy!  You ARE Woman, and God IS a Woman, and now all we need is a Woman President… 

Monday, February 23, 2015

Wooden Sign On A Pole

I was walking in my neighborhood the other day totally engrossed in checking my email when I almost walked right into a street pole.  It came upon me so fast I sort of yelped with a high pitched “whoah!” realizing I stopped mere milliseconds from having a dangerous confrontation with a pole. 

I immediately said a little prayer to the eyeglass God of Prada grateful my glasses and face didn’t get terribly bruised and/or broken. And then I noticed it… a wooden sign was right before my eyes. 


Was this a sign from the Divine Universe for me to stand there and think about someone I love?  I believed it was, and so I did. 

For many minutes I stood there and thought of people I love. 

Some of the people I thought about are dead, but certainly not forgotten. 

Some of the people I thought about are alive, and certainly need a phone call. Not a text. Not an email. A phone call. 

Did it take a wooden sign on a pole to almost knock me physically senseless to awaken my love-sense?

I think so and I’m glad it happened. 

Saturday, February 21, 2015

The Big Basil Idea

I murdered my basil plant. I don’t know how I did it, but I’m guilty.  

The saga of the basil plant began a month ago as I was entering Trader Joe’s. I noticed basil plants for sale. I admired their deep green leaves.  I inhaled deeply and was hooked on their beautiful basil scent. 

I immediately fantasized homemade pesto hugging pasta and caressing my tongue and igniting my senses.  It was a perfect aah moment.  

Delirious with basil desire I immediately placed a basil plant in my cart. 

Up and down the aisles I went buying food that would be best served with the addition of basil, the very same basil I would harvest from my own basil plant. 

I tend to think big and my thoughts of basil were no exception. By the time I got home I decided I would grow lots and lots of basil in my apartment and make lots and lots of pesto and give all my friends personally prepared pesto for birthday and holiday gifts. 

Just one thing… I didn’t know anything about raising basil. 

The first few days I plucked basil leaves with sheer abandon and enjoyed a daily dose of basil. Each meal was complimented with a bit of basil whether it was cooked with the food, added fresh to a salad, or laid lovingly over sliced tomatoes, mozzarella and extra virgin olive oil.

Almost immediately I began to notice the leaves turning a lighter green. The scent and flavor weren’t as robust.  The leaves hung somewhat limp and looked ready to fall from the stem.  The few new leaves were small and refused to grow properly. 

Was it too much watering? Not enough watering? Too much sunlight? Too little sunlight? Was I not giving my plant enough love? 


Or did my basil plant just hate me and decide it was better to die than to be in my life? 

It might be that I was suffering from too much basil consumption and ate more than my plant could provide, and because of my greedy behavior the little basil plant’s heart just gave out. 

And so today I have declared my big basil idea kaput. No perfect pesto gifts from my homegrown basil for birthdays or holidays. 

I’m certain there’ll be another big idea soon. 

And I feel one coming… and I think its gonna be big…  knitting… long beautiful bright red scarves… and scarves make beautiful birthday and holiday gifts…  

I’m certain I can find a few how-to-knit video lessons on You Tube.

Big.