Thursday, August 30, 2012

World's Oldest Spy

There is a big hill I drive down on my way home from work. Most days, I see an elderly man walking up the hill. What makes him memorable is the fact that his legs are sort of wonky - kind of reverse-bowl legs. He walks with the aid of one of those canes with little feet... uphill. Amazing! This man has shoulder-length white hair and wears a baseball hat. Recently, when it’s been hot and sunny, he’s been wearing a visor backwards. One of the first times I encountered this man, his hat had either “FBI” or “CIA” written on it. Was he the world’s oldest spy? Obviously, he is a strong individual. No way would I make it up this hill. There is no sidewalk where he walks. Parts are lumpy grass next to a little ravine. Other parts are dirt or a skinny strip of asphalt. The hill is very steep. I would have to rest a bunch of times, but this man trudges along without stopping. He must be used to it, but still... I’m impressed. Recently I noticed Old Spy Guy was carrying something rolled up, with handles. It looked like a yoga mat. Could it be??? I tried to picture him in a yoga class. Could he do the Downward Dog pose? He could probably teach the class, wonky legs and all. I would love to know where he is going when he is hiking up the big hill. The first three days this week, I didn’t see him. I started to worry. Was he lying in the little ravine halfway up the hill? Was he out doing spy stuff, perhaps in some exotic foreign country? Maybe his cane is really some sort of James Bond combination grenade launcher/coffee maker. There could be a blade in his backwards visor. And what about that rolled up mat? A magic carpet would be cool, but that’s definitely not spy equipment. I know... it’s a yoga mat, and Old Spy Guy is probably just an impressive, determined man on a mission. Wherever he is heading, he has my admiration. Still think he’s a spy, though.

Monday, August 27, 2012

To The Rescue

My mother passed away 20 years ago last week. In her honor, I have retrieved a Mom story from the archives of my brain. Enjoy...
Mom was parked in the elementary school parking lot one afternoon. She saw a little Black boy playing in a parked car. Suddenly, the car started to move, driving past a darkened carport. Mom thought the little boy was in a runaway car, and jumped out of her car and ran toward it. She wasn’t sure how she was going to stop the car, but knew she had to try something. By this time, the car was moving past the school, which was tan brick. It was then she realized the car was being driven by a Black woman, whose skin had blended in with the dark background of the carport. I’m not sure how my mom gracefully ended her rescue mission, or if she just kept running (like it was her plan all along). That is similar to what I did twenty-seven years ago when I was six months pregnant with my son. At the time, we lived on a hill in San Francisco. Across the street, cars were parked parallel to each other, all the way down to the bottom of the hill. I came out to go to work one morning and saw a man bending over to get into my car. Without thinking, I yelled “Hey, get away from there!” in my very best From-The-Bowels-Of-Hell voice. Then, I ran down the hill, my maternity dress straining against my belly. As I got closer to my car, I realized the man was getting into the car next to mine. Not wanting to explain why I was yelling and running like I was on fire, I turned the corner and just kept running. The man looked startled, and a bit scared. I’ve always wondered if anyone was watching this unfold. It could have been a YouTube moment, had YouTube been invented back then.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Are We Bewitched?

Remember the 1960’s TV show “Bewitched”? Samantha, a witch, was married to a regular human named Darren, who worked for an advertising agency. Wackiness ensued when Samantha’s spells and goofy relatives encroached on daily life. Every time, Samantha saved Darren’s job by explaining that the weird happenings were part of Darren’s current ad proposal. Every damn time. This week I encountered my own version of sneaky and strange marketing techniques. I was pumping gas at a 7-11 convenience store. When my gas tank was full, a display printed on the gas pump screen - “CUP HOLDER IS LONELY”. Wow! The gas pump was talking to me. Really, that’s what it seemed like. I felt really special and almost wanted to chat with Pumpy. There was a real connection. I wanted to discuss the last episode of “The Closer” and maybe take the pump shoe shopping. I did not, however, want a drink. Does this stuff ever work? Does someone not know they are thirsty until the gas pump tells them? Seems like a stretch. Another ad technique happens every weekend over Seattle. A little airplane tows a banner featuring the Geico gecko, back and forth in the sky for hours. Geico ads on TV are prolific. I enjoy them. They are funny and clever. But do they really need to bombard us with ads overhead? Is it possible to hide from them? I can’t imagine someone playing frisbee at the park, seeing the Geico banner in the sky, and deciding to drop everything and sign up... right now. Hey, maybe the Geico gecko is real, and he knows how to pilot an airplane. Maybe he was also inside the 7-11 gas pump, typing cute messages to unsuspecting customers (me). Or perhaps I’ve veered into “Bewitched” territory.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Brazilian Haiku

When Helen Reddy sang “I am woman, hear me roar...”, she must have just gotten a Brazilian wax. I know from my daughter’s experience, not my own, that this beauty procedure is really painful. I get my eyebrows and mustache... er lip waxed. My nether-regions, however, are not part of the package. My lady parts aren’t going to Brazil or anywhere else exotic. I can’t imagine what I’d do with someone working away DOWN THERE. It would be too embarrassing. I have had two foot massages in my life and in both instances I spent the entire time apologizing for my toes. So instead of getting a Brazilian wax, I have decided to resurrect my Haiku skills from 8th grade, and wax poetic:

Bald is beautiful
My vajayjay is angry
Misses her hairdo

Waxed on and waxed off
Cooter is shiny and new
Brazil has no trees

Worst pain in the world
Kind of like being skinned alive
childbirth piece of cake

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Trapped In The Family Truckster

My husband is a real Renaissance man when it comes to music. He will listen to all music except rap and heavy metal (he’ll listen to Gregorian chants, and he isn’t even Catholic). He downloads entire CDs on his iPod, which by now must hold a gajillion songs. I, on the other hand, am extremely selective when choosing what makes it onto my iPod. My music is mostly Motown, disco, and songs from the 70’s. I’m very picky about my music, which creates a problem when I drive Rick’s car. His car radio (if you can call it that) is too high-tech for me. It has one dial and no buttons. It is linked to Rick’s iPod and I have no clue how to control anything but the volume. So, driving his car is a challenge - Do I listen to the mysterious clanking sound coming from underneath the car, or brave potluck coming out of the music thingy? Here is the random sampling that I listened to while driving Rick’s car today: 

  -  John Denver
  -  children singing in Spanish (Huh?)
  -  some kind of Hillbilly music (Is my redneck aversion showing?)
  -  something classical (I have to turn the volume way up, then forget to turn it down)
  -  more Hillbilly music (I think my ears are starting to bleed)
  -  something in a foreign language (my high school Spanish is not helping)
  -  jazz
  -  something with talking and banjos (pictures in my head are making my eyes bleed)
  -  more jazz, with a lot of doobeedoobeedoodoowopwop
  -  starts out sounding like disco (yay!) then evolves into mandolins and whistling
  -  Stevie Wonder (back when he was Little Stevie Wonder) 
  -  Paul Hardcastle (NOW we’re talking!)

This broad range of music drove me nuts. God bless Rick and his appreciation for all music (except rap and heavy metal). Next time I will opt for the mystery noise under the car.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Ants In My Pants

Today is day 4 of Shark Week. Big deal. I don’t really care about predators in the ocean right now. I am having creature issues in my own house. For the last year I have had an ant problem in my kitchen. I have tried to figure out where they are coming in the house, to no avail. I took everything out of the cupboards on the exterior wall side of my kitchen, but didn’t find a hole, doorway, or tiny ant loading dock. I tried some natural ways to either thwart them or hopefully make them pack up their little insect luggage and leave. First I tried vinegar in a squirt bottle. I swear vinegar is the main component in ALL natural remedies for every problem. In the case of ants, vinegar is supposed to erase their trail. Since it didn’t work for me, I must have trailblazing genius ants with GPS. They found their old trail just fine. A clerk at Fred Meyer told me to sprinkle cornstarch around. The ants supposedly will walk through the cornstarch, and track it back to the queen. They can’t digest it, so the cornstarch eventually kills them. I went through all my cupboards and sprinkled cornstarch along the edges and corners. I also put it around the edges of my counter tops. I’m not sure what effect it had, but it didn’t make the ants go away, get the sniffles, or die. What it did do was make a mess and gives the appearance that slovenly people live here. The ant population in my kitchen has actually dwindled a bit. They are still there onesy-twosey. Now I mostly wipe them into the sink and turn on the water. Yesterday, I found myself yelling “Woo Hoo!!!” as a little guy zoomed around the drain before disappearing. I thought I would give him a really nice sendoff for his water-slide ride to the Great Beyond. Then again, since it’s Shark Week, who knows what is lurking down my pipes...

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Shark Week

This Sunday marks the start of the Discovery Channel’s 25th year of Shark Week. I just don’t get it. 25 years... who knew? Twenty five years ago, I was pregnant with my daughter, Molly. I had also just attended my 15th high school reunion. Little did I know that while all this exciting stuff was happening, Shark Week was being born. I have always been terrified by sharks. I’m not sure why. I grew up in Utah. You can’t get more land locked than that. I seriously doubt there have been many shark attacks there. Still, that didn’t ease my fears. In 1975, I saw the movie “Jaws” as a sneak preview. Because it was a sneak, I didn’t know anything about the movie ahead of time. Boy, was I in for a surprise! After that, I didn’t want to flush the toilet for fear of a great white shark attack in my bathroom. Any liquid was suspect. I remember being repulsed by a can of clam chowder soup - too close to the sea I guess. I admit I haven’t watched any of the Shark Week shows, nor do I intend to. That being said...WTF??? On commercials, you see sharks jumping out of the water, multiple rows of pointy teeth exposed, eyes dead. Sooo creepy! I assume the Shark Week shows include guys who go underwater in cages to be with the sharks. They deserve to be eaten. Seriously! As much as I dislike sharks, putting food in a cage in front of them is just plain mean. So, I have an alternative to Shark Week. How about featuring other animals for a week, animals that are not predators who can rip a person apart and eat them? All you crocs and alligators out there need not apply. There could be Raccoon Sunday, Hedgehog Monday, Duckbill Platypus Tuesday, Otter Wednesday, Lop-Eared Bunny Thursday, Hummingbird Friday, and Kitten & Puppy Saturday. A week of nice and cuddly couldn’t hurt, right? A Cutesy Animal Week would counteract Shark Week. Sounds like a plan to me.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Rules To Live By

There's something not quite right about people who wear capes. Only vampires and super heroes should wear them. Elvis and Liberace are dead, so there is no longer a reason for anyone to don a cape. I think this item should be added to my Rule Book. Perhaps I need to review the rules, for when I am Queen of the World. It should simplify things for everyone:

TV reality shows will cease to exist. 

Smokers will be relocated to Antarctica. Sorry to the penguins and Ozone Layer, but these people  have to go. 

All versions of "Jingle Bells" will be strictly prohibited. No exceptions. 

People who put their turn signals on after beginning their turn will immediately lose their driver's licenses. 

Women in the Catholic Church will be ordained as priests, while men will only be allowed to join the Altar Society to "pretty up" the place.

Women's sizes will be changed to the following:
XS = You Look Ridiculous
S = Eat Something
M = Much Improved
L = Almost There
XL = You're Perfect

Hypocrites will carry the ashtrays for smokers in Antarctica. 

I never eat anything with suction cups (my own personal rule). Squid supposedly tastes like rubber bands. Why eat that? You may have my squid. Knock yourselves out. (You're welcome.)

Through some fluke, should I not become Queen of the World, feel free to follow these simple rules anyway. One of us will be happier.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

More Sexy Stuff

I heard the Octomom was going to appear in Tacoma to promote her new porn video “Octomom Home Alone”. Mother of a porn video. My first thought was a comment I’d heard pertaining to Michelle Duggar (mother of 19) - “Your uterus is not a clown car”. Now THERE’S a movie! Nadya Suleman, deep in debt, has turned to porn. I’m assuming she has had surgery since the delivery of her octuplets. Skin can only snap back so far. Perhaps they will utilize special effects from George Lucas’ Industrial Light & Magic. Hey, it worked for Star Wars. Get out the giant airbrush!!! According to an article I read, the premise of the video is the Ocotmom pleasuring herself around her empty house. Hmmmm. Well, first off, being ALONE when you’re the mother of 14 children should be pleasure enough. Seriously, she should stop right there! I could totally make a video of me alone in my house, experiencing pleasure without ever taking off my clothes. Basically, as long as I have a TV, I’m happy. Being able to see my dining room table after clearing away piles of mail and assorted papers, causes me some serious bliss. Finding cookies that are still crisp in the cookie jar is ecstasy. Granted, none of it is sexy, but it’s pretty great all the same. Ok, I realize nobody is going to watch that movie, but what is the draw with the Octomom? Is it her willingness to do anything for money? Some people are drawn to freak shows and I can’t think of a bigger freak show than the Octomom. Apparently she has also released a single, called “Get On The Dance Floor”. I think my iPod missed that one. I have been accused of being judgmental, which is probably pretty true. So, I will now back off my dissing of Ms. Suleman. Good for her... she is tenacious, and puts herself out there. Wow, I feel like a better person already. One question, though - While she is traveling on her porn tour, who is watching the kiddies? Just wondering... not judging.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Sexy Stuff

I think I have a problem with sexy movies. They make me giggle. I’m pretty sure that isn’t the targeted response. Many years ago my husband subscribed to the Playboy Channel. I think this was mainly due to the fact that he was living outside of Utah for the first time in his life. Party! So, I tried watching a few of the movies, but apparently didn’t do it right. My immediate response was to say “Oh, I’m sure that would happen!”. It turns out the plot in these features is not supposed to be noticed. It doesn’t matter if it seems unbelievable. I guess you’re not supposed to worry about stuff like facts. So, in my mind I sort of felt sorry for the leading ladies. They were gorgeous, had enormous boobs, but were apparently too poor to afford underwear. They may have had nice houses and fancy cars, but none of them owned panties. Perhaps there was a medical or mental reason. I suppose they all could have just forgotten to get dressed all the way. In addition to the missing underwear problem, there seemed to be a plethora of aggressive landscapers, pizza delivery men, and pool boys. A ringing doorbell seemed to automatically lead to the female’s bedroom. Hey people...Pizza can go cold that way! All the times I’ve ordered pizza for delivery, I’ve never ended up in my bedroom. You’ll find me at my kitchen table, eating my pizza, underwear firmly in place. My lawn care guys service my yard, not me. I just don’t get the sexy stuff. Tee hee.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Bird Of Paradise

When I was ten years old, I saw an old movie called “Bird of Paradise”. It was the story of star-crossed lovers on a Polynesian island. The man was a soldier of fortune and the woman was the native chieftain’s daughter. Their love was thwarted when the woman, a virgin, had to hurl herself into the local volcano, to appease the gods. I hate when that happens. I took this to heart, and worried that I would be called on to chuck myself into Mount Olympus, the nearby mountain on the Salt Lake City horizon. I pictured the mountain blowing it’s top, then my doorbell being rung by guys in grass skirts. I wasn’t sure what a virgin was, but was pretty sure I fit the bill. I was a skinny, gangly child. My grandmother remarked one day that if I got out in a big wind, I would fly away. I remember sitting in her screened porch on windy days, wondering what that would be like. I was a bit terrified, and a little bit fascinated. I saw myself floating away, yelling “Tell Mom and Dad I love them”. One particularly windy day, I decided to test out my grandmother’s theory and tried to fly. The neighbor across the street had a little hill that rolled down into the next neighbor’s yard. I ran like hell, jumped as high as I could, and opened my coat to catch the wind. Needless to say, I never got airborne. I didn’t doubt my grandmother. I just assumed I hadn’t done something right. Maybe I had run into the wind, or maybe it wasn’t windy enough. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I wore Keds tennis shoes instead of P.F. Flyers. According to their ads, P.F. Flyers made you run faster and jump higher. I guess I might’ve been airborne with the proper footwear. Had she owned P.F. Flyers, that Polynesian virgin from the movie could have jumped the volcano, and run for the nearest cruise ship. Shoes really do make the woman.