Charlywalker's Blog











{January 1, 2014}   Backfield In Motion

My son is home for the Holidays and I will say, he never ceases to amaze me with the way his brain is wired. I know his 19 year old intellect is still under construction and my crossing the yellow caution tape may lead to a hazard zone equipped with sink holes invading his infrastructure……but I continue to plow aHEAD as I bear witness to his teen logic.

Case in point: Since birth I have been privy to my sons underclothes all the way from his training pants to his XL Joe Boxers. I  have had this privilege not only as his mother doing his laundry, but also as a spectator during his youth.  I watched as he frantically raced down the stairs in his T-shirt and Power Ranger panties looking for something he urgently needed; like a small grey lego piece he left on the carpet over night that may or may not have been devoured by my vacuum.  OR ..fast forward to the present: His collegiate six foot frame harboring size 13 bare feet flapping down steps in search of his treasured cell phone lost in the couch cushions, wearing only his Christmas Boxers featuring Santa holding a Heineken.  My how the years breeze past us, from briefs to boxers is how I now measure my sons growth……..and maturity level.

It’s amazing what shows up when ready for prime time teens are independent and shop for their own clothing after they enroll in college. Possibly spending their college fund on seasonal items that cover their private areas and lay hidden beneath their worn denims only to surface when they bring their laundry home for the holidays. It’s amazing the barrage of unmentionables I happen upon publicizing clever jingles across their buttocks region, such as;  “Santa, Where’s My Ho’s?”.  OR, how about the ones with the red and green ornaments spread over the fly area touting: ” Like My Balls?”.   Oh how I miss those Sesame Street days when it was a Muppet dominating the BVD empire and little fannies  everywhere tooted Gonzo’s trumpet from behind….

Oh but I digress.

My son brought his Christmas break laundry home and nestled on top peaking out from under some crusty towels sat a lonely pair of white Briefs.   I asked my son as to when he switched his undergarments  from boxers to briefs, and then proceeded to expound on how Calvin Klein will have to decrease the Font size in order to encrypt their Holiday magic across those “whitey-tighty’s”.  Looks like there might be just enough space in the front to photo shop in one of Santa’s helpers.  “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”.  How can it? There’s no room.

My son didn’t laugh. He merely explained how he “bought the wrong kind”, and  he was looking for the new and improved Euro slim fit hipster comfy-style entitled:”Boxer -Briefs”.

Boxer-Briefs: The oxy-moron of the underpants world.

“Bought the wrong kind”:  The moron who neglected to read the packaging and fell victim to the buy -one -get -one- free syndrome who is now stuck with eight pairs of Calvin Klein’s never to be worn again mini-briefs at $19.50 a pair. Guess who will be comfy in his hipster briefs sitting in the school cafeteria with no money to eat……

My plan was to donate the items and write off the mistake. However..

One Sunday afternoon the temperatures in our area registered just above freezing and while I was carrying the laundry basket down to the laundry room I notice my son jolting out of his room wearing a short sleeve T-shirt with an NFL logo scrolled across his chest accompanied by knee length soccer shorts, and in bare feet.  He flashed past me beating me to the laundry room. He stuck his lengthy arm into the core of his piled clothing  and tore out a white cotton crumpled mass and held it high in his palm, and yelled, “YESss!”.

I said: “Son, that is the whitey-tighty error – in -judgement you are now holding.  Why did you just fish that pair out from the rest of your laundry and hold it up to the underwear god in praise?;  and, why are you dressed like you are vacationing in Hawaii when it’s sub-zero degrees in Pennsylvania?”.

” It’s game day and these are my lucky clothes. Every time I wear this my NFL  team wins”.

And the Mini-Briefs?

“Those are included in my lucky clothes, they complete me”.

Here’s hoping they make the play-offs….you have seven more pairs upstairs….

There are, I’m sure, powerful new technologies to track a 19 year old’s development to investigate their brain functions and connections. When they are connecting. And I’m sure this research will reveal factors that impact a teens behavior that might provoke vulnerabilities and cause an erupt purchase of “the wrong kind” of underwear to only be worn on Game Day at $19.50 at pair. I know that during the formative years there is a decline in volume of grey matter, which I found out, is necessary for maturation, however, I did read that a turn around happens in their early 20′s, and one of the Hallmark’s of this turn in behavior is the ability to “Plan aHEAD”……

 even if your sons “Plan aHEAD ” may be Brief(s)….

spread the humor.



{November 5, 2013}   Blogger’N Hell…

One of my favorite authors wrote a book in the 70′s entitled; “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank”.  I was barely out of high school when I became a big fan of Erma Bombeck.  I found her to be one of the most clever humorists on this globe and was particularly enchanted that she was nearing fifty when her books began to orbit the planet.   Impressive.   She built her career with articles which lead to best sellers based on her suburban home life, possibly some whilst in the midst of menopause.  Most impressive.

I loved her her work and often wondered how she  might have come up with the novel idea of the a fore mentioned  title.  I asked myself if maybe she was just sitting outside taking a quiet moment from the chaos of motherhood to watch the grass grow;  or perhaps  chasing after the crazy dog that ran out of the house with a Bra clenched between his canines and tripped over the cesspool cover causing a fall face down onto a greener pasture……….like I encountered.

However  the case, I commend her creative thought.   Imagine that book’s title had Erma lived on the Public sewer system.

My blog titles may not make sense to anyone but me. My format is to think of the heading first, then eventually fill in the puzzle with pieces of nonsense, quasi truths , and an added touch of experience and observation. For example: Blogger’N Hell.  I think of the expression “Hotter’N Hell”,  and obviously replacing a word in the phrase with the term Blog, either in past, present, or future tense.  My idea for this technique is not ingenious for I was new to the blogging world and had no idea at the time ,what in the hell I was doing.  The titles I came up with stem from a  catch phrase, or maybe a song, or some slogan I overheard while shopping for eggs. Then I laugh to myself as I enter the letters onto my keyboard to layout the Post Heading. I am smiling because I have no inkling what the body of the blog will contain.  I am a massive free-floater.

The title “Blogger’N Hell” made me think of Heat. Not Satan’s fiery Hell, but the earth’s climate in general.  Summer has past and the Fall’s atmospheric conditions showed signs of  sun and wind, ergo, I decided to dress warmly today. I grabbed last seasons leggings and covered them with a sweater dress , slipped on some wilted suede boots and a leather jacket to  head outside and walk the dog.  I barely got down to the end of the lane when I felt the sweat forming at the temples of my tinted hairline. I should have watched the morning news as the weather-person predicted temperatures in the 70′s.

Lately I have been having difficulty with the fluctuation of temperatures and I don’t mean of the external kind. Menopause and I are having a temporary battle of the bulge and sweats which do not coincide with the rest of the environment. My intrinsic Meteorologist has its own agenda. This attack of my internal global warming is causing a meltdown of decision making every time I enter my closet to dress for the day.  I spin my wardrobe wheel of fortune to help with the days pick of attire as I listen to the hormones whispering their “Yays” or “Nays”.  While my tempered hands glide across fabrics, I sense the Goldilocks  syndrome chiming in: “This Cashmere  sweater is too hot!”…..”This cotton shirt is too cold!”…..”This ugly-ass pair of sweat pants is juuussst right!”.  So I put on the cotton shirt, pull the cashmere sweater over my head, and jump into the ugly -ass sweats as I give the rest of my closet the finger.

Temperatures rising and falling biologically can explain certain side effects  a woman  in her fifties might encounter that cause her thought process to detour or stray.  For instance, someone in the drones of menopause may start the day off at her computer wanting to write about Global Warming in relation to the Earth, but end up in stead, twisting her genre to center around her hot-flashes.

When I  keyed in the Title, Blogger’N Hell I was going to rant about the cause or causes of Global Warming………………..from my viewpoint.

Ok, here goes:

Personally I think the polar ice caps are melting due to the fact  that has been overlooked for a long time. In 2010 the population of the States was 308.7 million  and I read a stat that showed  a rough estimate that 49% are male and 51% are female.  Of the 51% of females around 26% are women between the ages of 45 and 64. Now ,if I may estimate or Guess-timate to divide the country in half  lengthwise and roughly focus solely on the female population in the 45-64 age group that dwell below the 37th parallel, I might inject a reasonable fact that maybe…just maybe a very high percentage of these women could possibly be experiencing symptoms or are in full blown menopause.  AND keep in mind the geographical area of where they live; Southern California, Arizona, Texas, and Florida to name just a few parts of the United States that harbor temperatures in triple digits that can process humidity which will frizz the near bald head of a new born.

Now here’s my theory as to why all this is melting away.

If you are experiencing menopause under normal temperatures even in the dead of a winter blizzard you will find yourself dressed in your home in nothing but your underwear. The rest of your family will be appropriately attired and dialing their cellphones to reach a psychiatric unit to commit you.  So…Imagine the percentage of  women  aged 45-64 that reside in the unbearable heated climates below the 37th parallel  going through menopause and looking for a place to cool off and fan their internal heat fueled by a hormonal imbalance. Imagine. Where to go to retreat the heat.

THEY ALL MOVE RESIDENCE TO THE POLAR REGION.  All 26.4%  migrate to places like; The Yukon Territory, Siberia,Antarctica, or The Icebox of the Nation; Fraser, Colorado.   Imagine, all those menopausal women  that have been basking in sunshine and heat for the majority of their lives taking refuge in sub zero temperatures to seek relief, soaking their over heated bodies into the cool temps offered up by Jack Frost. This could react in a massive menopausal melting pot.  Why the internal heat alone from this 26.4%  would radiate into the Alps causing an avalanche of epic proportion.  This internal heat filters out of the menopausal body into the frozen environment as women scream out their cries of joy: “Ice Ice Baby”.  This, my blogger friends, is the cause of global warming.

I’m sure Erma would agree. Maybe she’d  a had another best seller with titles that include:

” The Ice Melts Faster if You Sit On It.” or ” Menopause..Into the White, the Other Side of Fifty Shades of Grey” or ” My Hormones Caused an Avalanche Over Alaska”, or “High Anxiety”, or “Incontinence…The Eighth Continent”.

Erma would have a hay day..she’d be dancing around to Nelly Lyrics….

spread the humor



{November 2, 2013}   One Flew Over The Blog’s Nest.

I am amazed every day how fast time passes. Why it seems like only yesterday I was jumping into my size 4 designer jeans and meeting up with friends for an evening of fun and frolic that lingered into the wee hours where you would stumble home just in time to change your shoes to start another days work .  Maybe spritz a little body spray over the missed areas from your ten second shower, then shake your locks into a full upright position and grab anything from the fridge that didn’t contain mold and dangle it between your teeth as you start up the cold car to head out to your 10 hour day of public service.

Amazing how one could disguise the afore nights  festivities with a little make up and a breath mint, but then, who would notice if you forgo the morning shower when your career peeks at 35,000 feet staged with Bloody Mary requests, screaming babies, and smoking beyond rows 24.  Not one passenger would suspect that you had been out the night before enjoying  Carribean Mai Tai’s and escargot stuffed in mushrooms caps until 2 a.m.  Not a one.  Nor would they notice the pounding a head takes from dehydration, jet engines, and lack of oxygen.  OXYGEN.   Small green tanks  located behind designated rows of seats that are inspected and rendered full before each flight takes off for their destination.  Rendered Full….unless the crew that occupied the plane before you happened to be out the night before their flight. Or, on a rare occasion, some passenger required a portion of that bottled gas for a minor complaint, like anxiety, or maybe a few heart palpitations, or in one case, a woman experiencing early contractions right after take off, with nothing but two hours of ocean waters ahead.

I will tell you this, there is nothing more frustrating as you try to convince a non- English speaking pregnant passenger: “That everything will be just fine”, while racing through the cabin pulling pins on secured O2 canisters and finding  them all empty. Nothing.    Particularly since I had reserved one for myself. Nothing cures a hangover like a little fresh air….

It was at that moment I had decided to attempt some Spanish that I picked up on while based in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I sat with the pregnant passenger and  held her attention with the art of my inept broken language. She seem to calm down as her Braxton Hicks attempted to quiet themselves.  The quizzical look that spread across her face as I proceeded with my quasi Espanol repertoire, may have been a  hefty contributor to her new found demeanor. As It was later explained to me by a bilingual passenger, that I was telling her to; ” stow her belly under the seat” and ” the aircraft is safe with her Bambino in the overhead compartment”.

It wasn’t my fault I lacked proficiency in that language. I was 19 and a half and had four years of an accredited language to my credentials. German.  It was very difficult trying to utilize my German speaking talent on a plane full of Puerto Rican’s flying into Miami, however,  I did happen across a situation where my Bravarian skills came in handy.  There was an unattended child on the aircraft flying from the Islands to New York and he only spoke German.  The head Flight Attendant asked if any crew member was fluent in the little Liebchen’s language, so naturally I  jumped at the chance to show off the “A+”  I received  from my high school German teacher; Freuline Heidleberg. I gave her that title based on all her anecdotal stories about the local Hofrbrauhaus’ she encountered while traveling abroad.  Not to mention her breath wreaked of Brew-ha-ha during class time.

The Deutschland child was all of eight years of age and traveling alone to meet his parents at his destination. The Senior Stew mentioned to me that he seemed distressed while seated in his First class seat awaiting take off.  As I sat next to him I started the conversation with my learned textbook from grade 10; ” Auf Deutsch!”.  I began with what I could recall from lesson one:  “Hello, my name is Ludwiga, what is your name, and , have you seen  my black dog”.  Forgetting that Ludwiga was the German name assigned to me throughout the  entire four years of High School. Every other female student received cute frilly names like, Anja, Brigitte, or Gretchen.  I hated that Brunhilde name and Freuline Heidleberg knew it. I stuffed numerous requisitions for a name change in Freuline Heidleberg’s suggestion box, but my requests were  continually denied. She didn’t like me much, It might have had to do with the time I interrupted one of her  European  Beer adventure stories with a giant belch.

I shortened the name Ludwiga and scrolled ” LuLu”  in black felt pen onto my name tag  taped to my table top situated in the front row facing  Heidleberg’s desk.  I think I won this one as the following class day, Ms. Brew-ha-ha herself gleefully slipped me a note with a newly assigned Name:  BRUNHILDE.

It was later I learned that Brunhilde in German meant, Ready For Battle.  It was then decided I would notoriously autographed all my homework with my new moniker: ” xoxo HILDY”.

After ten minutes of trying to correct the German child seated in 2A that my name was not Ludwiga, I managed to get a handle on his agitated state. From what I could manage to decipher in my broken translation, the boy was “looking for a  Lost Man”.  I inquired about this Lost Man. The German child proceeded to rattle off descriptions faster than the speed of this plane. I filtered out the tough jargon that flew past me due to the the one day I decide to skip Freuline Heidlberg’s class  that covered the gigantic terms, and  stayed focused on the familiar basics that was covered in Lesson two.  The words I gathered out of this eight year old Bravarian’s dialect were: “Man, Hat, , Airplane, Lost, Seat , flew, and Captain”.  These were the words I elected to translate after we took off.

I still did not fully comprehend what this little German Strudel was trying to convey to me. The child was frantic and  was trying to pull up his seat cushion and arm rests, and pull on his tray table, as he spewed words from the Third Reich. He kept shouting the word Captain over and over.  I told him I would “find the Captain”, and to remain seated with his seat belt fastened, all in broken German.  After the plane leveled I tapped the secret Crew knock on the cockpit door. I entered a bit frazzled and told the captain about the German boy in seat 2A who described a lost man in a uniform that is a captain and how it could be serious as this could be a relative of the child’s who missed the flight. That we may have to turn the plane around as this child is presumed an unattended flyer.  The captain question my language ability with the boy and “did I get the story right?”.  I reassured him I had, and touted my four years of accomplished skills and getting an A+.   The flight Captain and first officer looked at me, then at each other as if they were deciding to flip a coin  to see  who would leave their seat which encompassed a freshly brewed cup of  hot coffee.  The First Officer lost the toss.

We walked out to our unattended Munchkin sitting calmly in his seat playing with two action figures on his tray table. I spoke to the German Lad and mentioned I have the First Officer and we need to know how serious this Lost Man situation is, because the Captain will have to turn the plane around and that is very costly.  The German Urchin looked up from the two toys clenched in his fists shaped like the Hindenburg and announced proudly in his native tongue ;     “that he found the Lost Man”.

The First Officer looked at me as I turned as green as the little army action figure that he was waving in front of my face.  A Captain America Action figure  wearing a hat that Flew out of his makeshift Hand airplane and fell into the crevice only to get Lost into the Seat cushions of Row 2A & B.      I’m sure this went down well in the Captain’s Log.

They say being up in the skies constantly can have an effect on your oxygen levels.  Might cause a slight impairment resulting in some conversations getting lost in translation. Might make one think that after taking some high school language classes they are adept in handling peace talks within the United Nations. Might make one think twice before volunteering their hyperbolic  language skills so freely.  Might want to cap that talent. Might want to keep their mouth shut and just serve coffee……

Spread the humor.



{July 2, 2013}   A Bunch of Blog Wash

Laundry is a lonely world in my house. It sits and compiles like a garbage dump site.   The only thing missing from this mountainous scene are the seagulls hovering about looking for a morsel.  That would explain the missing socks.  No one wants to acknowledge the hamper overflowing like a volcano looming over the Bay of Naples.  No one wants to flock to the Whirlpool that awaits its daily meal of detergent and fabric softener…………. except me.

Oh, my family members know how to run the washer and dryer, and they know how to find the necessary materials to help the machines do their dooty.  They just turn a blind eye to the domestic scene. The collegiate sector of this household have been away and forced to launder their garments.  They know.  They know how it ALL works. They know how to do laundry when their hands are TIDE(d).    To them, this agonizing chore is nothing to CHEER about. They would sooner I WISK this tedious deed out of their idle Summer Break hands and move the SUN & EARTH for the cause, but there would be nothing to GAIN with that METHOD.

My kids need  a FRESH START and BOUNCE  back from this  SNUGGLE(y)ERA of  mom will FINISH the XTRA load. If you catch my DREFT.

OK, let me clean up this  abrasive jargon and scour the real reason I’m venting through a clogged filter…..

HOW can people living in your house not SEE the assortment of attire strewn about their rooms as if it’s been washed ashore by a Designer Tsunami. How…

I own Machinery that talks to you.  My General Electric’s are equipped with bells and whistles that continually chime until someone gets off their keister to turn the dryer off.  It is an intermittent “beep” that starts out long and loud then silences itself for a few nano seconds only to take a breather to start up again with a two minute warning that the “LOAD IS NOW FINISHED, COME GET ME OUT!”.

I am thinking of contacting the Heads of General Electric and share my ingenious idea of my version of a talking washer and dryer. A new twist on Smart Appliances.

It would be programmed for different members  of my household who happen to be lurking in the hallways with headsets on listening to their Electronic du Jour.  I would ask that GE make it a wireless unit that is capable of  breaking into their leisurely head banging music.   Kind of  like an Airline Captain who interrupts your inflight movie to  describe the Colorado Mountains.   You know that inopportune time……when the twist comes into the flick or that  long awaited punch line…..the Deus ex Machina.  Or MACHINE(a) .   There you are, engulfed at the end of the Departed when Matt Damon gets shot and groceries drop to the ground while the camera pans to a bootie covered foot, and your eyes are glued to the screen, and just as you are about to see the culprit the Captain breaks in with his weather update.

THAT’S what I want my GE laundry machines to do.  I want the Washer  and Dryer to penetrate my sons Ipod in the middle of his hit Itune with sporadic statements reminding him to take the wet load out of the washer and put it in the dryer.  It would be my voice invading his wireless “hood”:

“Good afternoon son, hope you are enjoying your day, we have reached an altitude of five feet of laundry blocking the entrance to your room and it looks like there could be a delay in obtaining clean clothing for that special date tonight. So sit back, relax, and ENJOY your smelly clothes…..”.

  And if my son ignores the command he will be met with periodic follow-ups of reminders.  Every two minutes.

The Washer will start out speaking in ultra soft tones, maybe add a personal touch and call him by name, then if he is still oblivious to a directive, the Dryer will then kick in with harsher attributes:

Dryer: ” Son, I don’t think you want to ignore the washer. Remember what happened last time, you forgot about  your Ipod in your jeans pocket and left the wet laundry in there for two days to ferment….oohhh..your Mama was mad…”.

This will become cyclic and programmed into all his electronics. There will be no escaping the demands to get the laundry completed in a timely manner.  I will instruct General Electric and Whirlpool to use my voice as the prompt.

In fact, I have decided to install wireless Mother Voice commands throughout the house.  They will be implanted throughout. I will have the alerts activate upon entrance. They will be individually formatted for each member of the household who have been pooh-poohing the Matriarch of this family…..:

1) “Kindly remove your muddy soccer cleats at the door”

2)”Your wallet and keys are on the counter where you leave them every night”

3) ” NO, I did not take your lip gloss, it is buried under your make-up pile spilling onto your dresser”

4) “Could ONE of you please take the dog out for a walk?” ( I would program that one into the couch facing the TV).

5) ” If you are standing and staring into an open refrigerator with one arm hanging on the door looking for something to eat that isn’t there…….close the damn door!”

Yes, I think this could work.  I think I will work on General Electric to do this for me.  Then I will approach Apple next to send numerous Texts of Motherly Instructions that get overlooked.

What…..you don’t think they will take me SIRIously?

spread the humor.




The day the Earth stood still was two weeks ago when my son’s Smart phone decided on it’s own to dummy down and quit.

I learned this had happened through his sister who Stumbled upon his Facebook message to a friend commenting that: “His Phone Died”.

I am grateful that my sons lines of communication are open to his thousands of Facebook friends and refuses to add his mother as a bosom buddy.  He does not want  (me) to be privy to his status while away at college.  He thinks his mother will spend her days stalking, (or creeping as they say), on his infamous site, where the Full Monty of Freshman life is displayed and revered.  Like I have time for that. OK, I sneak a peak every so  often when Facebook isn’t looking.  I have eyes in the back of my FACEbook.

It’s amazing how this generation ( xyz?) seem to run amok when an electronic is on the fritz. It’s as if one of their brain waves collide  with an HD air-wave and severed the wireless connection that adheres the Smart phone to their palm, resulting in their  opposable  texting thumbs to short circuit.  Ive seen those thumbs work that virtual keyboard like greased lightening,  while sucking down Kentucky fried wings. Those thumbs slip- slidin’ on the screen not missing a beat of LOL or TTYL or POS. ( Parent Over Shoulder).

My son programmed his smartie phone  messages to modulate the night- watchman in a  Navy ship yard.  It sounds off with two bells every time a text is received.  In the olden days of sailing , watches were timed by a thirty minute hour glass and bells would be struck every time the glass was turned.  My son watches the glass of his phone every second, all day and all  night, no matter which way its facing.

I hear his phone clanging in a Bell  pattern of pairs :

Morning Watch: ding-ding

Forenoon Watch: ding-ding-ding

Afternoon Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding

Night Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding-ding

WEE -Hours- While- Family Members- Sleep-Watch:  DING – DAMNITY- DING. 

I  lie and wonder  for whom the Bells Toll every second as my sons phone shouts out a “new message received”.  What news is so urgent to be shared every minute of the day and night amongst his mates.  And now, here he sits with his dead phone, and I wonder ; what could possibly be going on in his head now that his entire fleet of friends are unable to reach him and text their one syllable messages. 

I have witnessed he and his crew hanging out and barely speaking in full sentences to each other. I  have watched as this collegiate Armada sit around in silence dancing their opposable thumbs across their phones as a multitude of ships bells chimed in unison…sounding alarms….signaling functional and ceremonial uses of considerable significance as to whether one  of them scored a date for the night.

I think about when I was his age and the readiness of communication while out and about, was finding a working payphone.  In my day, there wasn’t a lot of emphasis on  repetitive contact with one another.  If you had something to say, or relative info to convey, you dialed a number,got to the point, and made your arrangements.

There was no need to go back and forth with responses, you knew what to do and when and where to do it. There was no need to hold twenty people on the line to confirm what dress you were wearing to the dance. There was no need to speak every minute to someone via the phone as we were all speaking in PERSON when we got together.  If everyone related all their conversations ahead of time we would have nothing to talk about when we congregated.  Well, well, well..maybe that explains why my son and his friends are silent when they assemble. They are TEXTED-OUT, OVER-MESSAGED, PINGED TO THEIR LAST WORD.

I  will say my son’s faulty phone may have prevented future last minute changes in his life, but all in all he handled being cell-less quite well.  I half expected him to come off his Buzz with certain side affects, maybe a possible cellular detox causing a network disruption and  a communication breakdown of his opposable thumbs, therefore rendering him speechless.

There was a day or two of minor moping and staring at his thumbs trying to figure out their future should texting become obsolete while his phone is incommunicado.  It didn’t take long for him to wander over and pick up the controls to his ill forgotten Xbox collecting dust and play a childhood game or two.  I’m sure its to keep his opossable thumbs conditioned until his phones replacement battery arrives……

…….in 5 to 7 business days…..

spread the humor.




“It’s raining…..It’s pouring…..my husband won’t stop snoring……He went to bed…turned his head…and I kicked him out this morning”….

I know snoring is no laughing matter, especially to the other person occupying the the right side of the bed who can’t sleep, due to the massive logs being sawed next to her…more like a buzz saw emanating from those nostrils.  How does this rhythmic rhino sleep through his own band of breaths.  How does he manage to open the floodgates of  an airway to bring in ‘da Funk, bring in ‘da Nose….relentlessly causing him to  not Breath Right.  This is nothing to sneeze at.

The only semi cure to calm his turbulent turbinates is to roll him on his side so his schnoz is facing East.  If he is resistant to that change in venue and chooses to remain on his back pausing to inhale; he will face the pillow of doom hovering over his face as he’s Waiting to Exhale.

  I tried that once. It was a mere threat…..in jesture .  My  recidivist  snore hog (snog)  awoke to the Scent of a Woman who uses too much fru-fru fabric softener in the laundry, so he hurled a ginormous sneeze onto the pillow case:

“Were you holding a pillow over my face?”…..he asks Eyes Wide Shut incrusted with sleep particles.

“No, darling,  you were dreaming.”….she coos, replacing the deformed microfoam  to the head of the bed…for Her Eyes Only.

“You were holding a pillow over my head thinking to smother me with down feathers,”…he smirks with laughing Eyes.

“Don’t be Batt(y) sweet heart,  that material contains too much airspace, if I truly wanted to off you I’d use the fiber- filled decorative  throw pillows;  everyone knows Polyester doesn’t breath”.

“So..you were trying to kill me in my sleep.” ….He spills out trying to suppress laughter.

“Not exactly honey -pie,  it was more like adding a muffler to your mouth piece.  You’re snoring”.

“I don’t snore.”..he deniably stated  looking through the eyes behind his head.

(Oh..that’s right, how could you possibly hear yourself snore over the the clamor emitting from your palate as you lie there in your sleep number coma, oblivious to the affect is has on your neighboring bed mate.  She beamed through her Betty Davis Eyes….).

That was the last time I tried the Muffle effect.

My next approach was during a visit out  west staying with relatives and  I tried the Extended- Arm -Prop- to -the -back technique. This enables your snog to remain on his side for the night, quieting the rumbling gasps;  however, it will leave you Sleepless in Seattle with an Achy Breaky Arm in the morning.  One night I chose to use the retractable-limb method: Once your snore victim (snortims) is on his side, your arm repeatedly jumps out into action with the slightest inkling of him turning onto his back.  Sometimes this method calls for two arms to be utilized as you are dealing with  unconscious weight.  Weight that has been tipping the scales of  late night snacking.  There are repercussions when using this tactic, especially if you work out at the gym three to four days a week, as my husband once fell victim to the floor:

“You pushed me out of bed?”,   he blew out after the THUD landing.

“No darling, you were dreaming”,...she winces, eyes squinting in guilt.

“You could have killed me”,   he puffs out.

“No sweetums, the chili peppers you loaded onto your late night burrito will kill you, thus the THUD when you hit the carpet, I was merely administering a minor love tap to your back helping the jalapeno’s adjust”,  she quips as her eyes search for a Eurythmic’s lyric….

“Would I Lie to you honey?…..ok..ok….you were snoring.”

“I don’t snore”,  he freely denies …again…

This lead me to my third and final modus operandi: Which is a full proof  formula so easy a dog could master it. This ritual  not only works but will provide your slumbering snog the  body of evidence that which he is being accused of: Disturbing the Peace(ful) sleeping wife:

I video taped him.

I filmed him in all his snore glory.

I showed him my presentation after I jiggled him awake.  Just try and deny the snoring now my little sweet apnea…

“You filmed me sleeping?”, he says as as his Eyes roll to the Heavens.

“Yes, pumpkin, now there is no confusion as to your snoring or not. Here you are, In Living Color, lying on your back, breathing and expiring the snuffle shuffle through your nose to the tune of She Drives Me Crazy”. 

“So what do you have to say now Mr. I Don’t Snore?”.( Her EYES have it!).

“THAT’S NOT ME”,….rolls over….fade to black..

(EYE GIVE UP!)




I have been trying  for months to sit down and tackle my keyboard to try and coerce some nonsense out of my brain. I believe my mind has been on hiatus longer than a new hit series featured on HBO. It was as if the harder I tried to think of something to write about ,the more  the thoughts escaped and tunneled out faster than Andy Dufresne through the sewers of Shawshank. It just stinks when that happens. 

It’s like I’m held prisoner in my own head and I am facing a cell block that refuses to sing a Schwann song.  In order to get the synapses in sync, I  usually will take long walks with my dog or tackle the Elliptical at the gym. I stress the word usually. 

Lately I have found it harder and harder to get out there during the winter months, which seem to drag on longer than Holiday visits from my Mother-in Law.  The motivation to dress in layers, jump into a cold car, drive in sleet , just to arrive and  get out of a now warmed car into the cold, and enter a gym that smells like…like…… a gym;  then strip off the soaked layers and step up onto a piece of equipment that was formally occupied by a wet Wookie………..has left the building.  

As far as the long walks with my dog are concerned?  He avoids nasty weather and will withhold  potty-time longer than a camel craving an oasis.

A lot of my inspiration would attack  me at random times. Times when I didn’t have anything handy to jot the idea down. This frequently  happens while driving to the store and circling the parking lot for a space, at the same time, averting run- a -way grocery carts searching for a head on.

One time was in a bank as I stood eleventh in line during rush hour.  I found myself digging through my  bottomless pit of a purse for a pen.

A PEN I always carry in the zipper portion of a pocketbook which inevitably gets devoured by the hand bag monster lying in the abyss below the hole in fabric lining.

A PEN that sits there in clutch camo teasing the grasp of my pre -arthritic fingers ,sticking it’s partially opened tip out leaving it’s mark on my manicure to let me know it’s” there “and “unattainable at the moment”.

A PEN that refuses to surrender by the time I reach the front of the line to make my deposit; In addition, the bank employee reprimands me to sign the check and offers me a pen.  There I stand with a Pen and Teller and “No Vacancy” written all over my brain…

And as fate will have it, my thought for the day had vanished ,only to possibly resurface during another inopportune moment.  Much like that PEN of inequity did  when it decided to show itself as I returned to my car outside the bank.   Never  walk and blindly fish for keys in an open receptacle whilst trying to recapture your initial brainstorm, it leads to  a dropped hand bag adjacent to the car door causing an accessories crisis spill onto the the black top and watching a PEN that is mightier than my satchel, to roll under the car.

I got down on all fours to locate its final destination.  I tried to retrieve that slippery shut in, but  it was out of my reach and I risked bumping heads with a header pipe……and that would exhaust me…….

Gathering ideas to stimulate a blog thought is not an easy task and can prove to be hazardous depending on your surroundings at the time.  I’ve had many  afflatus attack me in the middle of a shampoo while showering.  Maybe scrubbing the scalp stimulates that a fore mentioned “cell ” block and whips a body out of the bath, dripping without a towel, sliding towards a pen spotted on the countertop……only to land on the cold tile floor in the process.

Which brought my brain to a conclusion that all ideas brought on during that scenario are………….

(wait for it)……..

SLIPPERY WHEN WET.

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{March 28, 2013}  

charlywalker:

A re-Blog to wet your whistle as I prepare to return…

Originally posted on Charlywalker's Blog:

My high school son announced the other day that he was getting a tattoo.

I told him: “That’s nice, and when you leave for your  INK appointment make sure you take extra clothes with you”.

He stated back: ” Why? Do they make you change your clothes?”.

“No”.  I smiled back at him….” You’ll be needing something  to wear when you find yourself  no longer living in this house for doing something stupid”.

“My friend Jordan got one”….He mocks back.  “It’s scripture, written under his arm”.

“Well”, I breath out between gritted teeth, “I’m sure  God will be pleased to know that his word is being spread through Jordan’s armpit”.

 He carries on:  “You know I turn 18 soon, and I don’t need your permission. That’s what Jordan did”.

I hate that sense of entitlement and the continual referencing of the legal age of consent being thrown…

View original 888 more words



{January 19, 2013}   Guess The Age

Guess The Age

CW has a birthday coming up. Please be kind….& feel free to lie & flatter.



{November 30, 2012}   Twinkie Defense

I am sorry to hear that Hostess will no longer be offering their Twinkies to the public, mind you, I don’t buy or eat Twinkies.  I had one once in the 60′s.  A grade school chum offered me the second Twinkie in her double pack after school one day.  I remember the Twinkie  being larger than my hand and I can still remember the taste and texture of that Twinkie today.  I remember the soft spongy yellow cake oozing the cream filling with every bite.  I don’t think I had ever tasted anything like it, as my mother didn’t let us eat sugary pre- processed food.  Maybe a home made chocolate cake for a siblings birthday,  or an under baked  tart from my easy bake oven, but never a Hostess Twinkie, Fruit Pie, Ding Dong, or Ho-Ho.  I guess I can thank my mom for my impeccably clear arteries to this day…

Twinkies came on board around 1933 and now they will become extinct and for some reason that saddens me. I’m sorry Hostess had to declare bankruptcy, couldn’t they just repay their creditors with  an abundance of sweet snack cakes?  Twinkie’s  developed quite the resume besides clogging coronaries  and sending children into sugar coma’s.  The Twinkie found itself costarring in movies, like Grease, Die Hard, and Ghostbusters and also wound up in the courtroom at the 1979 murder Trial of Harvey Milk, where Dan white claimed he overdosed on Twinkie’s an was acting under a delusional influence of a  sugar high.  Hmm..maybe he needed a glass of Milk.

I think Twinkie’s were a part of our society whether we indulged in their cream fillings or not.  I am guilty of offering a Twinkie to my children when they were young, around the same age when I had my first Twinkie.  My son came home from school and wanted to try a Twinkie.  I of course objected and then after a lengthy conversation with  a six year old who ended all my statements with “Why?”; I decided to give in.

I went to the store and found the hostess aisle and searched for a twin packet of Twinkie’s.  There were none.  Apparently after thirty years Twinkie’s now came in a box of twelve.  My son was with me and was grinning from ear to ear with that bit of news. I managed to spot a double pack twinkie stand toward the checkout and grabbed one.  The first thing that hit me was the size. It was no longer bigger than my hand. In fact, it barely covered my palm.  The second thing that hit me was the price.

My son and I returned to the car with the Twinkie’s in hand.  I had as much anticipation as he did when opening the twin pack.  I gave him his half and watched as he bit into the yellow cake and licked the cream filling out of the center. I’m assuming that was Twinkie protocol.  I held my Twinkie for a few moments before taking the first bite.  I examined the cake and it appeared to be a little more on the orange side than I remembered.  I chose to break my Twinkie in half to witness the airy fluffiness of the spongecake and cream filling spilling out onto your fingers, but when I flexed the cake  it just seem to sag and bend. I wrestled with it’s rubbery texture until the cake pulled apart like my unbaked cakes cooked by a  60 watt bulb from my Easy Bake Oven built in the 60′s.

After successfully separating the Twinkie, I had to put my glasses on to find the cream filling. I guess this was the first indicator that Hostess was having difficulties; Cutbacks of the cream filling, followed by more red dye and gluing agents.  I took a deep breath before I took the first bite of what seems to be a deflated expectation.   There was something different about this Twinkie from what I remembered. It lacked something and I couldn’t put my tongue on it.  It was missing the the basic ingredient from the 60′s that gave Twinkie it’s popularity. It lacked TASTE.

I spat that wad of chemicals out into a napkin and turned to grab the remains of my sons Twinkie, but was met with him licking the sticky crumbs off his fingers, and a giant smile over his face.  He thanked me profusely for his snack cake and wanted another one.  I drove back home explaining to my son that “This was not the Twinkie I grew up with”. I expounded on the differences of our Twinkie generation gap, and how I would not be a part of a defamed Twinkie..an imposter you might say, a Twinkie lacking in character and taste and cream filling!

It grieves me to think that my son’s first Twinkie tasted like an over priced spongecake left on the shelf too long fermenting in it’s yellow dye. And to skimp on the filling was the icing on the cake…

When I heard that the Hostess Twinkie was no longer to be around I had an epiphany to go and buy one and stick it in my freezer. My son is in college now, and I don’t think he has had a Twinkie since our first encounter when he was in grade school.  He  was home over the holiday break and I mentioned to him that I was going to purchase a pack of Twinkie’s and I was going to stick them in the freezer, and come the day that  I should no longer be on this Earth I would like him to carry this Twinkie into the future and pass it on to future generations that may own a freezer.  I asked my son this one thing to do and he responded with a “No”.

I asked him “why?”; it was such a simple request to carry the Twinkie into the future. To keep the Twinkie alive in the deep freeze. He could be the owner of the last Twinkie standing.

He said ” he would just eat it”.

Not if they are selling for $5000 on Ebay…….

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