Sunday, December 30, 2007


As we transition from one year to the next, I've been thinking about segues. Having too much champagne and kissing total strangers on midnight New Year's Eve seems like a perfect segue into the hang over that the first day of the new year will inevitably bring.

I'm just confirming the dictionary definition of this word: To move smoothly and unhesitatingly from one state, condition, situation, or element to another. That's just chocked full of meanings that can be manipulated, twisted, turned upside down or inside out, isn't it? Tomorrow night I will unhesitatingly move from one state, 'sobriety,' to another, 'witty-and-charming-bordering-on-obnoxiously-tipsy.'I will then continue to segue into 'bullet proof,' finally landing in a state of 'way-too-loud-when discussing-male-genitalia.' SalGal will call a taxi for us and we'll not remember a thing on January 1, which is another good segue.

And, I want a Segway, don't you? I just want to Segway myself all over the neighborhood. If you haven't a clue what I mean here, the definition of this trademarked word is: A self-balancing personal transportation device with two wheels that can operate in any level pedestrian environment. SalGal and I want to have drag races for Seniors on Segways up and down our street. We want to piss off every impatient driver who is late for their destination.

Since SalGal has nixed any New Year's resolutions, we don't have to worry about those segues-that-won't-be. I intend on being as happy in the new year as I was in the last which seems to me to be the PERFECT segue, and I wish the same for you!


This is a tough one and it seems that KK has covered all the bases with the whole concept of segues. I intend to segue into the new year with all the hope, positive thoughts and reruns of 'Ellen' that I can muster. I intend to make the very best of the opportunities that will come my way by staying spiritually awake, taking calculated risks and cheating wherever possible.

I am going to segue from being somewhat depraved to halfway dignified, from sort of witty to downright brilliant and from Kirstie Alley pudgy to George Clooney svelt. He looks great don't you think?

So off we go with another start date for a brand new chance to do those things that make us happy and piss off our enemies. Onward through the fog is our motto and my headlights are on bright...

Thursday, December 27, 2007

New Year's Resolutions

1. To relax and take a deep breath when I see piles of papers or area rugs or paintings that are not following the RIGHT ANGLES which should physically define their spaces. 'Leave them alone, KK. Just walk away.'

2. Try to turn off The Oprah Show while I'm doing my yoga. Burn some incense and listen to calming, cosmic music. Crap...I'll never do this. It's on my list every year, but Oprah is calling to me while I do my yoga like a siren. I know I'm missing something. fuckit!

3. Have more patience with people...all people...even the children behind the concession stand at the movies who NEVER scoop the popcorn from the top when I ask them to. Try not to cock my head and cross my eyes at them when they look at me like I'm a lunatic after asking them to topscoop.

4. No more lecturing the waiter when they're a nanosecond late with my food or wine. They don't give a shit that I was a waitress many years ago and can impart much needed and valuable techniques for them to increase their tips.

5. Try to appear more interested in what others are saying to me instead of thinking of what I will say when it's my turn. Even if I have to raise my arm, shake my hand and hold that arm up with the other one like a second grader who has the answer to the teacher's question. Just be patient and wait until you're called upon, KK.

6. Ride a horse again. Take a horse vacation through the Cowgirl Hall of Fame Museum so I can remember what being horseback feels like. And, play with the cowboys too, but don't bring one home.

7. Remember to practice tomfoolery every single day. Keep myself off balance, freak someone out, force someone to smile, cause a rukus.

8. Aren't seven resolutions enough?



I don't like doing New Year's Resolutions. They suck. It's just everybody trying to make themselves do stuff that they don't want to do. I mean, think about it. New Year's Day is the day when everybody eats black eyed peas, watches the football games all day and announces the wonderful things they vow to do for the rest of the year. And they tell EVERYBODY! Excuse me but I don't give a shit about the new good habit you plan to implement this year because I know you will not do it anyway. You will forget what it was before the glue on the post-it note you wrote it on dries out and it falls off the refrigerator.

You will vow not to cuss and that you will put a quarter in a jar every time you do. By the end of the year you will have enough quarters for a trip to Hawaii.

You will vow not to drink too much and by the end of the year everybody in the office will have Polaroids of you passed out on the copy machine, lobby couch or reception desk.

You will vow to be nice to all service people and by the end of the year 3 waiters will have spit in your food, 2 filling station attendants will have let ten pounds of air out of your tires and the fat lady behind the 'Overnight Cleaners' counter will have accidentallyonpurpose lost the suit you planned to wear to the biggest meeting of your life.

So give it up everybody and fuhgitaboutit! Vow that you will never vow to do anything again. We're all doing the best we can all the time anyway, aren't we?

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Twas the Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas at 2:45 am,

When inside the house there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Down the hall I flew like a flash

As I threw off the blanket and tied my robe sash.

When what to my wandering eyes should appear

But Salgal sitting in the dark in a chair.

I whistled and shouted and called her by name,

Hey SalGal! Hey sister! Why the hell are you in the chair?!

"I'm waiting for Santa to come to the porch."

And then in a twinkling, I knew she was drunk,

But I humored her once with a "Well who'd a thunk."

She looked like a peddler just opening her pack

Of questions for me that weren't in a sack.

Her eyes how they twinkled, her wrinkles how merry.

I thought it so odd that in a chair she should tarry

Then her droll little mouth drew up like a bow

As she looked at me unflinching and said, "Well, so?"

I said, "Are you asleep at this moment we speak,"

And she winked with her eye and nodded her beak.

I then spoke not a word and went straight to my work

And got her to her bed before she could even jerk.

Giving a nod, down the hallway I went

As SalGal lay sleeping so obviously spent.

Even so, I heard her exclaim as I walked out of sight




Okay, well here's what I think happened. I was having a really nice Christmas Eve watching TV and stuffing stockings and I decided that I was home safe and what could a little bourbon hurt? I had already had three glasses of wine in celebration of the holiday so my mental facilities were already at an ebb.

I think I got up in a hurry in the middle of the night and accidentally went in the wrong direction and ran into the chair and it knocked over the little table next to it and made a big crash. I thought for a second that I would just sit for a while and then fix everything and that's pretty much all I remember. I believe that at that moment I went back to sleep in the chair and the rest: KK finding me, uprighting the table and getting me back to sleep was done while I was sound asleep. She was totally freaked out and I was in a fog, actually sleepwalking which I think I have done before.

It must have been quite a sight for KK as I can't sleep in anything but my skivvies. So there was my middle-aged body sitting in the dark in the middle of the night and sounding like a drugged out Diane Keaton and looking like a nekked Lyle Lovitt. Poor KK.

The wierdest thing is that I felt absolutely normal in the morning. That's what makes me know that I was sleepwalking. And KK thinks so too. I have a big bruise where my shoulder hit the studded back of the wing back chair that looks like a demented bat. It just goes to show you that you are not safe even at home if you
decide to partake of the evil spirits.

So I am fine and we had a really great Christmas. The Ancient One gave me a paper cutter that she saw on the shopping network.


Sunday, December 23, 2007

Dear Santa,

How's it hangin'? I know you're mighty busy, so I'll be brief. I've been damn good this past year, sir. I'm helping take care of my ancient mother too. I even live with her in her house because SalGal and I couldn't pry her OUT of her house with a crane and a small army. I want major points for this because care-giving for the ancient ones ain't for pansies.

Anyway, I digress. Here's what I want for Christmas:

1. An entire new wardrobe, preferably a mix of goodies from Michael Kors, Donna Karan, Ralph Lauren and Eileen Fisher.

2. A one-story sprawling mansion in a beautiful neighborhood with a swimming pool in the back surrounded by a magnificent garden.

3. A staff of helpers for the mansion and a garage apartment where our 'chief of staff' could live in luxury.

4. Peace on earth.

5. A six-figure advance, agreements for foreign rights and movie rights on the upcoming publication of my first novel, A Texan Goes to Nirvana, with the best publisher in the business.

6. A sitcom contract for The Midlife Gals as this decade's new "Golden Girls" on mushrooms.

7. The end to world poverty.

8. A total makeover of hair, makeup and tummy tuck.

9. The most handsome, funny, generous, loving, successful, rich, tall, creative man on the planet.

10. To appear with SalGal on the Oprah Winfrey Show by this time next year.

Now, I know this list might sound selfish to you, Santa, but I'm being honest, and if everyone else were being honest, their lists might look very similar. Let's face's like someone showing you a group photograph...WHO do you look at first in the photo...du'uh...yourself, of course. And, you take your sweet time sizing up yourself without once looking at your beloved Mrs. Clause, any of the elves, or Rudolph, who also happen to be in the photograph.

I'm 55 years old and fixin' to turn 56 in the spring. I've voted, recycled, quit smoking, volunteered, been kind to the less fortunate, been a good citizen...and now, it's MY turn, don't you think?

I mean, I am humbled by the presence of God during this wonderful season, and I wish for everyone a marvelous holiday with their loved ones, peace on earth and good will toward their fellow men. How's that?



Dear Santa,
I want all the things that KK wants only as a person, I suck. I don't really deserve anything but I want it all anyway. I feel entitled because I am a human and I think we all deserve abundance. I quit smoking too and I give generously to The North Shore Animal League but I also get testy when the waiter isn't fast enough. That's a bad trait...impatience. And I should be grateful that I can even go to a place that has waiters but I'm spoiled. My granddaddy, Edward Kelly always liked little girls and said they would not be interesting women if they were not a little spoiled. I always took that to heart and did my best to assume the attitude.

I'm a bad girl. I drink, cuss and shoot the finger at driver's who cut me off. I am not altruistic and I want vengeance on neighbors who let their dogs poop on our lawn.

But I digress and here is what I want in addition to everything KK said:

$65,000.00 dollars to make my documentary.
A job as an actor in a national commercial.
The job as an actor in that movie I auditioned for last month.
Money to get all my moles removed; even the ones on my back that nobody can see.
The writer's strike to be over and they get what they want.
Purple suede shoes with tassels.
To make the world laugh.

Ho Ho Ho!

Friday, December 21, 2007

Gift Giving

'Tis the Season! We like to create a stack of presents that The Ancient One always describes as "A vulgar display." No matter, it's only once a year and our motto is give, give, give and receive, receive, receive!

Are you the kind who peeks at your presents before Christmas morn? My little childhood friend, Margaret would completely unwrap each of her gifts to see what she would be getting and then re-wrap them so professionally that nary a relative of hers could tell what she'd been up to. I don't understand this mentality, but I know that there are a LOT of you slackers out there who do this. Why?... is my question. Actually, my other questions about this would be, 1)Who taught you to do this? 2)Did you grow up receiving gifts that weren't wrapped at all so the wrapped gifts you now see are an enticement that absolutely cannot be a chocolate truffle with champagne?

Let's confess our regifting sins, shall we? I have noticed that the Universe has shifted on this subject after reading an article in a magazine about how this is what everyone SHOULD do now so we can all cut down on our gifting and just 'recycle' the ones we have. It's like the nonsmokers who took over the world and now make the few, pathetic smokers feel like they've just killed their children. Pretty soon, we'll all be made to feel SELFISH about purchasing something new when we could simply wash, dry and perfume an old pair of socks, wrap them in Bergdorf Goodman wrapping paper and give them to Daddy! I will NOT be a party to this! I'm going to go out there and SPEND MONEY, by Gawd! And, I want a sales slip and store tags on whatever gift I RECEIVE so I'll know it's not been given to the person who gave it to me!

I had a husband once who double-gifted. He hated shopping more than anything...especially shopping for me (can you sense that I left him quite awhile ago?) One Christmas He gave me a lovely sterling silver pin from Tiffany's in the shape of a 'K.' I thanked him profusely and not three months later, I got another one for my birthday. I did not go by the nickname KK back then, but that is exactly where my nickname came from...this shameless mistake on his part, and he wasn't even remorseful!

Don't we all really give gifts that WE want anyway? I couldn't think of anyone who wanted a Bose Wave Sound System as much as I did, so I just bought one for myself this year. My extravagant gift for having been such a good little girl. Did I spend more on that gift for myself than all the gifts I bought for loved ones combined? Shhhhh...don't ask, don't tell!

Merry Christmas!



I love Christmas so much and I love to go shopping for presents for people. I like it so much that I mostly forget that I'm going to receive some presents too!!

Re-gifting is so tacky. I only do that to people I really don't like at all. And only with gifts that I got from people that I liked even less. For me, re-gifting is a form of revenge. If somebody gives me a candle that I think smells like the men's bathroom at the 7/11 Store, I wrap it in plain, brown paper and give it with a smile to the lady behind the desk at the cleaners who once told me I reminded her of her alchoholic, Great Aunt Bertha from the trailer park in Amarillo. The beauty of this is that the giftee doesn't even realize that you are punishing them and they feel like they have to smile and be grateful and this is fun to watch when you know as they smell the candle that it is making them gag and they have to hide that. HaHaha that's so funny and I have to bend over and hide my glee as I giggle all the way to the car.

I'm not the only one who does that sort of thing. Last Christmas the Asian lady next door (whom I hate) came over to give me some cookies that looked like cat throw-up. It freaked me out and I knew she hated me too so I crumbled them up and scattered them around the birdbath on the deck. The next day I awoke to find two dead black birds, three dead squirrels and a sick possum next to the birdbath. I am plotting my neighborly return gift to her and I bet she'll be surprised to see me smiling at her door with a nicely wrapped present that smells like fruit cake from under the liquor cabinet from three years ago.

Actually...I think she gave that to me...

So....Merry Christmas yall!!

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

The Ancient One Takes a Field Trip

The Ancient One hates doctors, but every now and then, she just has to go to her doctor so he can make sure she's still alive. Frankly, he doesn't care whether she's alive or not because it's all about the numbers for him...get 'em in and out and don't take too much time with any one 'number.' THIS will be covered in another post!

Getting a couch-ridden, agoraphobic 85-year old out of her house takes planning. We have to plant the seed that she has to go to the doctor a few days in advance so she can mull that over, plan her outfit, change her bathing schedule and mentally lock in the idea of physically moving.

Because we know The Ancient One well, we decide that she'll go in the wheelchair instead of the walker because if given a choice, she'd choose the walker which would add an additional HOUR to the trip. We try not to give her too many choices anymore because of our own nerves and mental health.

SalGal was new to piloting a wheelchair with an actual person in it, and she got a little carried away. As I was getting the car warmed up, she poured The Ancient One into the seat and proceeded in a forward motion out the door. Everyone who has used a wheelchair knows that you proceed forward in a reverse mode so as to have a modicum of control over both vehicle and passenger. After kicking their way out the door, she didn't really think about that one step down and as they proceeded forward, The Ancient One nearly bounced completely out of the chair and onto the walkway before either of them figured out what was happening. Mother was terrified before she'd even made it to the curb!

After piling both wheelchair and The Ancient One into my sedan, off we went. Upon arriving at the doctor's office, the reverse procedure began to take shape while I then parked the car. SalGal had begun to really enjoy the novelty of wheeling someone around in a wheelchair wondering just how fast she could move it and how closely she could take the corners. By the time I met them in the waiting room, The Ancient One was bug-eyed with fear and exhaustion and SalGal had a bit of a gleam in her eye.

Because The Ancient One likes to order things from catalogs just so she can chit-chat with the order takers over the phone, you can imagine how excited she might be to have the captive audience of a doctor sitting a few feet away. She batted the few eyelashes she has left at him and told him that there wasn't "a thing wrong" with her as he scanned her chart. This is a conundrum that I KNOW some of you caregivers out there have come across. It's startling because you KNOW that your parent is falling apart, yet they go mute when asked about their health by the one person who can do something about it.

It's left to the adult children to let the doctor know what is going on. I have this thing where I always call doctors by their first names. I like to do it, because most doctors consider themselves one step below The Almighty. I told "John" what ailed our mother. He didn't seem the least bit interested, but was happy to prescribe any and every drug she might want. As The Ancient One began to tell him one of her 'stories,' he ahemmed, cleared his throat and stood to leave. SalGal and I looked at each other in acknowledgment of how much we both wanted to shoot him for being so rude. Of course, we wanted to shoot The Ancient One too for thinking that she could entertain the asshole doc with a story that SalGal and I had heard approximately 2,367 times.

After our streesful visit to the doctor, we took The Ancient One to Starbucks for a latte as her reward. On the entire journey home she regaled us with her version of how our appointment had gone, how much she liked the doctor, how cute he was and how he reminded her of one of her old beaus in college....and off she went into another story we'd heard a thousand times. We could only stare at each other through the rear view mirror with our knowing smiles...hoping that the next field trip with The Ancient One would go a little bit better.



Okay, I'll admit I got a little carried away with the wheelchair but it was really fun and I think mother secretly enjoyed it. That woman in the elevator whose ankles I clipped with the 'feet-sticky-outy-thingys' was just an alarmist and a screamer. I hate screamers. I just thought The Ancient One might enjoy what to her would be the equivalent of a roller coaster ride. She did do a little screaming herself but I think it was from excitement and joy. When I rounded that corner in the parking lot at about five miles an hour her arms went up into the air just like when kids are going down on a roller coaster. Come on...she was having fun. It was her fault when she whirled %180 degrees around that tree because she reached out to grab it and it twirled her. It was not easy for me to gain control of that situation but due to my exceptional strength and coordination I was able to right the wheelchair just as The Ancient One was about to go completely sideways onto the tarmac, wheelchair and all.

All I need is a little more practice and all will go smoothly. I will take her out again to the street tomorrow and practice. I'm sure she won't mind and we will go down to the stream where I accidentally crashed her Jazzy Scooter. She will enjoy seeing the ducks and we can make a good run down the walking path at the park.

Bet I can get her going fast enough to make her hair go straight back. Last time it only went straight out in all directions and come on KK - you had to laugh. Her bug eyes were pretty funny too. Don't worry, she'll get used to it and beg for more rides,

Monday, December 17, 2007


What a subjective word THAT is...time, right? Isn't it silly when someone asks you what time it is? You say, "Well, according to my 'watch (?)' it is 8:12 am." I suggest that we change that around a bit and simply say when asked, "It's the time when all the people get in their machines and move toward the buildings where they'll spend a major portion of the lightest part of the sun's cycle." On the other hand, maybe 8:12 am is better...or at least shorter.

Time zones....helloooooo? I think El Paso Texas is in TWO time zones. How does that work exactly? And, who decides about time zones? The government? Hehehehe...that just amuses me to no end.

There are lots of ways to describe time too:

time to go
time for sex
ahead of time
time line
time it
on time
Greenwich Mean time
in the meantime
time will tell
yada, yada, yada...

I think I'm fixated on time right now because I'm waiting for my literary agent to finally have TIME to read the manuscript that is my first novel, "A Texan Goes to Nirvana." She's been busy so I've been waiting for about 6 weeks! Consequently, I have lots of time to get freaky, worried, doubtful, anxious and excited. I try to spend equal amounts of time in each of those categories so I won't implode completely. That's why I am fixated on what time really is.

Here is another description of time...earliest other words, my agent tells me that she will get to it at her "earliest convenience." Her earliest convenience and mine are two entirely different time lines, however. And, so I wait...time to wait, lah-tee-dah, lah-tee-dah. I think I'll use this time to start a blog. Hehehe!


Sounds like KK is getting a little impatient with her literary agent. But you know, it takes a lot of time and dedication to write a novel.

Time heals all wounds. That's a good one. Time is of the essence. I never understood that one. Time is of the essence...
I think that means 'hurry the fuck up.'

Time seems to move faster the older I get. When I was a kid a year seemed like forever and at the end of one you couldn't even remember the beginning of it. Now at the end of a year I look back and the beginning seems like three months ago. And yet, sometimes a day seems like a week and then a week can feel like a day when you look back on it. So time is probably subjective for everyone because I can be standing next to you and feeling like time is standing still while you would be thinking everything is going in fast motion.

I like the term, 'take my time.' Take it. I'm going to take my time and enjoy it. I don't know where I'm going to take it but it doesn't weigh much and it can go pretty much anywhere. Wait a can't go into the past and it can't go into the future so it can only be with me now. And I am here now so it must be here too but I can't see or feel it. This is weird. I'm getting too existential here so I am going to exit in time to the music.

Time and time again. I don't understand that one either. I think it means 'quit repeating youself.'

Steven Hawkins, the famous physicist in the wheelchair, says that there will never be a time machine because there is no such thing as time. We made it up so we could cope with the laws of the universe and line it all up to make sense of it. Depak Chopra says the same thing and that we are all swimming around in the cosmic soup. So, put the timer on and cook me well done.

Friday, December 14, 2007

On Domesticity

I like to sweep. I know it sounds strange, but I just like to sweep. I get immediate, visual feedback, I like the exercise I get and it just makes the area seem more organized somehow.

That's about as domestic as I get, however. I should just live in a hotel. I could have room service whenever I want it, valet service for my laundry, daily maid service, personal hygiene products delivered to me every single day, and I could run up and down the halls like Eloise knocking on doors and stealing newspapers.

SalGal is the chef in our house, and thank Gawd because I would look like Courtney on Survivor if she didn't feed me. I repay her favor with my own...clean up crew. I mean, I AM my own clean up crew...and I'm damn good at it. That's a fair trade. Truth be told, I would rather eat every meal at a fancy restaurant, but I'd be able to wear my sweats and no one could turn me away or say ugly things about my wardrobe, wouldn't you?

I do have some domestic talents. I can sew on a button that won't come off again for 50 years and I can hem a garment if you don't mind seeing the thread line at the bottom. I know how to say thank you when our little Guatamalan friend, Marta cleans our house. I know how to hang paintings without measuring. I can light a gas-powered fireplace and I can make a bed that you can bounce a quarter off of. So, as you can see, I'm not completely domestically challenged.

I think that chores relate to things that are going on in one's life. When I sweep, I have time to think, and yesterday, I decided that I sweep when I'm afraid. It's an exercise in sweeping the fear away...and it works! When I clean up, I'm clearing away the confusing mental fog that I might be in on any given day. I can 'sew things up' when I'm ready to put closure on something, and I can time travel when I hang paintings...just walk right into one and never come back.

So, think about the next domestic chore that you's both physical and metaphysical...and cheaper than therapy!



I think I'm more domestic than KK. I like to cook and clean and garden and bring flowers in from the yard and put them in vases around the house and set pretty tables. I like to do my laundry because for too many years I had to go to the laundrymat and that is a drag. I am very grateful that I can open a door and there is a washer and dryer.

I hate to iron. KK loves to do it and she does it really quickly. It takes me 30 minutes to iron a shirt and if she had to she could do it in 3 minutes. In return for her ironing my stuff I clean out the litter box every day, bring lunches to KK at her desk and anoint her feet with oil.

My idea of dream domesticity would be to be knowledgeable enough to tell a staff of people what to do to perfectly maintain a huge house. First I need to get a huge house. First I need to get the money to get a huge house.

Cooking is like meditating. My mantra is 'butter...butter...butter'. I think about sex sometimes when I'm cooking because it's the second best thing in the world below food. No, wait, third. I would also rather drink bourbon than have sex so make it third. Ummm....make sex fourth because I would rather go to a movie than have sex. But anyway, when I see bananas, cucumbers, yellow squash or zuccinis I am reminded of different men I have known (in the Biblical sense). On the other hand, jello reminds me of women and so does kiwi fruit and green bean casseroles. I don't know why that is with the casserole but don't you think figs look like testicles? Come on now...

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

I Want a Cowboy for Christmas

I really do want a cowboy for Christmas...well, actually, I want the idea of a cowboy more than the actual cowboy himself. And, I am speaking from experience here. There is a romanticism about cowboys that I have held since early childhood on the flat plains of west Texas.

I went on a cattle drive for a week in Colorado once upon a time, and I felt like I was in a Cormac McCarthy novel (NOT the novel, No Country for Old Men, which you MUST see at the movies, by the way).

When I was introduced to the head wrangler (we'll call him John), it was all I could do not to physically swoon at his firm, cowboy handshake. He climbed down from his bay mare named Sister with his spurs jingling and the fringe on his chaps swaying as he walked toward me. He took off his hat and held it to his chest as he nodded his head gently. He smelled of cheap, drug store cologne, horse sweat and leather, and his eyelashes were long and black.

I fancy myself a fairly good flirter so I put'er into high gear from that point forward. On the 3rd day, when I was on KP duty and cleaning up after a meal over a campfire in the mountains, John walked up to me, and as he handed me his empty plate, he said, "This is how we thank our women out here in the west." He cocked his head and came directly at me, planting a soft, quick kiss on my lips, then backed away, smiled, got on his horse and rode out to the herd. Don't I sound like I'm making this shit up?? I'm NOT!

I could continue with more details, but I would sound like a total slut from a schlocky, bad, cheap romance novel which was exactly what I was hoping for with this cowboy. He didn't disappoint, but here's the thing... after I kissed him goodbye on that last day, watched him load Sister in his horse trailer and drive away, waving to me out of his window, I realized that if I ever tried to take him to an opera, he wouldn't get it. I would be afraid he might stack all of his plates at a sitdown dinner party. And, his politics would be way too black/white and simple for me.

So, I get to keep my cattle drive memory in my little back pocket and move onward through the man-fog as a single, middle-aged woman. Cowboys beware!!


Yeah, cowboys are all manly and protective of their little darlin's. I know that because in 1978, here in Austin, Texas, I sort of went a little nutty while working in the music business and did a lot of one night stands with cowboys. I'm just establishing my experience in this category. Also, as you daily readers know, I worked on a lot of western movies in the eighties and nineties (see movie credits over there on the right somewhere) and therefore was around many a teamster wrangler/stuntman.

Well, hell, I was 28 in Austin and Aids wasn't here yet and the band and celebrity I worked for played in a lot of honky-tonks so the cowboys were everywhere. My experience is that cowboys are fun to sleep with but they fart a lot. Also they spit very often and excuse me but I prefer the smell of Irish Spring soap to cheap drugstore cologne, leather and horse sweat. I once had cowboy ask me why I thought it was important to read. I think that was why that one was a one-night stand. One very handsome but somewhat dim horseman told me that standing there and looking pretty and being quiet was the mark of a good woman. Another one nighter. And then there was the bronc rider who wanted me to go off to Wyoming with him to live in a TeePee by the river. You have seen my picture. Can you see me cooking just-kilt varmint over an outdoor, wood fire with a t-shirt that reads, 'Grand Tetons' over my chest? Hellooo.

Ride 'em cowboy...

Monday, December 10, 2007


I was born in west Texas in 1952. That should tell anyone who is familiar with the year 1952 or the location of west Texas how I feel about feminism. I totally understand the premise, but some of us middle-aged women have been as confused about this concept as the men our age have been.

On the one hand, there is certainly no question that women are as smart as men...that's a given. And, one of the reasons I left my last husband was because I asked him years ago to define the word, oxymoron, and his example was "smart woman." Hmmmmm, how smart was I to have married HIM!

There are a great many of us who had mothers like mine...The Ancient One. She raised us to believe that we would give our education but a cursory involvement as we focused on all the etiquette it would take to snag a wealthy husband, settle down as the town's best hostess and have children. She even intentionally left out middle names for her daughters, telling us that our maiden names would be our middle names when we got married.

Then the sixties and seventies came along. And, even though I agreed with what that woman said who had the long, stringy, brown hair that she parted in the middle...and she wore big, round glasses that came partly over her hair on the side to show the tops of her ears...see, I've forgotten her name which has nothing to do with the cause, but everything to do with middle-age. I should be ashamed of myself, but let's face it, she needed an extreme makeover back then.

Anyway, I agreed with a lot of that, but here's the thing...I still wanted a man to open the door for me. I longed for a man to pull a chair out for me, wait until I sat down and then scoot me forward to make sure I was 'tucked in' to the table. I unabashedly sought out men who would easily tell me that I looked sexy, and any cowboy who tipped his hat and called me ma'am could have whatEVER he asked of me.

Of course, the poor men were so confused they hadn't a clue what to do back then. Bless their hearts, they're still trying to figure it out. Boys, I say err on the side of being polite and if the woman shuns your efforts, she'll find a man for whom she can open the door, and that will be that.

Because of middle age, I am now able to excuse myself from all sorts of things I neglected to do, read, think or be during my youth. I can only retain so much now-a-days. I love strong women who like men, have a complete sense of themselves and have it all figured out. Me, I'm still looking for a man who will open a car door for me, close the door when I'm all 'tucked in' to the car, then (and only then) walk around to get in himself...and who will do this EVERY time we go driving.

Am I asking too much?


I guess I totally 'get' feminism but I don't think about it much. I mostly think that men are idiots. They're all boys. I have a wonderful man friend though who says, 'That's okay, I don't use the word 'woman' any more either.

Back in the old days of the people who believed in the Roman and Greek gods, the political and spiritual leaders were women and they were matriarchal societies. And the world was just as violent then as it is now.

I like to look at men's bodies and I am a hand and forearm woman. Big, man- hands are handsome. I like mens' strength and speed but we now live in a world where, in order to succeed and protect the family, you don't need those things so much. You need imagination and courage these days to keep up with the big dogs and women have plenty of those two things. I'm like KK though. I like the gracious manners of a well heeled man. I like men who know good wines, appreciate fine accommodations, dress well and know where the bourbon isle is at 'Twin Liquors'.

Men should just step back now and let us take over everything. Let me run the studio while you do the grocery shopping. Let me take the meeting while you play with the kids. Keep going to the gym to keep your body looking good. Kiss me when I get home and stand there and look pretty, mister man. Your days of leading the dance are over. You deserve a rest as you guys did the best you could. Get ready to sit back and enjoy the home while we women of the world fix this shit.

Let's get to work girls...

Friday, December 7, 2007


Tomfoolery is another word that I just love. It means playful or foolish behavior, and I think it's safe to say to all of our loyal readers that we're all up in there on that!

I don't know where this came from however. The Ancient One perhaps, but that was way before we really knew how to exhibit foolish least not on purpose. We both do remember The Ancient One telling us that we shouldn't want to be like everyone else, so we took that ball and ran off the field with it. And, I do think that tomfoolery is a way of life, frankly. It can get you into trouble at the drop of a hat, and it's not for the meek or weak in spirit. It requires a great deal of brazen courage, faultless timing and a sense of whimsy beyond the norm.

Tomfoolery doesn't work if you pre-plan or attach any foresight to it whatsoever. You gotta just run with it when the occasion arises. If you watch our "Christmas Card/12 Days of Christmas," or the shorter video, Marie Antoinette, you will see tomfoolery at our very best! And, we were actually ASKED to do the 12 Days video which will appear soon on more than one website with millions of viewers. We'll let you know when, where and why.

With tomfoolery, one must never beg the question, why. If you have to ask, you just don't understand the concept. It can be taught, however. I live for the unsuspecting friend to wander into my web of tomfoolery, and after giving a brief demonstration of just how easy it is to make a tomfool of yourself, I leave them to it...although sometimes I have to triple-dog-dare them to force their hand...knowing that it is never allowed to turn down a triple-dog-dare.

I then rate them on a point scale as to just how shocked their audience might have been at their behavior. It's 10 points for an open-mouthed jaw drop...but only 5 points for a stifled giggle. You see how this works now? Aren't the holidays just a perfect opportunity to exhibit tomfoolery all over the your choice of gifts to give, your holiday attire or the way you decorate your home?

I challenge you to step out from behind the velvet curtain and embarrass yourselves as much as possible until the New Year, and then start again!


Tomfoolery is good for you and makes you live longer. Probably because you spend a lot of time laughing.

Oh, come on, let's face it, we have all done something so stupid that our friends told the story at cocktail parties for years.

We have all thrown up on somebody else's shoes at least once.

We have all waked up on the sidewalk in front of the capitol building wearing nothing but a red sequined thong.

We have all been strip-searched on the Mexican side of the border by the hairy, bull dyke, Juanita.....who sang 'Don't cry for me Argentina' as she stuck her finger up our ass.

See? We're just like you. We're no different.

Have fun and be harmless!

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Drive-in Movies!

This will put you in your historical places, I'm thinking. A virtual hand raise if you remember drive-in movies. For those youngsters who were not fortunate enough, I pity you.

Drive-in movies were all the rage (and the norm) back when there was land enough to build one. You had to have a lot of land to accommodate hundreds of cars (which were huge back when), a walk-in concession stand with picnic tables and chairs on the patio out front and an ENORMOUS movie screen with enough room for a kiddie playground in front of it.

Out in west Texas there was LOTS 'o LAND, so we had lots 'o drive-ins. There was no question where you spent a Friday or Saturday night when you were a teenager...especially a teenager in 'luv.' Even before your teen years, if your parents were half the parents they should have been, they put you in your jammies, piled you in the back area of the station wagon with plenty of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals and off everyone went to see a cheap Japanese horror movie at the drive-in.

How many of you made it into a drive-in as the odd-man-out in the trunk of the car because there just wasn't enough cash to get everyone in? Or, how many of you had to take your little sister or brother to the drive-in as a parental condition for being able to go at all? That was fine, because you just shoo'ed them out of the car the minute you rolled in. And, weren't those big, clunky speakers that you attached to the inside of the car window funny? I'm having so many nostalgic visuals right now that I've got a grin from ear to ear, and I know that some of you do too!

Let's see...what else...oh yeah, making out at the drive-in. Ahhhhhh, caution to the wind, garments tossed aside, ONE front seat in the car for total access (by the way, I REALLY want car makers to go back to the one-seat in the front thingy. I miss that!), fogged-up car windows, etc....I could go on and on here, but then I really would start to sound like a slut.

Going to the drive-in in the back of a truck was fun too, cuz you could bring lawn chairs, drink beer and harass everyone within ear shot. Running from car to car gossiping, pointing flashlights in the cars with fogg-ed up windows and creating mayhem was the most fun...and frankly, I can't remember the name or content of a single drive-in movie I ever went to. That wasn't the point.

I want the drive-in back. If we can use up enough land to bury our dead on millions of acreage, we should still be able to set aside enough for a friggin drive-in here and there!



I loved going to the drive-in on Friday and Saturday nights in highschool with my boyfriend. We parked next to all of our buddies who were the bad boys of Midland High School. It was like a tailgate party except with entertainment. We were parked all in a line. We put blankets on top of the front windshields (for reclining) and brought out the cooler that held about a case and a half of Bud. We bought a pack of PallMalls or Lucky Strikes and stole a bottle of liquor from one of our parent's houses and then we proceeded to PARTAY!! KK's right about the actual movie not being the point. We also snuck people into the lot in the trunk and sometimes in my 1964, all-metal Belair Cevrolet we could get about ten kids in there. By the time the movie was over we were all so drunk we were running around to all the cars, whoopin it up and swinging on the kiddie swings in front of the screen.

Sometimes people who were in the car would accidentally drive off without putting the big, metal speaker thingy back and therefor pull it off of the post. You had to find one that had the speaker and by the 60's most of them were gone because people purposefully filched them. Our drive-in was called the 'Yucca Drive-In Theater' and it had a big, yellow, neon yucca plant in front of the entrance.

One day the drive-in didn't open and the tumble weeds blew across the empty lot of vertical iron pipes that once held twin clip-on speakers. The sign out front disappeared and the screen started looking like an old, torn poster. Even the blue and yellow glass popcorn maker was torn out by the time I got home from my fourth year of college. Desolate. Sad.

I have a cocktail book of pictures of old drive-ins across the country. They were something. Come on over and I will make you some really good movie popcorn in the big glass machine out on the back porch. You can find our house by following the sidewalk lighting that looks like a string of old, drive-in movie speakers. Really, you can't miss it. Just look for the yellow, neon yucca plant on the second floor porch.

Those were the good old days,

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Hug It Out

I'm a hugger, no question about it. I give good handshake, but I prefer hugs every time. I like to get into someone's sacred physical space with a gesture of humanity at every opportunity. And, truth be told, I like to tweak the nonhuggers by doing the same thing. I'm also a pusher, arm grabber and poker, but those are different blog posts.

Someone gave me a 'push/pull' hug the other day and that got me to thinking about how many different kinds of hugs there are. I'm convinced that politicians are the ones who invented the push/pull. Here's how it works: When they know they're going to have to hug an oncomer, which is anathma to a push/puller, they steel themselves with stiff, outstretched arms. They know they can take charge of the hug-out by grabbing the person's right shoulder so they can control how close the hugger comes in and at the same time they gently push the hugger's left shoulder away from their body. It's a bizarre feeling and the innocent comes away from a hug like that thinking, "Whoa, what in the hell was that?"

I suspicion that we've all walked up to a 'hard hugger.' One of my dearest friends is a 'hard hugger.' I've had to train her over the years to go easy on me with her rib-breaking strength. If I didn't love her so much and if she didn't have one of the world's greatest open-mouthed smiles, I would run screaming from the room at the sight of her arms beckoning me to her bosom.

Then there is the 'man hug.' I'm talking about the emotionally-challenged man hug here. Some men hug with abandon, especially other men in their families or great men friends. I'm talking about the every-day, painful-slap-on-the-back hug that, while allowing for closeness, does not exclude their manliness. Both heads turn sideways, away from the other's head while they continue to slap the back of their fellow hugger, and they always slap so HARD. Why do they do this? It makes me giggle every time I see it.

At least the African-American-man 'shake'n hug' has some rhythm to it. It's like a dance with one fluid movement as they grab the other's hand, slide forward, pull in to one side (usually the left side), turning the head and sometimes even laying their heads on each other's shoulders as they laugh, then push apart still laughing. White men should NEVER attempt this hug. It's cultural. It's historical, and let's face it...white men can't hug.

Every now and then I appreciate a good 'big-bosom hug.' This is a foreign conceptual hug for me because when I hug a man, for example, it's flat chest to flat chest with only our breast plates or possibly my strand of pearls separating our internal organs. I always feel loved when I get a 'big-bosom hug,' don't you? Not only does it cushion the embrace, but if the bosom is big enough, it kind of wraps around you like a hug inside a hug. It just makes me happy.

However you do it, keep huggin' it out!


You forgot the stage hug that actors do if not trained well. I see it all the time and it makes me yell and scream at actors. They come together like they are measuring each other's shoulder widths, place their hands gingerly on the shoulder blades of the other and then touch chest bones. Meanwhile there is about a foot of air between them at the waist and their asses are sticking out like JLo's. It is so ridiculous and makes me know for certain that they are not connected to any kind of truthful emotion. It's so actory and fake that I just can't stand it. I make them stand right up to each other and HUG! I make them hug every part of the other's body and wrap their arms around each other and give affection in a meaningful way. This always makes an impact on the actor and they feel the warmth of a real hug.
Be that as it may I hate for people to hug me.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Home Ownership

I've tried it, and I don't like it one bit...home ownership. I'm a gypsy. I've lived in at least 20 houses over the course of my 55 years, moving 7 times in the 15 years I've lived in Texas alone! I like to be able to give my 30-day notice and hit the road or find a cuter house in a better neighborhood or get swept away by some man who moves me somewhere I've never been. I like the adventure of relocation. I'm not one to develop cobwebs in the ceiling corners or fill up a garage with 30 years' worth of memories. Too short a trip...time to move on, look, love, learn, then leave.

I think that this all stems from the fact that in 1972 my house burned to the ground one night when my first husband and I were out drunk with our friends at a bar. It was a rent-house...and we were young college students, so it wasn't filled with things we couldn't do without, but when we needed a change of clothes and a toothbrush the next morning, we didn't have it. The whole thing turned out to be one of the blessings in my life. It taught me just how illusive the idea of owning anything we care-take instead of actually owning things and how easy throwing things away or giving things away can be.

However, I did weaken and bought a little condo a few years ago. It was fun to realize that I didn't have to keep that dirty,vanilla-babyfood creamy color on the walls. You shoulda seen me at the paint store. I wound up with a yellow kitchen, two sky-blue bedrooms, a peach-colored living room and powder blue hallway. It was so great...kind of like living inside a painting. I was giddy for several months until the heating/air-conditioning unit broke and had to be replaced to the tune of $5000! Then, it seemed like every other thing needed to be replaced...water heater, oven, window frames.

One night the condo unit's plumbing line backed up and spewed liquid sewage up through my kitchen sink in the middle of the night, flooding the floor with a greasy, blackish, foul-smelling water mixture into which I stumbled with bare feet when the odor woke me up in the dark.

That was it! I put the condo on the market within a week. In rental-year's past, all I would have had to do was call the friggin landlord and have all those things fixed at no charge.

Now that SalGal and I live with The Ancient One, I figure that my caregiving fees are balanced out by not having to pay when the gutters need cleaning or that tree in the back needs to be chopped down. I'm just passing through...this house and a gypsy life.



I, on the other hand, am a nester. I like to move the furniture in, hang the paintings, put up the shower curtain and settle in for approximately five years. And by the way, KK, we are NOT chopping down Ceasar. He has been working as hard as he can to stay alive and I will climb up in him and refuse to come down if you call the tree choppers. Jesus, I have to hide anything I like so KK doesn't see it as trash and throw it away. She would throw away my cat if he wasn't so quick. But...he is useless (except for killing roaches) and he leaves white tufts of hair everywhere and sometimes hairballs which are disgusting to look at. In KK's mind that warrants a mess and that means he belongs in the trash. I literally have to guard my stuff from her. If I say, 'look, these pants have a wine spot on them', the next day I find them in the trash. Did you ever know anybody who throws clothes in the trash if something spills on them? She does that all the time. Did she never hear of the Dry Cleaners? I have to say her condo was really adorable. And boy was it neat. Even the trash was filed properly. The way she describes it sounds like a giant Easter egg but it was very charming. I had a condo in Santa Fe for a few years and I liked owning instead of renting. You don't have to answer to anybody and nobody can do anything about it if you stand nekked in the doorway while hanging your Christmas wreath. It's your damn doorway so screw them. Freedom.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Boxers or Briefs?

I saw something so shocking the other night that I have to pass this on! My sister, SalGal and I were watching the old movie, “White Christmas” last night. It’s one of my favorite holiday movies…you know the one…with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye and Rosemary Clooney. In one scene, Danny and Bing are changing from their stage clothes into their street clothes in their dressing room…all the while carrying on this insanely quick and funny dialogue. There, standing behind an old steamer trunk, Bing took off his trousers and his white tee shirt rode up a bit too far to reveal his BRIEFS!

Now, this movie was made in 1944 and movie makers back then weren’t even allowed to show a married couple in the same bed much less show their UNDERWEAR! You coulda knocked me over with a feather when I saw that. And, then that got me thinking…boxers or briefs…I mean, when you think of Bing Crosby, would you ever wonder whether he wore boxers or briefs?

Personally, I think boxers are so much more manly and sophisticated, but I know that without any support, they can lead a man down the ‘long-ball’ path. Women are about as impressed with that as men are with women who haven’t worn a bra since they burned theirs in the sixties, for pity’s sake!

On the other hand, if the correct briefs are worn, and here I’m talking about men who actually buy sexy briefs to impress the ladies…it’s somewhat of a turn on…that upper thigh muscle and all.

I’m going to throw out some names here so you can imagine them in either boxers or briefs:

Brad Pitt
President George Bush
The Dalai Lama
Harry Potter
Hugo Chavez
Ellen Degeneres
George Clooney
Elton John
Al Gore
Jack Martin
Sean Connery

Hehehe…did you pause, close your eyes and try to picture each one in boxers or briefs? Those are shocking visuals, aren’t they? I should be ashamed of myself, shouldn’t I?

Which came first, do you suppose…boxers or briefs?



Ah, yes that is the question. But look at the other side of that. Does Meryl Streep wear granny panties or a thong? There is an inbetween and I guess they would be called 'step-ins'. At least that's what Pam's grandmother called her underwear which men in the service call 'skivvies'. But do women in the service call their undies that too? Or maybe they call them skivvettes'. There's the word we used growing up in the 60's in west Texas; 'undies'. My mother called her underwear, 'lingerie' which is much swankier and probably includes more thongs than granny panties which is what she wears now. She is the ancient one now so she doesn't wear lingerie anymore but the finer pieces are in a lingerie drawer with an Italian sachet that keeps it smelling pretty and those silken slips and bras and panties have been in that drawer for about thirty years. 'Panties', that's another word for undies and that covers everything but thongs. I wear panties. They are white and they are cotton crotched for breathing. I don't care about my underwear because I am not after a man. On the other hand, KK is on the market and keeps appropriate under garments in her lingerie drawer just in case a love connection should occur while out and about on the scene. She, of course, is not easy and the man will have to prove himself for quite a while before he will deserve the opening of the lingerie drawer but it will be worth it.
Picture this:
Paris Hilton in granny panties
Angela Landsbury in a thong
Rosie O'Donnell in pink, matching lace robe and nighty
Roseanne Barr in a yellow thong with matching brazier
George Clooney in a black, lace thong


Saturday, November 24, 2007


Shouldn’t Black Friday signify the death of someone important, or the celebration of some African American who did something of powerful note? Instead, it’s about ‘being in the commercial black.’ How shameless!

Taking another survey here…please raise your virtual hands if you got up early enough on Friday morning to be in line when the doors to several major department stores in America opened at 5 am. This is a tribe of people with whom I am wholly unfamiliar.

I have to be ‘in the mood’ for a shopping expedition, especially if I have to go to a mall. I try NEVER to go to a mall, but during the holiday season, sometimes it is just necessary, like having to have a colonoscopy. If I could drive from one location in a mall to another at the opposite end I would be a lot happier. That’s a LOT of walking from one end of a mall to the other, and when you’re done shopping and exhausted, you have to walk to your car which is only God knows where and way far away from where you are at ANY given moment. May I suggest that malls provide those little golf carts on which to ride or a miniature train with enough room for all of our packages?

I like to go to the itty bitty specialty stores and buy things for people that they will never use, can’t understand and end up re-gifting (sometimes back to me!). It’s just more fun, and the sales people are happier. The mall people have worked an 18-hour shift; they don’t care about Christmas or any other holiday and are only in it for enough cash to pay off the stores to which they still owe money from LAST Christmas.

Online shopping is now my favorite way to give strangers money in exchange for goods that I cannot see or feel. There’s a kind of excitement in that you’ve got a 50-50 chance that what you ordered actually winds up being something you’re happy with. If it’s a gift and you can’t see or feel it maybe, ever…you sheepishly ask the recipient of this gift, “Um, how’d you like the mittens and matching scarf?” Of course, they’ll be frightfully polite and tell you that they loved your gift…to which I often reply, “You DID…really? I mean, I’m so glad.”

Another show of hands from those who buy themSELVES one swanky, expensive holiday gift, leaving not so much money left over to spend lavishly or even frugally on loved ones. I must admit, some of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten, I gave to myself…I mean, who knows me better? Who really knows that I prefer cashmere over scratchy wools or Chanel No. 5 to ELizabeth Arden? Well, now YOU do, but don’t feel obligated…no pressure.


I hate shopping. It makes my back hurt and I hate trying things on. I would rather go to the dentist than to the mall. Maybe my problem is that I don't ever have a list or a clear idea of what it is I want. I just think, I need to buy a present for KK or for Pam or the Ancient One and then off I go. I figure I'll know it when I see it. And then I am overwhelmed by the abundance of ideas and gifts to the point where I am left standing stupefied in the middle of 'Bed, Bath & Beyond' staring at plastic, handsoap dispensers. Hmmmm....nah. So then I end up at 'Apologie' (my favorite store) where I end up buying little novelty books, two foot tall candles and garlic cat treats shaped like Jesus' face. What was I thinking? I cannot be trusted.
Once I went shopping in search of a very specific pair of black, cigarette pants and came home with t-shirt with a green, sequined picture of a marijuana leaf on the the front and the word, 'Smokin' on the back. I just couldn't resist it. Actually, I wore that to the 'Keep Austin Wierd' parade and about 80 people asked me where I got it.
Austin has a great outdoor event about once a week. It's the bats flying out from under the bridge at Sunset and the Bat Festival, wine tastings at the park or gypsy music at Laguna Gloria. But my favorite bazaar is the 'Armadillo Christmas Bizarre,' a yearly holiday sale and the booths are fantastic. There is everything from paintings and original blown glass to hand-made bongs and ceramic mushrooms that you stick in your garden. I got one of those. KK will go with me this year as usual to stop me from buying something queer like clown shoes or wind chimes with the state of Texas cut out of thin copper. I must have the voice of reason in my ear. I must get away from KK so that I can go back to that booth with the wine holder necklaces and get one for her for Christmas.

Thursday, November 22, 2007


I’m thankful around this time of year, but sometimes it’s for different things…like the space between my thoughts. I think God is in there. And, I’m grateful for the few times that I allow myself to listen to that God space.

I think sign language is about the coolest thing on the planet. I like different forms of communication, and the fact that someone figured out how to actually have conversations with their hands makes me thankful.

I’m grateful for windows that roll down with the press of a button. There are a lot of things about cars that I’m thankful for…like blinkers instead of reaching outside your window and having to use sign language to maneuver through traffic. I like the sound that my blinker makes too. I’m so grateful to have the car machine that takes me wherever I want or need to go in comfort, with music and climate control and paved roads on which to glide

I love my soap opera. I’m thankful every time I watch it because those poor people’s lives are just the worst, more troubles than you can shake a stick at which makes me so happy that my life is relatively mediocre and safe.

Even though I tend to bristle at positive criticism, I’m grateful for the feedback. It takes me a bit of time after my “Oh yeah? Well, bite me!” response to the feedback, but I most always come around to knowing that it was given in love, sent to help me be a better person and something I need to learn.

I’m thankful for room spray for so many reasons.

I’m always thankful for the time after I buy a lottery ticket…before they give out the winning numbers. I have just as much of a chance for the millions as everyone else, and my numbers just look like winning numbers. I have so many notions of how to spend my money and visualizations galore. Even when I don’t have six of six or even one of six, I’m grateful that there will be another chance at the next drawing.

I’m grateful for business cards. All you have to do with a stranger (especially one you don’t want to chat with at the moment) is hand them a card which tells them everything you want them to know…and no more. I like to receive business cards too. It makes me feel important.

Three-ring binders with dividers fill me with gratitude. I love organizational tools.

I’m immensely grateful to all the future readers of my first novel at the onset of its publication in the spring of ‘08. You’re all going to love it which makes me happy in advance.

And, finally, I don’t think anyone really knows WHO discovered America, and I don’t care because the Thanksgiving holiday is the perfect excuse to eat turkey, gravy, stuffing and pumpkin pie.


Ah...yes, there are so many things to be grateful for. I'm grateful for food. We get to eat pretty much anything we want and that is a very luxurious way to live. We are so lucky. Food is beautiful and there are so many wonderful colors; red radishes, aubergine eggplants, yellow squash, carrots, splinach, peaches and blueberries. When you put vegetables and fruits on the kitchen counter it looks so plush and rich. The colors make me grateful and remind me of how beautiful the earth is in its bounty. I love to cook so I am also grateful for cooking tools like cheese graters, lemon squeezers, spatulas, potato peelers, Cuisinarts and can openers. Here are some other miscellaneous things I am grateful for:
Bunion pads
Tooth brushes
Gucci scarves
Fingernail files
Chanel #5
Wax apples
Big trees
Down pillows
Cell phones
Kitty litter
Lady bugs

The world is great,

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


Have you ever sent an email to the wrong person? Or, a wrong email to the right person? Or maybe an email you forwarded to the one person who shouldn't read it?

Allow me to tell my story. Hopefully it's not too much worse than your own story, and I'll bet you have one.

I had a 'best' friend once who had a very mean sister. We would talk about the sister for hours and I was as fully supportive as any best friend could be on this topic.

One day while at work, my friend sent me an email that she had received from her mean sister (you're getting what's going to happen here, aren't you?), and it really was a vicious one, so I 'replied' to my friend saying what a bitch her sister was and how she just didn't understand my friend, yada, yada, yada...there was a lot more, but I've forgotten exactly what I said, thank Gawd!

After several minutes, my friend called me to see if I had gotten her email. I said, "Yes...and I emailed you back about it." She said, "I haven't gotten an email...maybe it's just taking longer because of email traffic." (spoken like the true computer incompetents that we were). As she was waiting for my email to find its way to her, and we were still on the phone with each other, it became clear to both of us almost simultaneously...that I had somehow sent the email to her sister instead of her.

"HOLY CRAP!" she said, to which I replied, "OH MY GOD!" Her next response was so priceless and pitiful; she said it with such passion and fear, "CLICK UNSEND, CLICK UNSEND!!"

We both knew there were no 'unsend' buttons on our keyboards, that the email had reached its unintended destination and that we were both screwed...she for having shared her sister's email with me, and of course, I for having responded at all.

My best friend then said to me, "Well, YOU have to fix this! You're the one who sent the email, so you HAVE to fix this." I said, "Got any ideas how I might do that?" She demanded that I send another email to her sister in apology for the first one. And, I must admit, since all of this was done in cyberspace and without any face-to-face confrontation, it was a skosh easier to bow to my friend's pressure and send an email apology:

Dear _______________,
Obviously, I am unbelievably sorry about the email that I inadvertently sent to you just a few minutes ago. And, obviously, that email was meant to go to your sister. I was trying to be supportive for her, and perhaps I took it a bit too far. My greatest hope is that you and your sister can work things out...without my help.


My best friend and I don't speak much anymore. Not because of this transgression (or maybe, now that I think about it...hmmmmm) but just because we went separate ways in our lives. Be careful before you send an email...or install an UNSEND button on your computer!


Wanting to press 'Unsend'...that is the equivalent of the 'post edit' after an audition. Every actor does it. You go into an audition and you do your very best and then you have to walk away. But that is not possible. Your mind races on the drive back home. Why did I say that that way and why didn't I do that line better and why can't I remember what I did? It's the post edit and all you want to do is press 'unsend!', punch 'rewind!' and get another chance to do it better. But you only get one chance to do it perfectly. And that's the way real life is too. If you don't do every moment the very best you can in any given situation, you can't press 'Unsend'.

I wish there was an 'ammend' button for my life. If I accidentally insult someone, which I tend to do occasionally, I would like to be able to press 'ammend' and have, 'Wow, your eye wrinkles are getting as deep as the Grand Canyon', change to 'Gee, you look great for your age!' And the person would have no memory of my first remark. See, that's the key. The 'ammend' button would also cause memory loss in the targetted friend. The button would be attached to my key chain so I could pull it out and use it instantly. Think of how this could change the world. No more misunderstandings and people would be walking around wondering why three hours out of every day of their lives keep disappearing. But I do go on, don't I?

I have no idea why you just lost 36 seconds while we were talking and gee, your hair looks great today!

Saturday, November 17, 2007


How Midlife pleasures may differ:

At my age, it's a pleasure to get up in the morning, after a full eight hours, and not feel like I've been run over by a truck. As you may know, SalGal and I finally quit smoking on October 28, 2007 at 11:59 pm CST. As a result, we are getting re-acquainted with the pleasures that lie therein. We can breathe again. We can make it all the way through a hearty guffaw without winding up at the end of one in a wheezing, coughing spasm of embarrassment, and we don't enter a room surrounded by an invisible cloak of tar and ash on our hands, in our hair and on our clothes. Talk about pleasures! Yes, thankyou, thankyou...we're very proud of ourselves.

I find pleasure in the tiniest things these days, like getting the combination of honey and cream just right in my morning cup of coffee. I like it when the temperature outside is exactly room temp...not too hot or too cold, just right. I'm happiest when I see strangers kissing. That's what I like about countries like Italy, Spain and France. They just make out with complete abandon all over the place. I'm a romantic so I love delicate PDAs.

I feel intense pleasure when I eat a fine cheeseburger...cooked to perfection, with a little grease on the bun and with all my favorite fixins. French fries are superfluous if you get the perfect's just overkill. I squeal with delight with the first bite theory...that no bite is as good as the very first a small spoonful of Beluga caviar that I let explode in my mouth as I then taste the accompanying goodies of toast points, Creme Fraiche and cold champagne.

I find pleasure in sports when a ball player hits a grand slam or when a golfer gets a hole in one. I scream when the basketball player throws the ball all the way across the court and makes the basket. I like a good endzone dance after the winning touchdown and I love to see a swimmer come up for air after a 100 meter freestyle race for the gold.

A pair of jeans that make me appear to have an ass are a pleasure to wear. It's a pleasure to hear a politician accidentally slip up and say something truthful. What a delight it is to hear Placido Domingo sing Nessun Dorma with that high 'C' at the end. The rush I get when I feel the bite of a fish on the line is beyond pleasurable. I am giddy when I see a cowboy stay on a bull for the full 8 seconds, and there is no greater pleasure than seeing the love between a Daddy and his little girl.

Frankly I could go on and on with pleasures. Hopefully, this makes you think back on some of your own pleasures. Here's hoping you find some new ones today!



I like guilty pleasures the best. Bourbon and coke. Pate Foie Gras. Regular Lays potato chips. Actors who give it all they've got. Acting class. Garth Brooks. I'm just doing that stream of consciousness thing right now. Life is full of so many varied pleasures it's hard to think of only a few. I like walking barefoot out in the yard and the way the grass and garden smells right after a rain. The sunlight shining through a cat's ear. Pretty shoes and beaded cocktail purses.

Lace pillows
Creme Brulee
Oil paints
Playing Cranium
Cutting flowers from other people's yards
America's Next Top Model
Wearing mother's gold bracelet without her knowing it
Giving Buddy tuna fish juice from the can
Starbuck's Mocca, 2% frappaccino with whipped cream
Watching cowboy Polo with KK in the hill country
Crispy oysters at Jeffry's
Flashy trash movies
Pictures of George Clooney
Pecan pie with vanilla icecream
Turning on the lights at sunset
Pimiento cheese on soda crackers
Peach colored flowers
Big dangly earrings
Hearing a secret
White cotton blouses
Looking at handsome, young men
Chanel #5 skin lotion
Other people's babies
Dog faces

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Point of View

KK: SalGal, remember that blonde woman at the party the other night...the one who had the long ear lobes?

SalGal: You mean the one with the dark hair and the green earrings?

KK: Did she have green earrings on? All I remember is that she talked for so long, I wanted to bitch slap her. Were those boobs real?

SalGal: If I was still in Hollywood I would guess no but I think they were real. She said she was married to the architect, didn't she? And she worked at the Four Seasons. That blue dress was sure low-cut, somewhat tacky.

KK: Dearie, she had on an orange turtleneck with black pants. Are you sure you were at the same party? And, she was a vet!

SalGal: Get out! An orange turtleneck not! What the fuck...this is that thing you always do that is so wrong. Your memory sucks after two margaritas and mine gets better. So I'm right and shut the fuck up.

KK: This is sooooo like you, Sal. Remember when you saw that midget at the store and thought he was a little boy...the one with the friggin beard?

SalGal: Well, hell, he had on a t-shirt with Big Bird on the back and I was distracted by the big yellow shape. Do you realize how UN politically correct the word 'midget' is? I think you're supposed to say stunted person or something.

KK: Oops! You're right...Vertically challenged is politically correct. I think it's safe to say that we see things a bit differently, the waiter who came to take our order that night at a bar and you thought he was a pervert and pepper-sprayed him. I rest my case. We had to leave him a REALLY big tip, remember?

SalGal: Wow...I thought that waiter was a bull dyke. Are you telling me that was a man?

KK: WhatEVER...

Tuesday, November 13, 2007


IS the term 'well-thought-out risk' an oxymoron? Doesn't risk inherently entail stupidity and LACK of thought? the time I went for a tour of the Metropolitan Opera in New York, and was told SEVERAL times that speaking to the opera singers, should we run across one, was VERBOTEN! But, they didn't tell me that I would run smack into my favorite opera singer at the time, Samuel Ramey, who was one of the world's best. And, our tour guide didn't know that it just happened to be my fortieth birthday that very day.

This won't surprise those readers who know me, but I realized that this was the chance of a lifetime for me, and I didn't want no stinkin' autograph either. So, was it a well-thought-out risk to approach him as he sat talking to nine other opera singers...and ask him to sing happy birthday to me? I didn't think so at the time...even as I walked toward him with our tour guide whispering and then shouting, ",no, NO! You can't do, no...come back here!"

Here's what sometimes happens when you take a risk...well-thought-out or not. Samuel Ramey looked at me, smiled and responded to my query..."How about we ALL sing happy birthday to you?" So, on my fortieth birthday, I was serenaded by 10 Metropolitan Opera singers with the silly happy birthday song. It never sounded so good!

I suggest taking both well-thought-out risks and then the ones that happen on the spur of the moment. You gotta have cojones for the spur-of-the-moment risks, but the rewards can be ten times sweeter because you don't have time to figure out what you want them to be.


Life itself is a risk everyday. You risk getting up in the morning but you have to. Anything could happen. You could stub your toe on the way to the kitchen to make coffee. You could spill the coffee grounds on the cat and singe your hand with the hot water from the sink as you fill the coffee pot and then you could drop the cup as you get it from the cabinet and then step on the shards of broken porcelain as you reach for the broom to sweep up the mess. The broom handle could falll forward and hit your head as you are pulling a piece of glass out of your foot and then it could land on the cat's water bowl and splash water all over the floor.

And all of that in the first 45 seconds after you dare to get out of bed on a normal, weekday morning. I'm not saying such things will really happen. You've got to trust that the world is plotting to do you good every day. That's what I do and please excuse me because I need to put a bandaid on my foot, butter on the burn on my hand and shake the grounds off the cat at the back door.


Sunday, November 11, 2007

My Favorite Things

My very most favorite animal on the planet is a horse. They are the most splendid of animals, and because I've always wanted one and never owned one, I consider myself a 'cowgirl without portfolio.' I like the smell of horses, the sounds they make, the smell of a tack room, the beauty of their shiny coats, the sounds of the birds in a barn and the whinnying of a horse who wants out to play. One of my favorite sounds is the sound of a horse walking on cement...that clippety clop sound makes me stop in my tracks and smile.

I like horses because they're so big and smart and because when you show them how to play a game...they love to play the game, like cutting cattle out of a herd or chasing down a steer so the rider can slip off the saddle to wrestle it to the ground. They have hearts that will not Seabiscuit and all the thoroughbreds who run because their riders ask them to...until they physically give out.

Horses love people who love horses. They don't suffer fools and they won't cooperate with people who don't like them or know how to 'speak' to them. For the ones who can 'speak' to them, they have a bond...a love that transcends many other kinds of love.

I've ridden western, English and bareback. I've had experiences with Arabians, cutting horses, Italian endurance horses from Maremma, polo ponies and old nags. I still want a horse. I'll always want a horse. And, the cowboys who ride the horses aren't bad either!


Can you believe how much KK loves horses? And I've probably been around them much more than she has because of all the western movies I worked on. Horses everywhere...and cowboys. I can take horses or leave them. I like to look in their big, ole eyes as I stroke them under their chins. On the set of 'Wyatt Earp' I was petting one of the horses on its face like most people do and Rusty, the head wrangler, came over and covered my face with the palm of his hand. He said, 'Do you like that? Cause horses don't like it either unless they really know you well.' I learned a lot about horses on movie sets and my favorite thing is when a stagecoach with a six-up comes barrelling down the street. It's pretty magnificent. The sound of the harnesses clanking and the hooves and the coach creaking, had to be there.

I don't love horses though. I hate the smell of their urine. It smells like apple juice and I can't drink apple juice because of years of horses taking a piss right next to me. I don't like the way they smell and they have bad breath. I have a toe that is bent from being stepped on when I was a little kid at summer camp. Horse snot is really yucky when they sneeze and fling it on you.


Thursday, November 8, 2007


I subscribe to Woody Allen and Groucho’s theory about clubs: “I'd never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member.”

I've been a member of a book club, but dropped out recently because it required reading twelve books a year which is about six too many for me. That being said, I do miss all the wine we drank and the food we ate, but it was a club with rules and time lines. This makes me buck like a young bronch. I miss those women, but I just couldn’t keep up.

I’ve joined more than one health club, but they’re always trying to sell you something, and you have to pay to go do something that you can otherwise do naked on your living room floor…and I’m not talking about something you can do with the HUNK who is your trainer…well, maybe I am. That would involve an extra fee I would imagine.

I actually taught yoga in a health club once which didn’t work out too well because all the buff weight lifters and cross trainers could see us through a glass window. They would laugh and jeer, and some of my students would wonder whether or not the grass really was greener on the other side of the glass. It was difficult to lead the students in a deep, meditative relaxation at the end because my soft music was usually accompanied by the sounds of the weights clanging together and CNN on the television in front of the walking machines.

I grew up going to a country club that my parents belonged to, and this was fun for me because I always ended up befriending the help which would embarrass my parents. I lived to embarrass my parents during my revolutionary years. I’m warming to the idea of belonging to a country club in middle age because they’re full of other middle-aged people who are obviously successful enough to belong to a country club. Incentive for me… and a pool from which to draw in meeting successful men!

I was never invited to join the honors club at school or the debate club or even the not-popular club. I wouldn’t have joined even if I had been asked because I’m just not a very good club person. I did join the ‘Let’s Smoke Pot For the First Time’ club which then held entry for me to various associated clubs in that genre which I did join briefly until they too held no further interest for me.

I joined a spiritual club many years ago, but the initiation into this spiritual club was so freaky and weird that I dropped out the day after I joined. God or no God, I wasn’t keen on their idea of how to get God’s attention.

Now, I’m clubless and couldn’t be happier. No rules, no dates to mark in my calendar or places I have to be, no dress codes and no demands on my time. I understand the club people and sometimes wish I could be a member, but they’ll have to rope and hog-tie me first. Besides, I’m too strange. No club would want me!



On this point KK and I are in complete agreement. No clubs for me except the Country Club where we go swimming in the summer and take the Ancient One for Sunday brunch. There is a dress code for that but looking nice in public is fun.

I think KK and I ARE a club. In our club you have to make people laugh. You can't be in our club if you are rude to service people, eat at Luby's or wear Burkinstocks.

Our club's other rules:
Don't yell.
Love cats and dogs (even if you are allergic to them)
Know who the President of the US is.
Spend time on your hair.
Be willing to participate in our affirmation exercises even if it means you have to humiliate yourself in public on a regular basis.

Well, that's about it,

Tuesday, November 6, 2007


At our age, we really have nothing to lose, right? So, SalGal and I aren't the least bit afraid of embarrassing ourselves or anyone else.

Because I want to have a Mercedes C-Class four-door sedan, but haven't the resources YET, I got all dolled up, drove to the Mercedes dealership (because you can't do this affirmation in jeans and a tee shirt...the Mercedes people just won't believe you)... I introduced myself to the nice salesman who approached me as I was coveting the C-Class sedan in the showroom.

I simply said, "Hello. I am going to be in a position to purchase this car in about seven months, so I would like to sit in it and have you photograph me behind the wheel, please." He replied,"Well, problem. (This is the beauty of these affirmations, people love to play with you!)

So, now I have his business card, a brochure about the car and a photo of me IN the car. He may or may not be surprised when I do go back to purchase that car, but he'll be glad that he helped me with my affirmation!

I have written my first novel and it's sitting on my agent's desk awaiting word from her that she loves it and can sell it for lots of money. This will allow me to go buy my car. But in the an affirmation about the success of my book, I took SalGal to our local bookstore, BookPeople and found a gal in the store who looked like she might want to play with us. I told her that I had written my novel and wanted to do a 'mock' book signing. Well, she was thrilled for me about the novel. I had also done illustrations for the novel, including the cover which I had pasted over the cover of a book I was then I had a physical feel of what my book might look like.

Our gal at the bookstore...let's call her Shirley, showed us to an area where there was a big table and chair already set up for a book signing later that day...hmmmmm. She then ran around the area gathering up books to put in a stack on the table, a stand for my fake book and a pretty plant for the table. She was completely into the exercise, which made it that much more fun. SalGal would take a photo of me signing a book for a customer. So, we had to find a customer, which turned out to be a nice guy who was just sitting in a chair nearby, and we asked him if he wanted to play. He transformed himself into an eager reader and fan for the photo shoot, which is now stuck on our bulletin board as a fantastic affirmation and one that will come TRUE! After we were all done at the bookstore, there were hugs all around with well-wishes and good lucks to all.

I know that affirmations work and the more we play with them and actually set the stage for our dreams to come true, the more they will...the closer we're getting. So, think of something that you want...something that you want to do or a place you want to go and set up the shot of it to keep and look at every day and eventually accomplish!

Go play!


I have a picture of me in a red Lexus.

I rented a ball gown and wore my tiara to downtown Austin to the gorgeous, old Paramount Theater and actually stood outside and below the marquis. Friends of ours met KK and me there and KK took pictures of them holding up autograph books and begging me for autographs. Although it was a hundred degrees outside, it was fun and a real tourist was so impressed he asked me for an autograph too. In return for their participation in my affirmation I bought everybody Margaritas at the Driskill Bar and a good time was had by all.

I do my affirmations every day:

I deserve success.
Prosperity is circling around me.
I immediately and enthusiastically act towad my goals.
I am going backwards in time.
I look like Cindy Crawford.
Merle Streep envies me.
I give Wolfgang Puck pointers on how to do pizza.
My body makes Viet Nam vets take cold showers.

It could happen,
Sal Gal

Saturday, November 3, 2007


I love words. I love words on the page, words coming out of a mouth. I love words in a movie or play, and I love to hear people singing words.

Here are some of my favorite words:

Rascacielo (It means sky scraper in Spanish) I just like the way it sounds when I roll the 'r.' Try it...rrrrras..cas...sielo. Sweeet, huh?
Sky scraper (technically two words), but who ever thought of that word? I like it because of the visual.
Boulevard / The Ancient One pronounces this, Booolevard.
Present /Because it means so many things...a gift, to give a gift, time and space, to be accounted for, to show and tell, etc...that's an impressive word as I think about it, huh?

I will now write a story using all of these words in order:

KK Said, "SalGal, I'm going to title the book, 'Rascacielo.' It means 'sky scraper' in Spanish. I expect this novel to put me in the 'limelight' since my last novel just missed the NY Times Best Seller List by a 'whisker."

"I fully expect to see a billboard on Sunset 'Boulevard' advertising your latest," replied SalGal. "Then I'll buy you a very extravagant 'present' on Rodeo Drive."

"Good!" said KK, "Just as long as it's not a 'Whirlpool.' I'm boycotting the company because I've heard of their 'sinister' dealings with China. Their CEO is quite the 'prestidigitator' from what I've read. He purports to sell appliances, but is mining 'gold' in China using children!"

SalGal said, "That asshole. Well, he'll have 'hindsight' 'aplenty' when he sees the Wall Street Journal 'blog' posting about the 'catfish' full of gold nuggets that he tried to sneak out of China. What a friggin' 'boondoggle'!"

Hehehe...Send me your story with these words! Or not.



I am responding to this blog post even though I'm not sure what is going to happen. When I go into this to add/edit in my comments I get all kinds of wierd things. There are slants / and brackets > in front of all the main words in KK's post and it has stymied me and caused me to get total writer's block. So, I am making myself do this and here are my favorite words:

Froie Gras

I was sitting at my desk, late at night and wondering how I was going to pay the rent on the office. 'Special Investigations', private and secure. At $400 an hour all I needed was a four hour gig and I would be good for the next two months. I was just about to close it down when Tallywhacker, the office rat catcher and guard ran toward the door. My red, six-inch stilettos hit the floor just as he swung the door open and leaned his umbrella against the radiator. He was smooth as Froie Gras and handsome as a baseball player in the moonlight. His black raincoat crinkled as he took it off and threw it over the fake Bouganvilla in the corner. Rude. His whiskers told of three days of mornings with no desire to shave. There were more important things on his mind. I was calm enough to hold a butterfly. My heart went from stone cold to soft as a cheese souffle as he picked me up like I was a rag doll and swept me across the room while serenading me with, 'When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore!' I looked out the second floor window at the promenade on Santa Monica Boulevard. The lights were coming on as my landlord walked across the street and under the streetlamp just below the building. Fuck. He looked down at me and smiled, 'I got the money honey - you got the looks'. It was then I knew that I had married the right man. Serendipity.


Thursday, November 1, 2007

Halloween Aftermath

Let's face it...The American Halloween holiday is based on blackmail by children. We give them candy so they won't burn our houses down...trick or treat. Having all been teenagers at one point in our lives, we sat around in groups discussing what terrible but lawful 'tricks' we could do if someone didn't give us 'treats.' And, we should have been ashamed of ourselves for going trick-or-treating in our teens!

SalGal and I hadn't been invited out on Halloween, so we were at home, armed and ready to dole out the candy to the little people in disguises. Now-a-days, the parents have to accompany the tots for fear that a registered sex offender will lure one into their dens. This is a sad commentary, isn't it? So, mom and dad come with, but they lurk in the dark street, looking somewhat unlawful themselves while the kids show their courage and approach the house.

We don't give them candy unless they actually say, "Trick or Treat." We like the really young ones who say, "Twick o Tweet." One of them said to us last night, "Trick or Treat...give me something good to eat!" We thought that was kind of pushy, but we applauded his courage. SalGal tried to teach a one-and-a-half year old to say Trick or Treat. The baby just kept looking at her like, "Hey, I don't even know how to speak yet. I can't even say Daddy or anything else in English." SalGal finally acquiesced and gave the frightened toddler some candy.

After the neighborhood children drained our block of confectionery delights, the cars began to arrive with kids from far away neighborhoods. They're older and less engaging...some almost threatening. The parents stay in their cars while the kids rake in the goodies, then they drive home. It's almost like a drive-by only for candy. We're good with that. We can just see all the little trick-or-treaters keeping their parents up half the night with sugar rushes as we finally drift off to a peaceful sleep. This is another reason to have cats instead of kids.



Yeah, that little one and a half year old was really cute in the monkey costume. His big sister in the pink, princess costume said she liked my mask and that's when I shut the door and turned out the lights. Next time I will wear a mask and scare the shit out of her.

Mother was never great with Halloween and costumes as she was too busy going to cocktail parties and assuming we would come up with something. So, I always went Trick or Treating as Tom Sawyer. I just put on some cutoff jeans, a summer camp shirt and went barefooted. I put some freckles on my nose and cheeks for further character development. I sometimes had to grovel for candy as I was 5'8" tall in sixth grade and got treated like I was a scammer by the candy givers in the neighborhood. If they were mean to me I pulled all the leaves off the bushes next to their porches when they closed their doors. How dare they treat me like a scammer.

I don't destroy little kids on purpose, you know. It's a gift. When that little girl dressed up like a peacock, with its tailfeathers all spread out around her, stopped on the sidewalk, it was the cutest thing I ever saw. I have a great laugh and I let it fly. How was I supposed to know that that little kid heard me laughing at her and felt humiliated? That little kid is too young to feel humiliated. Oh, jeez I have traumatized another toddler for the rest of its life.

I had a pumpkin on the porch, a black crow sticking out of the ivy and a skull lit with a candle in it in the urn next to the door and my intentions to scare innocent little children were completely honorable and innocent.