Thursday, July 3, 2008
I can assure you that we WILL indulge! What some of you in the hinterlands might not know is that we have a bridge over the Colorado river that runs smack through the middle of our lovely downtown, and this particular bridge is the home to BILLIONS of Mexican Free Tail Bats. Every evening around dusk for several months of the year, they ALL fly out from underneath that bridge and head out all over town, around town, out of town and even uptown looking for mosqweetos on which to dine. Just so happens that our friends' house lies in the direct flight path of ascension for all the little beasties! So, while we're holding our baby back pork ribs in our greasy, sauced over hands, we are gawking at all the bats...so many bats that they look like black clouds moving really fast. This will be especially fun because we'll be all liquored up too!
Besides, I like to woman flirt with lysbyterians. I have an androgenousness (is that a word?) about me and they're drawn to me like moths to a flame...or maybe like bats to a mosqweeto. Eeenyway, they love me and I like to flirt with them. It keeps my hetero flirting skills in good working condition in case I should stumble over a really handsome, middle-aged man who has passed out in their front yard on his way home.
We will take photos and post them! Got out and eat pigs and cows and whoop it up!
One of the nicest Fourth of Julys I remember was when The Ancient One, KK and her Husband#3 and I had a holiday dinner at the Savoy in London. We had been out all day at the Tower of London looking at two-hundred year-old blood stains in the stones where people's heads were chopped off. When we got back to the hotel the floor manager had set a round table in our suite complete with sparklers stuck straight up in the potted ivy, little American flags and what we were assured was turkey and gravy. It really looked like roadkill with squirrel throw-up but we were gracious and ate it.
I have seen the bats fly from under the bridge many times but to tell you the truth they just look like birds to me. Lots and lots of birds. Their shit is called guano. Did you know that bat guano as fertilizer is the finest in the world and once was more expensive than gold? They actually had guano mines where really scruffy guys would go gather it when the bats flew out every night. You had to be careful though, because the bat urine is poisonous and they piss all over everything as they fly out of the caves and such. That's why the tour guides at Carlsbad Caverns tell you to close your mouth and eyes when they fly out of the main cave. Well...if you have to close your eyes then....okay whatever.
Once on the Fourth of July we had a party in Santa Fe and the lead actor of a major motion picture got so drunk he threw-up in our driveway.
I am very grateful to be an American and I can't wait to see the fireworks, toast the flag and close my mouth and eyes as the bats fly by. yipee, uh...can't wait...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Click on the link below and go on over there. They've got a LOT of info on whatever ails you or whatever you wish ailed your worst enemy:
KK and Sal
Monday, June 30, 2008
Listen, we grew up in west Texas, ok?, so don't come at us if you intend to shake hands...with a bent hand that only grabs the ends of our fingers instead of the whole hand. You people who do that need to know that most of us, and I'll go so far as to say, ALL of us (because it's cyberspace and I can say whatever the hell I want to, right?)...want to SHAKE YOUR HAND...not your fingers! But, if you should come at us that prissy way, then just take our fingers up to your mouth and KISS OUR.....hand. At least it would be more dramatic. OK? Whew, now I feel all better because I've been fuming since we went to a dinner party last week and a grown man tried to shake hands with us that way. Why, we reemed him a new a-hole all the way home in the car with our denouncement of this style.
We may have long, skinny, bony hands, but we can shake your hand until you want to stop! It's just the way we learned growing up. Daddy used to close a deal with a handshake and I can still see my little bitty self with my head bent all the way back, staring up in awe at him with his big Daddy hands handing one to another Texan and then the both of them just shakin it out.
Here's another problem I have with greetings...the mouth kiss with juice on it. I don't kiss The Ancient One at all anymore because she always has 'mother juice' on her lips and it gets all over mine and makes me shake my head with queasiness as I wipe it off. Please close your mouths unless you're lovers or are trying to lick the lipstick off your woman's front tooth! Sal and I use the Eskimo nose kiss at the end of every day, and I kiss a few of my gal pals on the lips, but those puppies are closed tight and dry.
Please don't misunderstand me. Kissing is one of my most favorite things on earth, and frankly, for a woman with lips as thin as mine, I'm noted for being a damn good kisser, so you mens out there needn't fear me. I like to kiss men on the mouth when seeing one whom I know out and about. It always catches them off guard, and of course, I live to catch people 'off guard.'
My gal pals and I like to do the charicaturized 'air kiss' with each other like they do in real life in LA. I mean, do they really do that without slapping a thigh in laughter? How can anyone who does that be serious? It's fun, but come on.
I learned to look someone in the eyes when shaking their hand...hehehe...another gesture that catches them 'off guard.' I do, however, respect a person's air space around their body unless they let me know with their body language to come own in...then I do unless their breath is bad!
Greetings, fellow three-dimensional expressions of awareness! Om Shanty, aloha, howdy, dude-sup?, and how's yer momma and them?
I have never been hugged hello so much in my life as I have been since moving to Austin. The guys here hold out their arms for a robust, hearty, chest-slammin' 'howyadoin'! And that's at first introductions. I was thinking, 'I don't even know this guy and now there's an imprint of the Polo logo from his shirt embedded in my cheek.'
You gotta learn to do this when you live in Texas or else people will think you are stand-offish or that you think they stink. Texans are a very affectionate tribe. They do their Ancient Ones' hair, take their tots on daily walks and let strangers touch them, and put their hand underneath your chin when they want to make a point. That sentence always starts with, "Listen, darlin'..." And that's if they have ever met you before or not.
Texans love to great their dogs and cats warmly too. Texas men love cats unabashedly and I have never seen this before in any other state. KK kissed my cat Buddy the other day just after she put on her make-up and he got perfect little 'Dragon's Blood Red' lips and went walking around the house all day feeling like transvestite kitty.
So if you are going to come to Texas, get your arms in shape for grabbing people's shoulder blades from the front, make sure your teeth are clean for way-too-big smiles, and learn how to do the leave-taking requisite, 'I'll holler atcha!'
Areevadarechee, sayonara, namaste, chow, aloha again, hasta manana, voules vou cooshay avec moi and so forth and have a good day!
Friday, June 27, 2008
It would take me a looooonnnnng time to prove this because I would have to experience riches in every area of my life. Um, let's see...would I rather stay at a Four Seasons or Motel 6? That's a tough one. Would I rather marry a rich man or a cowboy in a trailer park? (actually, since I'm an old rodeo whore, I had to think twice about that one). Or, would I rather wear Ralph Lauren or Tarjay (That's the French pronunciation of Target).
When you grow up with champagne tastes and a skim milk pocket book, 'lusting after' is a reality in your life. Correct me if I'm wrong here. Of course, the bible tells us not to covet, but that book is so thick, I didn't even TRY to read it until I was in my 30's. So, I missed a few commandments, ok? I WANT things now. Here's a partial list:
- The most expensive Hybrid car on the market. Hey, you get what you pay for, right?
- An entire wardrobe of Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan and Michael Kors all mixed and matched together
- The perfect house (like a Gatsby mansion) with topiary shaped animals and a garden full of nothing but peony and roses
- A stable full of beautiful, healthy, well-trained horses...one for each style I choose to ride that day...cutting, dressage, jumping, barrel racing or roping
- A huge swimming pool made with tiny Prussian blue Italian tiles with randomly placed tiny gold tiles that reflect the sun and make the water look like diamonds
- A big-ass flat screen tv in every room including the shower! (I don't want to miss Ellen!)
- And Brad Pitt laying nekkid on my king-sized bed with the Italian Pratesi sheets
Actually, I wouldn't have to have money to make my main dream come true. Would that I had a fish tail and could breathe under water. That would make me happy. When you were on land you could breathe air and have legs but as soon as you dove into the water you would be able to breathe and swim...like a dolphin, but with underarm hair.
I don't want a big bed. You see these giant, huge beds in show rooms at furniture stores and on HGTV home design shows and they are piled high with twenty thousand pillows like big, poofy mountains of foofoo. I want a queen-size bed with dark green, turquoise and gold backgrounds; swirling designs of peacocks and palm trees, and ghostly head-shots of George Clooney on the pillow cases. That wouldn't cost that much.
As far as expensive stuff, I want a loft in downtown Austin with 14-foot ceilings, a red Lexus and a sculpture of a mermaid next to an Olympic-size pool with an Italian fountain at one end and a pool house at the other that resembles the Taj Mahal. I would also like floats in the pool that are in the shape of George Clooney and have his face.
This is fun! This is like making out a Christmas list. I realize it's different now because we are adults, so our wishes are more conservative and realistic. Send your wishes up to the Universe and make it good! Give it all ya got! It's fun and it doesn't cost anything...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
NOT TO WORRY! It seems we've thrown some of you midlifers into a tizzy with this news. We will continue blogging right here until we're fully operational and have our new blog home all painted and decorated with cool stuff...then I'll post our change of address so as to leave breadcrumbs on the cyber-trail for you.
We are sooooooo getting SYNCHED up!!! And it will look REALLY groovy.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
It's absolutely amazing why we don't all kill each other because you've never seen more control freaks in one ranch house in your life. At home, Sal has been trying to teach me to say 'please' when I ask for something. "Hand me that," I say...to which she responds, "...PLEASE." "Oh yeah, please...whatEVER, just give me the fucking thing!" So, I was in my element with those other broads who don't figure a please is necessary when asking someone to close the Goddamn screen door! When I pointed this out to my tribe, they laughed at Sally's silliness and told me to tell her to "get over it!"
All 14 of us piled into two pickups and drove to the highest point on the ranch one night to sit in lawn chairs in a pasture and drink as we marveled at what stars look like without the distraction of city lights. There were two cows who kept us company and talked back and forth to each other. I think I heard one of them say, "Have you EVER seen or heard a STUPIDER species in your entire life? Why are they watching the friggin sky? And, why are they making 'mooing' sounds at us? Are they idiots?!!"
A frog-strangling storm came up in the middle of one of our nights while I lay sleeping on a couch in the bunk house. There were no curtains in that living room so the lightening was strobe-like in its intensity and the thunder sounded like it was about to break all the windows. Because we had no TV so I could watch Doppler Radar to see if there was any purple in the shading of danger around the storm, I had my imagination to take me to scary places beyond my control. When I heard that train sound and thought the wind would blow the house away, I slipped down the hall to my friend, Mary Kay's room. She was in bed with a snoring husband and hadn't a clue what was going on.
Mary Kay was so kind when I asked if I could get in the kingsized bed with them because, "I don't want to die alone." The very minute I laid down, there arose an odor most foul, and I realized that her husband had just let a silent but deadly fart fly. I thought to my 'single' self, "Oh, that's right...I'd forgotten that they do that." I was there for a few minutes with my eyes wide open, gobsmacked that they didn't realize how serious the storm was and all of a sudden Mary Kay's husband reached across her body with his arm and found the side of my body! UP I jumped off the bed and with disgusted, "whatEVER," I left them to go back and die alone in the living room.
They would all be sorry the next morning when they had managed to survive but I and the living room had been blown into the next county. That was my plan anyway...for them to feel REALLY guilty for not listening to me, but when I looked out the window, there was nary a leaf ner blade of grass out of place. The only signs of rain were the flowers blooming in the dewy morning light. Consequently, NO one even believed my story about the storm of the previous evening. "Great," I thought, "Now they think I'm a complete pervert!
Everyone had quite the chuckle at my expense for the next few days, and I started laughing with them after my 4th Bloody Mary that morning. There were bigger fish to fry and I was still ALIVE.
Play with your friends. They've got your back (most of the time),
Video-blogging sisters make midlife reality into comedy
Sisters Kelly and Sally Jackson have built an online universe around their uniquely Texan personae.
By Omar L. Gallaga
Monday, June 23, 2008
Most humor Web sites stay firmly rooted in the virtual world. You click. You laugh. You move on to another site.
The Midlife Gals, on the other hand, are taking their Texas-sized personae into the real world. Sisters Kelly and Sally Jackson, who have been blogging and shooting videos for their Web site since August, are already adapting their site (midlifegals.blogspot.com) into a book and a self-financed sitcom pilot.
On a recent weekday, they were dolled up in loud Western wear (the hats, the belt buckles, the costume earrings!) for a film shoot at the Mansion at Judges' Hill. The two were ready to crash the fictional "Cowpoke's Ball," a charity auction to benefit "The Maimed and Mutilated Rodeo Clown Foundation."
The sisters, who write humorously about baby-boomer life and shoot humorous movie reviews of films they rent from Netflix.com, call themselves "Lucy and Ethel" after getting rid of Fred and Ricky. "Or the 'Absolutely Fabulous' of Texas," adds Sally.
The rapidly expanding online universe includes an abused Easter Bunny and "The Ancient One," their 85-year-old mother. The sisters have parlayed the laughs into several paying gigs. They have begun producing videos for the HealthCentral Network, a set of wellness sites that includes MySkinCareConnection.com and OurAlzheimers.com.
The Midlife Gals' efforts have also earned them some critical acclaim. They were finalists for Web entertainment portal On Networks' Project Greenlight Awards in March and were featured on the KLRU TV show "Docubloggers."
We spoke to the Midlife Gals ("KK" and "SalGal," as Kelly and Sally refer to themselves on the Web site) about their self-made fame:
Austin American-Statesman: How has your blog evolved from writing to videos to shooting a sitcom pilot?
KK: First we researched what a blog was because we were curious back in July 2007. Then after we started our blog, we discovered a camera on my MacBook that I didn't know was even there. We had some kind of fun with that, let me tell you, and well, SalGal being a movie person (check out her resumé on IMDB), she just naturally gravitated toward storytelling and off we went!
SalGal: One day we were wondering what a blog was and a few months later I found myself directing and acting in our pilot, standing in front of the door at the Mansion at Judges' Hill wearing a red-and-black square-dancing dress and holding a cake in the shape of a cow patty. All I can tell you is that KK and I are doers, and our ideas take shape in the third dimension regularly and with lightning speed.
Is it easier to be funnier online where you can create personae and expand on them than in real life?
KK: When I was 6 years old, The Ancient One used to wake me up very late at night and demand that I come out to do my impersonation of our Uncle Claude for her cocktail party guests. They were all liquored up by that time of night, so the crowd went wild. I learned early on that I liked the way people looked when I made them laugh. I wish I could say that I'm more exaggerated with my personas online, but those who know me would tell you that it's six of me in real life and half-a-dozen of me online.
SalGal: Long before there was ever a computer, Kelly was making people laugh. At 5 years old, she was funnier than Phyllis Diller and cuter than the Beav. I like to be funny in real life. I studied comedy improv at the Groundlings in Los Angeles and did stand-up at the Comedy Store, the Improv on Melrose and the Ice House in Pasadena. I did it for a while at the Velveeta Room here in Austin when I got here from Hollywood. I like to hear the laughter.
When people think of video on the Web, they usually think of YouTube: young people mixing Mentos and Coke or singing about Barack Obama. Is there a big audience for 'midlife' entertainment on the Web geared toward a more mature viewership?
KK: Remembering that the boomer generation numbers around 78 million, and it was our generation who started computers to begin with, damn skippy we'd be involved and carve out a "midlife" niche on the Web. If you simply type in "midlife," "middle-age" or "boomer" into your search engine, you'd be gobsmacked to discover how many "onliners" are our age or older.
SalGal: Oh, I know you, you think most baby boomers don't have computers, don't know what "Google" means and can't tell a URL from a DVR. You would be surprised at how many of us have our own sites, buy our anti-aging products online and saw Pamela Anderson's sex tape on YouTube.
What was the biggest challenge in learning to build a Web site?
KK: Per your previous question about our age group being online: Checking e-mail is one thing, but building a Web site is quite another, and as you can tell from our site, the bells, whistles, colors, ads and font styles are simple at best. I figured out a long time ago that if I can just stay on the feeder road to the information superhighway, I'm a-doin' just fine. Building our blog was not the most organized or positive experience I've ever had.
SalGal: If it had been up to me, we never would have had a blog. KK was on a mission and all I had to do was make sure her cussing at the computer screen didn't wake up The Ancient One or scare the cats.
Do you look to other humor Web sites or film critics online for inspiration for your writing and videos?
KK: I wish I could answer yes to this question to show that inquiring minds want to know, but I'd be lying. I find that ignorance and naiveté breed creativity beyond the simple information that knowledge would bring. It just serves me better. We love to discover other midlife bloggers and highlight them on our blog, however, as it behooves us all to stick together in cyberspace.
SalGal: I gave up on looking at other people's sites the day I hit on some young guy crying about how everybody needed to forgive and leave Britney Spears alone. He was openly weeping and his eyeliner was smearing down his cheeks and he had gotten like a million hits on his patheticness.
What do you envision as the future of the Midlife Gals?
KK: I won't be truly satisfied until I see Midlife Gals bobble-belly dolls on the shelves at Target, frankly. We want our own sitcom on HBO, lending lunacy and acceptable insanity to the boomer audience.
SalGal: We want to make the world laugh, especially sad people. It's our gift. Unfortunately, we are going to have to get famous in order to pull that off. Or maybe it's not unfortunate, because it seems to be happening already in spite of us.
Masters of Their Domains spotlights Austin-area Web sites and their creators. If you have a unique Web site you'd like to share, e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org.
Friday, June 20, 2008
I bought a new hose for the garden. One hundred and fifty feet of green vinyl that looked simple enough. As I dragged out the coiled hose across the lawn I managed to get it so tangled that it took me two hours to get it laid across the lawn and get all the crimps out of it. I was so hot and sweaty I decided to take a shower and when I pulled the string on my drawstring pants, instead of it coming untied it turned into a knot. I tried to get my pants off without undoing the knot but that was not going to happen. So there I sat on the bed trying to undo the string as Buddy found the string to be the funnest toy in the world.
I shooed Buddy away and he jumped on the table and knocked the computer mouse and some kind of adapter under the table. When I got under there to get them I found a tangle of wires and cables that looked like a giant black widow had tried to build a nest. As I tried to get the mouse and adapter thingy back up to the table my drawstring dangled as the phone rang and I hit my head on the bottom of the table.
I thought everything was good as I enjoyed my shower and opened the drawer where KK and I keep our hair dryers. As I pulled out my hot/curler blower, KK's five curling irons and blowers came out all at the same time in a tangle of black wires that linked them all together like some demented string of Christmas tree lights. In the drawer above that, the same gremlins had wreaked havoc with the wires to my electric shaver (legs), my cell phone charger and a ribbon that had wrapped itself around a headband.
Sometimes my mind feels like it's tangled up in thoughts of every day concerns, deep philosophical concepts and musings on who the Bachelorette is going to get rid of next. It's all just a big jumble of sparking neurons that seem to have no logical connections to each other. Do you ever feel like that?
Have you ever pulled the string on your Nike tennis shoes to untie the bow and had it turn into a knot? Excuse me while I try to get this damned thing undone.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Can you believe that? I don't know any of the friends I had in high school. And even if I did I don't think I would want to drive to Timbuktu to hang with them for five days. Or even for five hours. God, that was forty years ago. Most of my then buddies died of overdoses, drank themselves into oblivion or are now managing KOA campgrounds outside of Brownsville.
KK's girlfriends all seem pretty normal although that's a feat when you were raised in Midland in the fifties. Midland was on the cover of Time Magazine for having more millionaires per capita than any other city in the United States. It also had the highest rate of alcoholism. Everybody was getting rich off oil and they had only one thing to say, "PARTAY!!" George and Barbara Bush were in that hard working, hard playing group of young lions who dressed swell, played five-card-stud with hundred dollar bills and had nightly rave cocktail parties at each other's houses just so the women could show off the new diamonds they just bought at Nieman Marcus.
And they had babies. Back then that's what you did. Only they didn't have nannies - they had maids. Most of my friends, and KK and I to a certain extent, were raised by good, southern, middle-aged black women who taught us how to make yeast bisquits, make up our beds, and be polite to the gardeners. The Ancient One, who was then known as The Stunning One, gave us great taste in window treatments and taught us that we could fall in love with a rich man just as easily as a poor one. Life was weird. I also knew how to make a perfect Martini for her by the time I was nine years old.
It's no wonder that most of the Midland kids who are now babyboomers are either in the ground, filthy rich, or living beneath the downtown Colorado bridge. We are an interesting group though, you have to admit.
I hope KK is having fun with her gal-pals in the hill country. I know that when the men arrive on Friday they mow the meadow and dig holes in the ground so they can play golf. I can just see them now, the girls decked out in their jeans and boots, putting eagles while holding Bloody Mary's, telling dirty jokes, and talking about how screwed up their kids are.
Have fun KK, and lift one for the good old brown days of Midland,
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The reason I started thinking about this is because yesterday, as I was passing the bathroom door, I spied SalGal looking at herself in the mirror. I stopped, about to say something to her when I realized that she was making faces to herself in the mirror. I froze...partly out of intense delight to be a fly on the wall without her knowledge and partly in fear of embarrassing her. My fly-on-the-wall delight won out over my respect for her so I just watched. She had an audition that afternoon so she was making faces of who she thought her character might be...FASCINATING, and so funny! At the end of her session in front of the mirror, she smiled a wide, tooth-filled smile to herself and then turned to discover me standing there. We laughed and laughed and laughed with her face the color of a tomato! What a life moment. Ahhhhh.
Whenever we trip over something, someone is always watching which is why we always look down and back at the ENORMOUS pebble that caused our clumsiness. When I have to pull down my granny panties after they've ridden up into no-man's land under my too-tight jeans, someone is always watching. I am of an age now where the need for pulling them out of there is more important than any silly embarrassment.
My Mister Two used to take his index finger and thumb and rub behind his right ear lobe...then put those fingers under his nose and rub them together to re-create the ear odor. It was something that he just had to do and, because he's a man, he didn't give a rat's ass if anyone saw him do it. I never said to him, "WHAT are you doing? That is completely gross. STOP it!" Even at a fancy dinner party when people would see him do it, I said nothing. I just had to put my head down and pretend that I was married to someone else that night.
When I used to wear panty hose the crotch area would lose its stretch and wind up half-way down my thighs so I performed a dance-like ritual where I would lift a leg straight out and up high in order to bring that area back into place. If I were more coordinated, it might have been mistaken for an Alvin Ailey jazz dance step, but I would up looking like a crane stretching her spindly leg prior to an awkward attempt at lift off. And, besides...who does an Alvin Ailey jazz dance high kick in the hallway of an office anyway?
You're thinking about what you do that people might be observing, aren't you? Someone is ALWAYS watching...be careful!
There are lots of things I like to do when nobody is looking:
Say my affirmations
Eat pork rinds
Watch 'The Ace of Cakes'
Play online Blackjack
Sing 'Tonight' out loud (West Side Story)
Take the stems out of mushrooms before I buy them -
Same thing with broccoli oh come on I'm not paying for broccoli stems
Load my purse with toothpicks from restaurant exits
Take paper hand-towels from The Four Seasons Ladies Room
Jaywalk on South Congress
Go outside on the front lawn and look at the stars
Kiss my cat Buddy on his nose
Give the homeless guy at 'Loop 1' a dollar
Tell myself I'm okay
Thank the universe for my sweet KK
Throw rocks at grackles on the birdbath
Shoot the finger at the guy who lets his dog shit on our lawn
Drink milk from the carton in the fridge
Play-like I'm Katherine Hepburn
I don't care if anyone sees me do this stuff as long as they don't tell,
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I picture a Daddy tying his little girl’s shoe laces and teaching her how to make the loop go under and through. He is patient and funny. The little girl knows her life parameters from the inside of his embrace. When she looks up at him, she knows his strength. She hears laughter roar from his mouth, then drift down to her level as cool air does from a ceiling fan on a hot day. That’s enough to make anyone smile.
A Daddy to me is someone who is more comfortable and emotionally available with his baby girl child than he could ever be with his wife…just those moments in time where his intimacy is distinctly a Daddy’s, vulnerable and sweeter than a chocolate truffle. His little girl is the prettiest, smartest and toughest prodigy on the planet…and he’d beat up anyone who disagreed.
Daddys smell of fresh aftershave and starch. When they’re dressed up, they look so smart. They seem indestructible and pretty at the same time. To see a Daddy open the door for his daughter, no matter what age, is crushing in its simplicity and gentleness. To watch this couple dance can break the heart. To see a Daddy kiss his baby girl goodbye on her way to college can make you cry in your car as you drive by…a total stranger, brought to your knees with that soft, sweet gesture.
Daddys are protective of their young ladies. You’d better be a better man than her Daddy if you want to marry his daughter. He’ll watch you and if you hurt her, he will act like he could kill you, but he’ll rush to her aid and tell her to forget all about you instead because, “Daddy’s here now.” Daddys buy their girls the best presents when they’re sad. Nothing is too good or costs too much for a Daddy to see her smile again.
And, if a Daddy’s young woman-girl has a baby girl of her own, he’ll melt at the sight of her, swoon at her whimper and gasp when she giggles. He gets to do it all over again, and you’ll have to beg him to leave when it’s way past her bedtime. He’ll begrudgingly go home, and when he sees his own love, the woman who gave him his baby girl and her own girl, he’ll cry in her arms at the excruciating beauty the world can hold. Daddy’s an old softie.
A Daddy is even more handsome when his own skin is old and soft. He still smells of aftershave and starch, but also like a tree who will lose its leaves come Fall. He stands stooped like the tree, but with wisdom that comes from all the seasons of his growth. Daddy’s finally learn how lost their girls would be without them and how rooted they are in the periphery of those lives. They carry a predisposed sadness with them wherever they go, underneath their crooked smiles and inside their clothes…just waiting to go.
I have knowledge that Daddys are all of these things. My women friends tell me stories and I laugh and cry with them. I use their Daddys as my own. My Daddy died before I started school, went to my first dance or drove for the first time. He’s watching me though and smiling down at his baby girl child.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy
Sunday, June 8, 2008
House slippers - I have open-toed slippers for summer, close-toed slippers for winter and a pair of slippers that have rubber soles for outside to pick up the paper and ones that are fluffy all over and only meant to be worn inside the house. Unfortunately, I wear house slippers more often than I would like.
Flip flops - I have only one pair of flip flops, but everyone should have at least ONE pair.
Sandals - There are the black pair for black pants, the brown ones for jeans and Fall wear (where it's still in the 90's in Texas), the Mexican huaraches to be worn with cropped pants, the sliver sandals for evenings out and the bronze sandals that match my bronze cuff and earrings. Who would wear silver sandals with bronze earrings...hellllllooo?
Mules - (I wonder why they call them that?) The black ones with two-inch heels for when I don't care about being 6'1," the flat, hand-painted ones with the Japanese theme, the cream- colored flats for casual wear and the multi-colored ones to wear with just about everything.
Espadrilles - when I don't care about people seeing my bunion bulging sideways from my right big toe...I wear the flat kind with cotton canvas...blue, black, white/beige-striped, 2 multi-colored and the beige pair just for fun.
Ballet slippers - when I feel like my feet look Sasquatchian...the black, cream, brown suede and the silver ones make me feel like doing pirouettes around the room. I do not wear all of them at once.
Moccasins - I'm from the Southwest and I do not apologize for having these comfy feet coverings. I have black suede Indian mocs that fold over at the ankle and tie with a leather strap...like real American Indians who sell cheap, fake turquoise jewelry on the plaza in Santa Fe...these mocs can only be worn with jeans...and another pair with the little beads forming a Thunderbird pattern on the top. I've got green driving mocs and white ones with white gwoe-gwain wibbon as an accent.
Loafers/flats - I haven't worn a single pair of these since I quit my office day job. I should give them away as an affirmation that I'll NEVER GO BACK. I see panty hose every time I look at those shoes!
Boots - I have the tall, black cowboy boots with the high, riding heel, Wellies in case someone asks me to meet them in jolly old England, brown Roper riding boots (even though I'm a cowgirl without portfolio at present) and brown hiking boots that don't see the light outside the closet much.
Sneakers - Well, who does NOT have a pair of Converse All Stars...mine are white with a low ankle to be worn when attempting to be casual chic. I also have a pair of 'walking' shoes that look like the kind an astronaut would change into on the space station after a brisk space walk.
Whew! When I started this list, I felt really confident that in fact, I DON'T have too many shoes. I now see some clearing out of my foot chi and a trip to GoodWill. Sheesh. I could at least give away two pair...hmmmmm...I think.
PS-I haven't a single pair of fuck-me pumps. I'm 56 years old and 5'11." Need I say more?
My feet are now shaped just like the heels I wore in high school. In the sixties they were pointed at the toe as opposed to rounded like in the forties. My toes look like they were stuffed into a baker's cone-paper-squeeze-out-the-decoration thingy and then left to gell. My second toe is a half inch-longer than my big toe so I have never in my life worn shoes with the toes out. And lets be honest, fuck-me pumps have to have that along with sling-backs or they're not authentic fuck-me pumps. Every time I've tried on those fabled Marilyn Monroe/Shelley Winters heels, the hole at the toe looked like some weird little armadillo penis was sticking out the end. Just gross no I can't do it ever..ever..ever!!
And yet...every woman in Texas has red toenails and wears thongs, sandals, open-toed shoes and flip flops with every imaginable adornment on them. As if that takes away from the fact that feet and toes are ugly and there's no getting around it. Is it just me? Well, it seems it is because KK told me the other day that Texas women don't care if their feet are ugly so why should I?
I had never thought of it that way before. I began to look at everybody's feet. I began staring at any feet that were in sandals or thongs; at the grocery store, the pool and even at the Our Lady of Monolo midnight mass at the east side 'Thank you Jesus for kid leather Catholic Church.' It's true!! Nobody cares!! What a revelation. It's just me!!!!
I wore a pair of KK's thong sandals the other day. I felt free. I felt like I had made a major change in my life. No one looked at my feet. Nobody even flinched. I had my 58th birthday on June 2nd and I'm a new woman! Yeehaw!!!!
Friday, June 6, 2008
"The next morning he rolled over and asked, "So, does your dad actually own American Airlines?" I turned over so that I wasn't facing him and cringed. "Yeah, why? Do you want to go somewhere?"
I still laugh out loud when I think of this...the ultimate example of embellishment. That got me thinking, of course.
An official definition of the word, embellish is:
- To make beautiful, as by ornamentation; decorate.
- To add ornamental or fictitious details to: a fanciful account that embellishes the true story.
When your boss catches something you did or didn't do, you MUST lie under those circumstances in order to maintain the semblance of your perfect record to that point...or your JOB. I did this a time or two with my last employer, and as I lied to his face, I could see on his face that he soooo knew I was lying, but was willing to go along with it in order to play the 'human' game that we all play every day. What a gem he was! He knew I was 'embellishing' because of the red in my cheeks and the laser-eyed look I gave him which was out of the norm. We would dance the dance and he would always let me save face, so that worked out great.
If you say that you've never 'embellished' your resume, I'll be forced to call you a damn liar. It's amazing how much responsibility you can add to the role of receptionist. By the time you're ready to send out that resume, your receptionist duties far exceed anything that the CEO might have on his resume...and your "work from home" job description is a doozy when all you were really doing was chasing little Tommy with the snotty nose. As a former 'medical transcriptionist' who worked from home, I might as well have been a real doctor for all the embellished 'duties' that wound up on my resume...all the while in my pajamas typing boring medical histories between Ellen DeGeneres' guests.
I say...what would life be without embellishments of all kinds...go ahead, wear too much jewelry while lying your ass off. You're not ALONE!
I like to embellish everything in my life. I want my food garnished, my ears jeweled and my realilty upgraded. Reality is so boring at times, isn't it? I like to give it a little drama and spice up my stories with some more interesting events. If I see Mathew McGoneghy at a party then my story at the next one is that he and I sat in a hot tub and talked for four hours about how to make the perfect Margarita. What the hell, he'll never know.
KK tells stories with a flourish. Bold, sweeping movements are involved and at the end of the story the applause and laughter are so grand that she is want to bow to her knees with both arms out like swans in flight. Queen Elizabeth would be impressed. See how I embellished this last paragraph? It's fun, try it.
So lets go out there into the real world today and do our best to embellish it for ourselves and everybody we see. Go ahead and sing out loud at the dry-cleaners, wear a bracelet that drips with Cubic Zerconias with your flip-flops and jeans and make a really glittery sign for the homeless guy down by the freeway.
Excuse me while I go throw rose petals on The Ancient One,
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
And, I have a P.S. on our last blog about hudlooms. I got THIS email just yesterday! I'll bet you've gotten these...does anyone know what the hell they are???
Of atlas.extensive plantations of olives.village receipts
remained stationary. There was a certain i was alive. I
endeavoured at first to conceal their costume is a jelabea,150
and a belt, without in four rows, each row consisting of
a line of go back to the public school, dave, and yet she
answered it. One gets awfully intimate in a few or probabilities,
and since she did not want 5obek to take enlightenment from
trivial details, noted it. But one has to get accustomed
the usual servant i was, and where i was from, and where
i was going vault and making a centre in the north. These
the diningroom where the thoughtful m'leod's had had the
feeling of being back in a nightmare which and the woolja,
and entered mogodor at four o'clock,.
Hmmmmmm. What a fascinating story!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Here was the first paragraph:
"Based on the findings of this investigation department, we wish to warn some touts. We have been informed that some touts are contacting you i of the colection of your fund in the total sum of $35 Million U.S. Do was long approved in your favor through the WEMA BANK PLC."
Here is my question...Do these people (usually from third world countries) think that we in the United States are all just complete dumbbells? I mean, some of us ARE complete dumbbells, but there are a WHOLE lot of us who know a scam when we read one...except that Sal and I can't even figure this one out...do they want to give us money or have us give them money for arresting the 'tout's who have stolen our $35 Million U.S. Do?
Thank God for our spam agents out there in cyber space tracking down these 'hudlooms.' I think it's pretty safe to say that Mr. "Ibrahim Lamorde" is not going to be upset or think about suing me for liable because I'm talking about him in our very public blog. As a matter of fact, I would wager all my egg money on the fact that this is not his real name. What do you bet?
How many times have you all won THE U.K. LOTTERY in millions of pounds sterling?? I think we're all RICH! I'm going to wait to spend my money until the checque has cleared. It WON'T clear, you say? Pish posh...why I've won more merchandise than just about anyone i no, including all the 'touts.'
Please, let's all thank our spam agents for saving us from the Ibrahims of the cyberworld...and if you know of anyone who falls for this malarky, please confine them to a living space without access to mail or email or telephones!
I had to save that letter it was so hilarious. I still can't figure out what the 'touts'' are. Here's another paragraph from that letter
"Although we have been able to come up with some good result about the pepl who have extorted money from you illegallyand i wish to llst some of them will personally indicatee them by writing back to us because we want to paymtn to you without any delay but we must surely deal wand bring the book if only you will indicate correctly any oif them."
And here are a few of the names:
Dr.ken in U S A
Mr. Benson Wolly Fedex Courier Service
Mr CUPPA ACOKA. FEDERAL GOVERNMENT OF NIGERIA
Mr. Ernest Chukwudi Ebi
Uh, Dr. ken who? and give me a cuppa coka...AZU!! Gazundtiet..and how much wood would a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?
Listen, forget about all of this scullduggery and just be smart and delete every email you get from the UK or Nigeria.
Hey! You there reading this blog! Yer are one millionth reader and youwon prise of $800,00,000,00 poundsterling! Arnt' you exxiyted? All you has to do is sen me five hundred dollars and I will putdraftmones in your bank acoutn. What is you bankaccont # anyway? And kyou name and address. Yu can trust medeerest one and watchout for skammmers!
Your frieind in Budha,
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
My friend in high school said,"I think it's safe," when she gave me the capsule with mescaline in it. Then, after she double-dawg-dared me to swallow it and I DID of course, she sang,"Well, it's too late baby now, it's too late," by Carol King.
Think of all our ancestors who were out foraging in the woods for food and one of them said to the other in Neanderthal, "think safe...try." Of course, they would only know it was safe if the taster didn't keel over dead with foam coming out of his mouth (notice the masculine taster here...hehehe). Actually, it would be a male taster because they had to save all the females for birth giving, and believe you me, they were NOT saying before having sex, "I think it's safe."
Think of all the times you asked the passenger in the car whether there were any cars coming your way from their side. "I think it's safe." BLAM,POW,CRASH!!!!!! After quite a fender bender your passenger would then say it again, "I think it's safe," when you tried to keep on driving the bent and crippled vehicle.
Think of the first person who said, "I think it's safe," when disembarking from the boat on the shores of a new land...right before the natives arrowed them all to death, boiled them in those big black pots and then shrunk their heads.
And, last but not least, think of how many women who hadn't a clue when they were ovulating said to their lovers, "I think it's safe." And the twins' names are Coulda and Shoulda!!
Monday, May 26, 2008
We're doing well lo these 3 weeks later on our latest attempt to stop smoking. Fingers crossed, and aren't we the PERFECT candidates to make videos on smoking and all its ills?!
When our smoking blogs for Health Central are up, we'll let you know by providing a link to their site for your perusal and comments.
KK and SalGal
Friday, May 23, 2008
I really tried to be as nice to him as I could. As a matter of fact, I even said, "I'm going to try to be as nice to you as I can when I ask you WHY MY PASSWORD NO LONGER WORKS!?" Bless his heart...he works at a bank for Gawd's sake and all he wants to do on this Friday of the Memorial Day holiday weekend is get the fuck OUT of the bank and OFF the phone with pissed-off middle-agers like me. I don't blame him.
After he asked me if there was "anything else I can help you with today?" I scoffed, "Guess NOT if you can't fix my FIRST problem." That call just did not go well.
How do you like the new technology for automated people? They sound like they're smiling. The men behind the curtains have programmed them to apologize..."I'm sorry, did you say animal fart? I couldn't quite understand you." See how you can play with these creatures?
But if you want an operator, the automated person (and why are they usually women? Because we're the gentler sex...HA!) will say to you, "Let's see if I can help you. Can you be more specific?" You keep saying OPERATOR, but it does not compute with, let's call her Lolittle Lolate. You know why? I have found the key...you have to say REPRESENTATIVE which is the new politically correct term for operator. No one officially told us that, but we're supposed to know it. Now you know. It took me a long time talking to a non-person to get that information so use it carefully.
How about the automated woman with 'information,' which they don't call 'information' anymore, it's 'directory assistance.' "What city and state please?" I like to say, "Oshkosh,' to which 'it' replies, "I'm sorry, did you say 'Poshnosh.' "Yes," I say.
I think maybe I need to leave the house more often, get out more, go for a long drive in the country, smoke a 6-month old half-doobie...SOMETHING to release me from the grip of the automated female phone warriors who are only after ONE THING....WORLD DOMINATION!!
Thanks for calling...have a nice day,
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Shopping in a department store is just the best and worst experience. The first thing I notice is that department store smell. It's like perfume mixed with leather and dry-cleaning solution. I can't get enough of it as I inhale deeeeeeeply.
Because I actually went to an 'expert' on bra sizing once, I round the corner to the lingerie department feeling confident in my size (which I won't share here because it's pathetically small). Let's just say that when I was younger (before I could hold a pencil under my breasts), I whispered to a sales clerk in the lingerie department, "Pssst...do you have this bra size 36A?" She then yelled across the floor, "LOUISE, WE DON'T CARRY THE PUSH-UP IN A 36A, DO WE? THIS LADY NEEDS ONE." Lingerie shopping can be emotionally difficult.
So, Sal and I came around the corner and Jeeeeesus! I felt like I was from the country Teensyweensystan and this was my first trip to the United States of Plethora!! There was a full acre of nothing BUT bras and panties, racks and stacks on tables, hanging from fake bosoms and piled up wall shelves! Sal and I stopped in our tracks and said, "Holy CRAP, how in the hell are we going to find what we want? Where do we start? Will there by ANYone who can help us, who can hear us or even know that we're here?" It was embarrassing. I mean, you don't have to show a woman 436 bras and 3002 panties when she's just looking for one or even two. It's tooooooo much! And, by the way, why do they call them pairs of panties? I understand the 'pairs of socks' because there are two of them, but 'pairs of panties?' Oh well, that's another blog.
But, the really fun thing is that as I looked at each sytle of bra and matching panty, my mind took me to some pretty delicious fantasies right there in the store. I mean, my 30-year-old mind that's attached to my 56-year-old body. When we finally found the granny panty section (or 'step-ins' as our BFF, Pam calls them...she's from Louisiana, Che), we just looked at each other and dropped our heads in sadness. We knew we were going to buy them because they're comfortable and stay in place and cover over flabby parts, but it was depressing and not a single fantasy came to mind.
To compensate for my sadness, I did purchase a push-up bra, however. The bra pushes them together alright, but it also pushes together the looser skin in between them, creating crevasses and arroyos of skin that look a bit like the end of a glacier that's melting. No matter! I want cleavage, and if I'm somewhere with the proper lighting, it will work.
I can't believe I write about this stuff as a single woman. You think any self-respecting perfect man who accidentally reads this stuff would come within ten MILES of me?? Hehehe...my answer can only be a delusional HELL YES!
Yes, yes, it was awesome, inspiring and daunting to be in that huge field of bras and panties. Pairs of panties...pairs of scissors...those make as much sense as, "Hey! Give me a pair of that night gown."
We got a normal sales woman for which I was grateful. She knew where everything was, took things in her stride and had good stories about transvestites looking for fake butt cheeks. She kept her department in tip/top shape. All bra cups were facing the same direction and all panty crotches faced discreetly in.
I can't try on panties. The sales lady, lets call her Juanita, assured me that women try on panties over the ones they came in with but I don't trust that. I know how women are and they lie. I'm sure there have been many who decide at the last minute to pick up some needed step-ins and upon discovering that they wore no underwear that day, decided to go ahead and try some on. After all, everybody else tried them on over their own so there is no worry about germs and stuff. Guess who is the next person to try on those panties that touched somebody else's vujayjay? You guessed it, me. I just know it. And so I buy my size and then wash them as soon as I get home and hope they fit. It's kinda like sharing the last bite of pie-a-la-mode. I don't know about you but I don't like to eat a bite that somebody else's used spoon got slathered in.
Maybe I am anal (pun intended) about this but I don't even want to try on a bra that some other woman squashed her boobs into. Boobs hang down over your torso and if it's hot like it gets in Austin then you know that there is some sweat going on up in there. The whole thing is just gross and scary and I am traumatized by going to the lingerie store.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
We're ba'ack! What a blast! If you've never made a movie, make one for Jesus'sake. Of course, SalGal has been involved in one way or t'other in the movie biz for some 25 odd years...check out her IMDB resume
She ran our shoot like a damn PRO and laughed and giggled with all the rest of us. Here are a few photos from the set: The cast and crew at lunch above...we were hungry, whatdoyouwant??
SalGal in director mode and in costume for the Cowpoke's Ball
KK in costume for The Cowpoke's Ball and
Sal and Pam preparing for a scene
and...the cowpatty cake!!
Here's the gist: The Midlife Gals (with Pam as their social secretary) try to crash a veddy swanky ball by creating an item for the auction (the cowpatty cake). Their efforts are thwarted by the social 'hostess with the mostest' in the A-Town. She also happens to be having an affair with the smarmy station manager of the public access channel which The Ancient One owns and on which the Midlife Gals have a weekly program discussing all the social goings on in the city.
No one wants the Midlife Gals to crash their parties, but that hardly slows them down!
And, here is a short video of The Ancient One from behind with her 'crop-circle' hair from her pillow on the couch. Sal is discussing a scene of us making the cow patty cake for the Cowpoke's Ball. We don't actually make the cake...it is made by the MOST wonderful 'Ace of Cakes' in Austin...Cakeism. Wayne is the sound guy and Matt the cinematographer. Hehehe....
Now we sell it to HBO and we're on our way. You didn't think we'd actually SHOW you the pilot...oh, no. You have to stay tuned for that on TV!!
KK and SalGal
Thursday, May 15, 2008
We're having a ball and will be able to post some photos and maybe some video soon. Thanks for your patience. We can promise some sick stories upon our return.
Please come back on Monday!!!!!!!! Don't desert us.
KK and Sal
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
On another channel, we have the field reporter with a lithp. This is REALLY dithtracting. I understand the whole equal opportunity employer thingy, but this child needs some speech therapy. I have a morbid fascination in watching her lips because I can't figure out how she can be so off, which then means that I have NO idea what the story is that she's reporting. And, someone with a lithp going into news broadcasting is a little like Diane Keaton selling skin wrinkle cream, right? Or Kirsty Ally for Jenny Craig. I'm just sayin.'
There are two news anchors here in the A-Town who are almost as old as I, and they just keep moving from network to network. You'd think they would get it by being sacked by ABC, and then you'd think that the CBS affiliate would think twice before hiring them, and then when those ratings dive, I'd commit the NBC station manager to a nut house for taking them in after two other massive failures. There are even COMMERCIALS about them and how they're experienced and knowledgeable, but everyone would much rather watch the hot chica than either one of them...bless their hearts.
Of course, there are the requisite 'blondes.' One of them is absolutely beautiful but cannot finish a sentence without a misspeak to save her life. I am continually amazed that she's still working as she bumblefucks her way through a story. Am I the only one who notices these things? I think not.
Because we like to keep things 'weird' here in the A-Town (it's actually our city's moniker), we have the local white-haired, bearded 'everyman,' who does special interest stories about nutty people around the hill country of central Texas. And, to make his style points at the end of each program, he'll say, " and THAT'S the wayitis in OUR little neckofthe woods." This is another person I'd like to wallop. His delusions of grandeur far outweigh his story content. I am compelled to watch this program of his in spite of him because of the total wack-a-doos whom he finds in the little nooks and crannies of small villages, underground caves, snake farms and trailer parks.
I won't mention the weight problems with which some of our news people grapple...oops, I accidentally did, didn't I? Well, now that it's out...tsk, tsk, tsk. They should not be allowed to cover stories on food, exercising, weight loss or healthy eating, okay? It's embarrassing.
Good Night Chet.
When I was a little kid I wanted to be either a cowgirl, a nun or a news reporter. I thought all you had to do was stand in front of a big picture of the White House and read from a big sign that somebody held up for you. That's the way the news reporters looked in the 50's. But there were not any women back then. They were all men and they smoked on camera too. I thought that was very cool and wanted to be just like them; serious, important and able to pal around with Hemmingway or Ed Sullivan.
Now I realize that I would never have been able to pull it off. My problem is that I just can't keep my mouth shut when I should. And I have a tendency to say things as they are. I can just hear me now, "Well, David, here we are in west Texas at the site of the devastation this monster tornado left in its wake. Luckily and magically there were no injuries but this whole town looks like a big old heap of crap. People are just going to have to bum some food and clothes off of their families in other towns cause what with the government being sidetracked by the stupid ass war in Viet Nam, I doubt that there will be any relief for these people any time soon. They'll be lucky to scrounge up some Bud and a bag of Cheetos before the Red Cross rolls in with some desperately needed blankets, spam and Lucky Strikes. Till then, David, these people are just shit out of luck. Back to you."
Barbara Walters opened the way for women in network reporting but she paid the price. Gilda Radner pointed out her speech impediment on Saturday Night Live to the whole world and after interviewing every important person on the planet she ended up on a show with Rosie O'Donnell. It's so sad.
I guess I'll be signing off now. Good night, David.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Then we had to get her dressed, made up and hair curled. Our lunch was at 1:30 pm so we started at 9:30am. Some of you won't be surprised by this. For example, in order to curl her hair, we had to get her from the couch to another chair in the living room where there was a plug. This took about 6 minutes...tick tock!
While I was curling her hair, she just started stream of consciousness talking nonstop. Luckily, because I was behind her with the curling iron, I could watch Meet The Press while she jabbered on. Sal and I have learned how to work with her while tuning her completely out, but with the requisite 'mm, hms' and 'absolutelys.' She told me for the umpteenth time about her cousin, Kelly, who was her favorite family member. He was gay...making his living by tripping and falling all over downtown San Francisco, then suing whoever owned the property. He finally died of alcoholism. It was sweet to listen to her walk down memory Lane (for about five minutes...remember, we've heard this story).
Next, Sal took over with the dressing and adorning with appropriate jewelry. She had to get from the chair, down the hallway to her bathroom...another 9 minutes for that...with a stop to look out on the deck at the squirrels. SalGal could be heard saying things like, "Not those shoes...no, no, no...red doesn't go with pale blue," "Here's the armhole, right here...little farther...lift your head so I can button your blouse."
The walk from the front door to the car always takes the longest because she begins to realize that she is OUTSIDE! With each step, she discovers something new...it is soooo much like taking a toddler out that we smile because of all the things she's (re) discovering. Verrrrrrry carefully we pour her into the front seat of the car and off we go!
We arrive at her very small country club in our neighborhood and people become immediately helpful in getting her from the car to the dining room. It's Mother's Day, and she's so obviously a MOTHER! Then, it's a glass of Chardonnay for each of us. She looks beautiful and is happy and smiling and retelling other stories as Sal and I keep drinking. Such a lovely time was had by all and because the service was so outstanding and because we're not used to getting liquored up in the late morning, we walk to the buffet area where the staff is beginning to break it all down and we stand and applaud! They're gobsmacked but thankful. We're semi-embarrassed because applauding the staff is not country-club behavior, but we always want people to know what good jobs they are doing.
SalGal will continue this story from here. I'm tired just thinking about it and a new day dawns!
After lunch we drove around the quiet neighborhoods to look at the houses, comment on the tree growth and steal flowers from people's gardens. This always makes for a nice bouquet on the coffee table. All you need is a quick exit, a paper bag and a pair of clippers.
We got home at about 3:30PM and headed for seperate beds. Well, The Ancient One went straight for the couch as usual, KK dove into her bed and I went into the back bedroom. It was a given that naps were to be taken immediately. If you were to walk around the house an hour later you would have seen dark rooms with cats draped and snoozing over the backs of chairs and women snoring everywhere in the stillness of the late afternoon.
We all woke up at about five o'clock but only because the cats were hungry and decided to let us know by using the house as a jungle-gym and using our sleepy bodies for traction in their chasing of each other. The huge cake sat on the coffee table like a giant giraffe turd but that and the neighborhood roses made the house smell like a funeral at the Sarah Lee factory.
The Ancient One got into her robe and KK and I settled in for the three hour finale of 'Survivor.' Heaven. That was a perfect day.
We hope you had a perfect day too,
Thursday, May 8, 2008
You poor mens, because a LOT of those commercials are aimed at YOU, but then you do die before we do usually. Like the commercial about the shrinking prostate and the poor man who is spray-painting all the tiny planets for his upcoming display has to keep going to the bathroom. You won't like this, but I have so little sympathy for those of you with this problem. Try sitting on a toilet seat that still holds the last lady's pee pee that you couldn't see because the ultraviolet lighting wasn't quite at the right angle. Here's to all of you who could simply stop the car on a long road trip, walk to the side...or not...whip it out and pee right there standing up instead of squatting behind the car so no one would see you except all the station wagons full of other families who came up the hill and then passed by you waving, laughing and screaming. There is justice in there somewhere. And you could target your spray instead of wind up with a pair of wet tennis shoes when you got back in the car. Do I sound bitter?
When I used to teach yoga, I had a posture that I called the 'water closet hover.' This posture is where one simply bends the knees as low as one can go while the back is straight and the arms are stretched straight out in the front. Ha!, you may say, but this is a required position in any toilet stall so as to NOT sit down on someone else's pee pee. It also gives the thighs great definition if you use it enough...by either going to the bathroom often or taking a lot of yoga classes.
There isn't one of our kind who hasn't had to leave a room after passing gas or pooting as The Ancient One calls it. That's a given, but the difference between the mens and the womans is that the mens push and the womans pull it back in. They don't call them skid marks for nothing! In our cases, we puff up like toads until we're in a secured, closed-off area far away from any form of civilization and then, and only then, do we let'er rip.
SalGal swallows her burps. I don't even know how one does that, but sure enough, she keeps them inside. Every now and again, out of the blue, she'll say, "Oops, excuse me." I say, "What in the hell for?" "I burped." "You call that a BURP?" And then we start laughing and a small amount of tee tee escapes because we just can't hold it in. I am lovin middle age! I have a gal pal who has to stand and cross her legs completely around each other if someone says something funny because she really can't hold it in which makes everyone around her laugh even harder. She then hops around the room on that one leg with her head back and her mouth wide open...just peeing and laughing.
There are so many more humiliations that this will be just the first part of a humiliation series. Stay tuned!!
Hahaha, she does do that and when she does she looks like some manic Pez dispenser that Tim Burton made because she has platinum, spiked out hair and the biggest mouth you ever saw. When she laughs her face disappears and becomes this huge cavern that has white stalagmites sticking up over it. (Tim Burton did 'The Night Before Christmas'just so you know)
I have this squidgy thingy on my left eyelid. It reminds me of the lava flow from a volcano I saw once. The lava was turned into rock but it still looked like it did when it was coming down the hill. I have to put on my make-up using a #5 magnifying mirror so that squidgy thingy looks about an inch wide. When I'm talking to someone and they are looking at my eyes I'm sure they are thinking, 'Why doesn't she get that squidgy thingy on her eye removed. Hmmm, maybe she doesn't think it's noticeable. I will keep looking at it so she will know it's there.'
I got a skin tag frozen off the outer edge of my right eye last week but Dr. Schulz (our dermatologist) said he couldn't do anything about squidgy thingy. I have to go to Dr. Schulz all the time to get skin tags, moles and age spots frozen off. He just looks at me and says, 'Are you ready for some pain?' So delicate. I told him beauty knows no pain and I will be coming to him until all of the squidgies all over my body are completely gone. I expected him to say something like, 'Don't worry, a couple of years - look bettah.' Kindly, old Doctor Welby he's not. Instead he just grinned a devilish smile and said, 'Good, because that means you'll be coming to me for the rest of your life.'
And that's just my eye lids. There are things going on all over my body that if I had known about when I was sixteen I probably would have crawled under the bed and curled up in the fetal position. The good thing about all of this is that my ability to deal with all of this physical stuff gets easier the older I get. I guess God planned it that way.
If you have a big mole where people can see it, get it taken off because people can see it and it's gross,
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
May 6, 2008
The HealthCentral Network Signs Spunky “Midlife Gals” for Comedic Relief on Alzheimer’s, Skin Care Sites
ARLINGTON, VA — Who says the best times of your life have already come and gone?
The HealthCentral Network, Inc. (www.HealthCentral.com) has recently brought on The Midlife Gals, two sisters from Texas who prove that along with wrinkles and the responsibility of caring for their elderly mother comes the opportunity to cut-up and bring a smile to the face of others.
Known for their personal blog, Kelly and Sally Jackson will be writing tongue-in-cheek reflections on MySkinCareConnection.com and OurAlzheimers.com about growing old, in addition to providing videos reflecting their off-the-wall sense of humor about aging.
“Going to HealthCentral is better than calling your best friend in Dallas to get a diagnosis because she is the worst hypochondriac in west Texas!” Sally Jackson said. “We are so excited to bring the gift of laughter to the people -- patients, caregivers, wrinkly women -- who need laughter the most.”
The Gal’s blogs and videos can be seen at
at http://www.healthcentral.com/skin-care/videos-midlife-gals.html and http://www.healthcentral.com/alzheimers/midlife-gals.html
“Watching your parents grow older and face debilitating diseases like Alzheimer’s, in addition to watching yourself turn gray, can be overwhelming”, said Chris Schroeder, CEO and President of The HealthCentral Network. “The Midlife Gals remind us that it’s OK, even therapeutic, to laugh during times of stress.”
About The HealthCentral Network
The HealthCentral Network, Inc. (www.HealthCentral.com) is one of the top health destinations on the Web, with more than 35 condition-specific, wellness and general health Web properties. By offering connections to renowned experts, a network of patients and caregivers who share "real world" experience, and in-depth information, sites in The HealthCentral Network make a meaningful difference in the lives of patients and caregivers. The HealthCentral Network also manages the highest-quality health advertising network, not building size for size's sake - but targeting condition-specific audiences who value and engage with information from marketers on their terms.
The HealthCentral Network was acquired in 2005 by Polaris Venture Partners, The Carlyle Group, Sequoia Capital, and Allen & Company. In January 2008, the Company received a significant minority investment from IAC/InteractiveCorp and additional investment from its original investors, and IAC CEO Barry Diller joined The HealthCentral Network's board of directors. In April 2008, HealthCentral and IAC Ad Solutions Network announced a new ad network agreement, making HealthCentral IAC/AS’s exclusive partner in online marketing to prescription pharmaceutical advertisers.
HealthCentral's management team combines decades of interactive media, medical and journalism experience: CEO and President Christopher Schroeder was the CEO and Publisher of Washingtonpost.Newsweek Interactive, the interactive subsidiary of The Washington Post Company (NYSE: WPO.)
Here's one of our Alzheimers videos, The Cotillion:
Monday, May 5, 2008
Sal and I didn't talk about any of the bad effects that we started feeling about 5 days in...that would have been too scary and the 'tiny monster' that is nicotine doesn't like that...so we bought cartons for lots of money, sat out on the deck in all but torrential downpours, and started having that closed-up feeling in the throat, the clearing of the throat all the time, REALLY bad breath, etc...you know the drill, right? It's just that by stopping and starting again the way we did, we could SEE and FEEL what it does to you and how FAST that happens.
So, one day when the 'tiny monster' had just had his fix, I suggested to Sal that we might quit in a couple of weeks again. You could just see her 'tiny monster' with his teeth gleaming and drooling in a snarl, but once she was able to put a leash on him, she replied, "Are you SURE?" We worked our way through the discussion to all the rationalizations a smoker has, and they are just LEGION, aren't they?
So, we picked up the book again, you know the one...The Easy Way to Stop Smoking? The one we used to quit in October for 5 months? Turns out it IS easy to quit, but it's easy to start again too, so therein lies the devil. Well, we re-read the book, and the author, Allen Carr can get you to read the book because he announces early on that part of his instructions are that you HAVE to keep smoking through to the end. So, one needn't fear turning the pages...except that very last one, but guess what? By then, cigarettes taste just ghastly and you don't even want one anymore. Amazing!
We've also decided that prayers, bribery, threats and financial incentives are also very helpful to kill off 'the tiny monster' rather than just keep him at bay. (Should I be concerned that I'm always using the he/him when discussing the monster? No WONDER I'm still single!!).
Wish us well, cross your fingers and hope that we stay on the WAGON!
PS-I'm already giggling at those smokers who are rationalizing their monsters even as they read this post. All I can say is, "I feel your pain, but it AIN'T true!"
God, we are such idiots but I'm still proud of us for quitting in the first place after smoking for basically 40 years. When rereading the book I saw the part where the author tells us to keep the book and never give it to anybody and never to throw it away. I thought he was just an asshole who wanted to keep the sales of his books up. I was wrong. He was right, he makes it so easy to stop that some of us start again because we say, 'We'll just stop again later.'
And therein lies the little monster. He waits down in there in the recesses of your brain until the physical cravings are completely gone and then he brings on the Oxyclean, Lysol and Tide to completely wash your brain again. We were warned but we didn't listen. At least we didn't give the book away.
Here's the brainwashing: 'It's really hard to quit. I'm as hooked as a heroin user.'
Well, guess what, when you find out that it really isn't hard to quit, you have no more excuses. You try what the book suggests - no, demands - and you realize how you have been duped for your whole life. It's like owning a cat; you love the little things but you know they run your life, you're always apologizing to people who come to the house, and pillow cases smell like an old Indian with tuna breath.
Yipee! I'm a non-smoker again!! And I don't think I'll ever start again. That's another thing the book teaches you to admit. You can never have another one. I apply that rule to hamsters, Fran's bacon/cheese/chili burgers and men.
I don't care what you do and smoke 'em if you got 'em,
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Years ago, I competed in a ladies' fishing contest in a large pond out in the beautiful countryside of Connecticut. Our then husbands were our lackeys and they took the fish off the hooks for us because it was just too gross. I won every year for 3 or 4 years, and the last year, my only real competition sent me nasty faxes and notes in the mail. She tried everything she could think of to intimidate me...tsk, tsk, tsk. It never worked because I know where fish live. My granddaddy taught me.
In every yoga class I've ever been in , there was always someone who came close to being in my yoga league and we fought hard to declare a silent winner by the end of the session. We never made actual eye contact nor did we acknowledge the competition, but we knew exactly what we were doing...even during all the Namastes and Peace be with yous. There are MILLIONS of closet yoga competitors and if you're one of them and you're reading this...you must be laughing!
I would try to win a sleeping competition if one existed. I have no idea where this came from....whose ancestral DNA I inherited. I think it was my great grand daddy who was a Mississippi River Boat Gambler. It's how he made his money, and he was damn good at it.
The only thing at which my mother was competitive was poker. She did NOT like to lose. Neither do I. I love to gamble. My life has been a gamble, and I'm beating the house so far. If there are two ants racing each other up a tree, I'll root for one to win. Do you think I need help? I'd feel competitive with the therapist to see which one of us could solve my problem first, so I'm not sure I'm a good candidate. Maybe medication?
I think it's in our genes. I think 'our daddy who art in heaven', Frank Jackson must have been really ambitious and competitive. He was a Navy pilot in WWII and that takes a lot of nerve. Courage; that accompanies a competitive spirit I think. That and an ability to not care if anybody thinks you are an asshole.
KK is right, gambling is directly related to competition. They are both something that you can win if you participate. It's like surfing the waves in Hawaii (I won 2nd place there in the surfing contest). You have to pick and choose your waves carefully but if you catch the right one it will take you for a ride you'll remember on your death bed. If you leave too soon and have to watch someone else catch that wave from shore, you never leave when you're supposed to again. That's what finally gets the gambler. That's why the house always wins and the doors never close. They've got you at, 'cocktail?.'
I was a national champion swimmer in high school. Very few people could beat me if we were in the same pool together. I just couldn't stand it if somebody was ahead of me. I had to win. My life is like that. If somebody does anything I do, then I have to do it better or faster or longer or funnier. This rule applies to cooking, acting and dancing 'The-Cotton-Eyed-Joe.' KK and I don't really compete, except for who's going to drive, who gets to wear the red pumps and who has to watch 'Wheel of Fortune' with The Ancient One that night.
I always lose at Monopoly, Scrabble and Rock/Paper/Scissors. This irks me no end and causes me to have to scoop out the kitty litter pretty much every day. I sometimes think KK is tomfooling me. Do scissors really cut rock? Hmmmmmm.
PLease excuse me while I go put the trash out. I thought I had her that time but...apparently rock smashes paper,
Thursday, May 1, 2008
When we grew up in the fifties and sixties, the doctors were still smoking cigarettes so they weren’t about to tell us to stay out of the sun. They just called those brown spots brown spots and moved on with their examinations. So, we’d leave their offices and go baste ourselves with baby oil and turn over when we were perfectly roasted, crackling and broiled on one side
I’m sufficiently paranoid now about our bad behavior back then to have regular appointments with my dermatologist. He’s got white hair and a soft voice and knows EVERYthing there is about skin. I’ve heard the word, “pre-cancerous” a time or two regarding some skin irregularity or other, and he’s frozen off lot’s of bad patches. All I can do now is to sweep up after my young self’s bad behavior.
The tan I have now is solely on my left arm. That’s what I call the ‘driver’s’ tan because, well, I have to drive, and the sun has to shine in my car window on that side, so that’s the arm that I extend in a wave or handshake because it just looks better. My legs, on the other hand, look as if I’m wearing white nurse stockings or that I have two flashlights at full power glowing from my hips! But you know what, I have so many spider veins down there now that I wear slacks to any event…kind of like Katherine Hepburn. NO one is going to see these legs except Sal or my next boyfriend, and especially then, I’ll use proper low lighting.
But, here’s the thing…the yung’ ns are still basting and roasting or sitting in the tanning caskets for way too long. That’s part of the definition of being a yung’ n, isn’t it though? Beauty Knows no pain…or future?!
While I’m confessing sins here, actually I have a CRUSH on my dermatologist. I like his white hair, soft voice and perfect skin. I bet he has perfect skin underneath that white coat…oops…excuse me, I digress. So, now Sal and I wear hats, walk in the shade and moisturize with SPF-113. By Gawd, we may not be pretty things, but we may live to be 120. Yikes!
MIrror mirror on the wall…
Oh, I so remember spending the days at the pool in Midland,Texas in the 50’s. The days were hot but the water was ice cold and the hamburger hut didn’t care about trans fats. Hell, they didn’t even know what ‘cholesterol’ meant.
And basting ourselves with baby oil wasn’t nearly enough. We put iodine in the baby oil so that our tans would turn a nice golden brown before the sun went down. Our skin was as smooth as dolphin hide, soft as a horse’s muzzle and supple as a baby’s buns. Now? Our skin looks like two-week-old zucchinis that got left in the sun and bleached. When we extend our arms to give directions the lower part of our upper arms hang down like elephant ears and our necks look like they are melting. Gee, I wonder why.
I just don’t understand this because I still forget how old I am. I still get a jolt when I see a handsome thirty five-year-old man walking down the street. I do my yoga and feel like I’m thirty and then I see myself in the mirror and realize that I look like Lyle Lovitt in tights. When I wake up in the mornings I’m great until I find out I slept with the pillow over my face and now I have a wrinkle down my cheek that lasts till my 4PM appointment with a twenty-five-year old facialist who tells me that I’ve lost some elasticity in my skin ‘but don’t’ worry that’s normal for someone your age’. I leave, depressed even though I’ve warned the little bitch that the mole on her neck will be cancerous some day and her lips make her look like a frog.
I walk out the door and see my reflection in the mirror. I have on no make-up and my hair is greased back from the oils that poor kid used around my hair line. I look like one of those flesh eaters in a zombie movie. Inevitably it is at a time like this when a really nice looking fifty eight-year-old Viet Nam vet walks by and tries not to make eye contact. That’s okay because in that moment I want to crawl into the caulking in the brick wall anyway.
Wrinkles and pouches and patches are just a reminder that our bodies are getting older with time because I swear our minds don’t. My mind doesn’t have wrinkles. It still thinks it’s thirty five and can’t figure out why the hands that do it’s bidding now look like they are pleated at the wrists.
I do my best and slather my skin with daily lotion, put Retinol on my face and neck and soak in baths of Carnation instant milk. Remember Joan Crawford in ‘What Ever Happened To Baby Jane?’ Or Betty Davis for that matter. I’m always afraid I’m on the road to that until I forget while I’m gardening or cooking or out with KK all sparkling for the evening. I look at her and I see her soul. Once someone asked her what it felt like to see that her sister had aged and wrinkled with time. Her response? “Oh, did she? I hadn’t noticed.”