The Holy Hottie

I saw a news report about what happens next to the outgoing pope, Benedict XVI. He’s decided to keep his white robes, title of Your Eminence, and his personal secretary. There was a photo of the Pope’s secretary, Archbishop Georg Ganswein. OMG... I’d like to keep him! They are calling him the George Clooney of the Vatican. I’m thinking of dumping George Clooney, and promoting this new Georg as my dream man. In addition to being really handsome, the fact that he’s a priest makes him even hotter - untouchable and forbidden. According to Wikipedia, Archbishop Dreamboat devotes his free time to playing tennis, skiing, and flying airplanes. He’s been a priest for almost 30 years, so I’m not sure when he became a proficient pilot. But who cares? Maybe he used his good looks to get a deal on flying lessons. I’d give him lessons, and I have no clue how to fly. Seriously, this man is gorgeous. In ninth and tenth grade, I attended an all girls Catholic school. Any man in the building was fair game for our teenage crushes. We had a few priests, and one in particular was in his 30’s. He wasn’t that good-looking, but we didn’t care. He was: A. young, B. a man, C. forbidden fruit, D. not Tony the janitor. The poor man taught us sex education, which he seemed to handle fine. Maybe the nuns would have freaked out given that task. Sometime after I graduated, I heard that Father had left the priesthood. I wonder if being around all of us sexy teenage girls was too much for him. I doubt I personally could have driven a celibate man to distraction, but you never know. Some guys really, really like those Catholic school uniforms and we wore our skirts pretty short back in 1970. The black and white saddle shoes might have been a buzz kill, though. The Pope’s personal dude has it pretty nice. He obviously has some mad language skills - he speaks Italian, Spanish, German and Latin. He must have the greatest deal a priest can have - a palace to live in, a sweet ride (Popemobile), and he doesn’t really have to be out mixing with the riff-raff. I will be following his career from afar. Sigh...

Plane Support

I read an article about someone who flew from Portland to Mexico with an emotional support animal. He was not allowed into the country, and deported back to Portland due to the fact that his emotional support animal was a kangaroo. A kangaroo... hippity hoppity, G’day Mate, giant mouse with a pouch. Domestically, unusual animals such as miniature horses, pigs, and monkeys qualify as support animals but must behave properly in a public situation. I assume this means support monkeys cannot throw pooh. So, where to begin? Let’s start with the kangaroo... Where does it put its tail while seated? Is it tall enough to hit it’s head on the overhead bin? I’ve learned from my kangaroo research (cartoons) that they can pummel a person with their feet, and they sometimes wear boxing gloves. Having these animals on a plane for emotional support makes me think that they travel inside the passenger cabin. I can’t imagine someone who needs a miniature horse for comfort would be OK with their friend being comatose in a crate somewhere in the cargo hold. How do these animals square with allergic people? Years ago I had a series of allergy tests, and found I had a severe allergy to cows and horses. Good thing I’ve never had to sit next to an emotional support heifer on a plane. There are signs on Seattle play fields stating that dogs, cats, and pot-bellied pigs are forbidden. I’ve always wondered what kind of incident triggered this ban. I’m pretty sure the pig played a big part, a big smelly part. I say let the pot-bellied pigs fly and comfort people, since they can’t play ball and run with the kids. Now, what to do with the kangaroos?

Bad Maxine

I was so pleased it was Friday today. As I motored home from work, I was forming a plan of which errands to do and what order to do them in. I was gleefully contemplating my Friday afternoon guilty pleasure - a molten hot vanilla latte from my favorite barista. Three quarter’s of the way home, traffic stopped for a red light. Then, my Friday afternoon turned to crap. For some reason, my car died. When the light turned green, I couldn’t go. My car would not start, and the Oh-Most-Hated check engine light came on. I turned on my hazard lights and called AAA. I was blocking traffic, and could not move... on a Friday afternoon. To add to my consternation, my car wasn’t making any noise. To angry drivers it might have looked like I was just sitting there with my thumb up my butt, not trying to start my car. Damn! A Good Samaritan came to my window and offered to push me over to the curb. I had to turn the key to put the car in gear, and it started. Wow! I cancelled AAA and made an attempt to drive home. A mile down the road, my car sort of shuddered, lost speed and power, and all the Bad Lights came back on. This time I was able to pull over to the side of the road. Unfortunately I was at the beginning of the Ballard Bridge. OMG! This was my nightmare coming true. A Friday afternoon, in a stalled car, on a bridge. At least this time I was over enough to the side that I wasn’t holding up traffic. As I waited again for AAA, I cried a bit. Then I fantasized about what I’d like to do to Maxine, my dead car. I wondered if the AAA driver could help me push her over the railing and into the Ship Canal below. Splash... good riddance! Could I be charged with littering, or would a tally of my auto mechanic receipts point to justifiable homicide? I am seriously done with Maxine. As I left her at the mechanic’s, I grabbed my little vase of fake flowers with the rubber chicken at the bottom. With a harrummpphhh, I stormed away from my future former car. I am now on the prowl for new wheels. My rubber chicken needs a new home as well. Stay tuned...

Panic Attack... Shhhh

I had jury duty today. I spent three and a half hours reading or playing solitaire on my cell, before being released for an hour and a half lunch. I ate at a fancy schmancy food court at the Bank of America skyscraper. That only killed twenty minutes, so I had to hunt for something to occupy the rest of my lunch break. I walked up to the new downtown Seattle library. My husband has been inside, and hates it. I decided to check it out on my own, since I had nothing better to do. At first, I thought the library was OK - modern but kind of sterile. Then I ventured up the first escalator, which was a bright yellow tube. I started to re-think my mildly positive assessment. The next floor was a huge room filled with computers on tables. In the hopes of finding a really cool view of Seattle from the top of the library, I found the next escalator. It was an even longer yellow tube that seemed to go up for miles. I have never been claustrophobic, but was starting to consider trying it out. When I finally got to the top floor, I was disappointed. The view from the jury assembly room was actually better. At this point, all I wanted was to get the hell out of the library. The only way down was by stair or by elevator. I didn’t think my knees would appreciate the stairs, so I waited for the elevator. The wall in front of the elevators was glass. I had no desire to see all the cables, pulleys, motors, and whatever else was going on to get the elevator to me. I just wanted DOWN. Panic was starting to set in. After what seemed like hours of waiting, I got on the elevator and pushed the button that would get me back to the floor I started out on. I burst out of the elevator and the door closed, leaving me in a shiny red hallway. Red from floor to ceiling, and shiny shiny shiny. OMG... I was inside someone’s intestines! I soldiered on, followed the exit signs, and finally spilled out onto a regular stairway. I could see the outside! I felt like I had crawled out of the jungle after being chased by alligators and cannibals. I was so pleased to be out on the sidewalk. I didn’t even mind the cold wind that was blowing. On an approval scale of 1 to 10, I give the new library a -54. Bad vibes all around.

Shoe Pity

One day I came home from a shopping expedition with a fabulous pair of olive green high-top canvas shoes. I was so excited about my purchase. It was then that my mom accused me of buying ugly shoes because I felt sorry for them. That implied there was a history of this suspect behavior. I was crushed, and very defensive of my new shoes. Ok, maybe they were sort of ugly, but I was hoping I was on the cutting edge of cool. The first pair of ugly shoes came into my life when I was in first grade. My mom picked them out and they were my first pair of official school shoes. They were black leather-like slip-ons. What made these shoes interesting was a tongue that was on top of the shoe, instead of hidden. This tongue had a hinge. You would slip your foot into the shoe, and press the tongue down to close it. I hated those school shoes. I detested them. In later years, though, I would think of those ugly shoes and sort of yearn for them. When I was about ten, I chose red Keds when replacing my traditional blue ones. Shortly after, I regretted my decision and plotted to speed up their demise. One morning, I rode my bike to the top of our street, then coasted back down while dragging the toes of my shoes on the pavement. In record time, the red shoes were toast. My mom made a comment about how fast my shoes had worn out, and took me to the store to replace them. I had a brain fart, or maybe I was being choked by guilt. Whatever the reason, I picked out red Keds again. I never confessed what I had done (until now), and let those shoes live out their natural life. Next time around, it was blue Keds and I never looked back. Still feel guilty, though. Sorry mom!

Buck Buck Buck

While walking my dogs this afternoon, a chicken crossed our path. Apparently, it gets out of it’s coop quite often, and none of the neighbors outside seemed concerned. I was glad my three dogs didn’t see the chicken or I would have had quite a fight on my hands. This chicken was copper-colored, and had a small red comb on the top of its head. I’m assuming this meant it was a rooster. He wasn’t cock-a-doodle-doing, but it was 4:00 pm, not sunrise. Do hens have combs? (Being girls they probably only have brushes.) Let me just say I wasn’t impressed with the size of the comb. I hope I’m not insulting its manhood. I just thought a rooster comb would be bigger and kind of floppy. My barnyard animal experience is limited mostly to what I’ve seen on cartoons. Needless to say, today’s chicken did not resemble Foghorn Leghorn - the big white, extremely annoying and loud cartoon rooster. The last time the subject of chickens came up was about 25 years ago. I was taking my two-year-old son, Ben, to the sitter. I got in the car, and promptly sat on my lunch. Then, without thinking, I blurted out the F word. I heard the bad word coming back at me from Ben. To cover for my blunder, I said “Yup, that’s what a chicken says - buck, buck, buck”. I looked in my rearview mirror, and could see the wheels in his head turning. No more comments were made, so I think he bought my story. I guess that doesn’t count as a brush with nature, but it’s all I got. My niece in Idaho once told me that she found a beef cow in her front yard. I thought all cows were made out of beef. See what I mean? There is so much I don’t know about the animal world. I hope if I run into the neighborhood chicken again, I will be able to tell whether it’s a rooster or a hen. At least I know it’s not made out of beef. Right?

If I Were Pope

Pope Benedict XVI announced that he is going to resign. The only other time this occurred was in 1415. I think it was a Tuesday. Anyway, I thought I would jump on the bandwagon and list my reasons for and against applying for the job:

Reasons Why I Should Be Pope:

- OK, I got nothing. There is no reason on earth why I should lead any church.

Reasons Why I Should Not Be Pope:

- I’d probably need to be a Catholic in good standing. So not me.
- The Pope’s white vestments would probably make my butt look big.
- The pointy Pope hat would give me hat hair.
- I don’t speak Latin.
- I probably couldn’t take my dogs, kids, or husband.
- Gregorian chants put me to sleep.
- There are probably no Starbucks at the Vatican.
- Not enough girls to hang with, just a lot of old men.
- My best innovative idea would probably not go over well - I would put packing peanuts and a fan in the glassed-in Popemobile, so I could be like a human snow globe. Pretty cool, huh?

I’m not sure how much this all matters. Some old white guy will invariably get the job, and nothing will change. I’ll stick around here and cherish my non-hat haired, irreverent, non-practicing Catholic self. It’s Rome’s loss.