Charlywalker's Blog











{November 4, 2011}   Blog Under Water

My teenage is son is trying to kill me.  I believe it has been a slow ongoing scheme ever since he popped out of the birth canal and handed the Dr. the chili peppers I ate that caused the first contraction…..

My son is in his last year of doing time in his posh private school and now faces the drones of filling out college applications.  His High School is aiding and abetting in this procedure and along with the paper chase , they advise the child to visit the colleges of choice to get a “feeling” for the environment and experience the “college” atmosphere.  This is a little too touchy- feely for me.

My parents did not play a major role in our college adventure, unless one needed a phone call to a senator  to help the child with the low GPA to get a “leg-up” onto the collegiate saddle.  ( That wasn’t me).   During my high school  days, a student just filled out the ONE page application with a few recommendations , put a 10 cent stamp on it and held your breath until the rejection letter came…….OR  until the acceptance packet arrived and your parents gleefully packed your belongings and shipped you off to your University  in a foreign land where you would spend the next four years with a roommate from hell, while sleeping in a room that was built for munchkins.

Now the schools “suggest” you take your teen by the hand and “visit” the college they might be attending………..”making sure it’s a “good fit”.

My sons college choices were ( and I stress the word WERE) : The University of Hawaii and any College that offers snowboarding as a credit……

 Right now I am trying to Turn over a new Leaf and not jump to unsolicited temperament and possibly reach for the key to the wine cabinet………..

I decided to take a disciplined approach and research the demographics of his chosen educational destiny.  After careful consideration of calculating the costs of  “visits” to Vermont, Colorado, Maine, and some outback in Michigan in order to obtain grounds for Mastering an  SBA…(Snow Boarding Achievement),…………I opted to send him to his sister’s Apartment Dorm in the Pocono’s.

My daughters University is nestled near mountains, harbors over 40,000 students, and just made history last weekend with a Major Coach’s 409th Football win. Just the kind of weekend you want to send your teen son for a visit…….not.

The one thing I have learned in life is to take it one day at a time and if you are raising teenagers……….. take it  Every minute of the time, or keep replenishing the wine glass……

Firstly: Never,  Ever send a seventeen year old to a University located in a town called HAPPY VALLEY…….especially during the Halloween weekend. My mistake was instructing my coed daughter to show her brother the campus life, the town, the University, the Dean of Students, and possibly, the Admissions Office.

Oh, my son did witness and participate in what the campus had to offer via his hooded- Sister of the Pants  that Traveled between Main street and Frat houses with my son in tow wearing a purple Morph-suit.  He did happen to  make one  very important connection  with some State dignitaries;  a blue man group approached my sons six foot frame encased in spandex and asked him to join their Lycra Fraternity……..Tappa-New-a-Keg….along with their sub chapter…….I-Felta-Thigh…..

When my son returned home that late Sunday night from his fortuitous academic adventure, I  greeted him with a warm smile and  clenched teeth as  I asked him  how his College visit went:

“Awesome Mom,  I’m going there!”

Oh lovely. I am so happy that this visit enhanced your educational choices for your future of academic success in order to meet the challenges that will mold you into the person you have deemed yourself to be.

click and open below…  oh and spread the humor.   

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{October 5, 2011}   All’s Fair In Love and Blog

I am about to discuss a very important issue on this quilted Northern Hemisphere that seems to go unaddressed by our lovely Nation.  An issue that just might be the cause of our next world war without a White Cloud in the sky.  An issue that can set off a persons inner  time bomb to explode beyond belief and and cause an irrefutable trickle down effect to the most modern of nuclear families……………….

I’m talking about that empty roll of toilet paper left behind in every bathroom exposing its matted cardboard frame with one quarter of a torn tissue left hanging on for survival…..when it’s mom’s turn to use the potty.

We have four bathrooms in our house with four people occupying these rooms when needed.  Each of these persons Bath hoards numerous spare rolls of toilet tissue under the sink neatly stacked behind the cabinet doors.  Every time I wade through one of these bathrooms sponsored by a teen or a college coed, I am left with Shock and Awe at the inability to replace the always empty toilet roll holder.

I spend more time cleaning these utility rooms than using them, although at times, the incentive sets in during the cleaning process and urgency is promoted by my (now) working environment.  Usually I have the foresight to recognize the missing  piece in the bathroom puzzle and replace the roll with confidence and assurance that one of my immediate family members will follow suit and reach for that Charmin(g) call of duty.  I have tested the Ultra-Soft approach and tried to subpoena my relations to the table of toiletries to discuss the ramifications of the last Emperor on the throne who abrogates the final piece of 2-ply and refuses to Over throw the empty cylinder into the trash and reestablish a Fresh Cottonelle for the Queen of the house.

I decided to use tough love.  I sat my prodigy’s and husband through a slide show of the history of toilet  paper and offered a few of the highlights of the evolution of this product and the people involved in it’s making.  I gathered a few things from the compost pile to use as a visual  in order to gain the best effect.  Prior to the luxury of Kimberly-Clark, ancient folks had the glory of utilizing what was in their own back yard:

GRASS LEAVES: A bit thin and narrow for those tight places….(.hmmm…wouldn’t phase the coed daughter she’s use to the rubber band panties offered at Victoria Secret….).

FURWell, I don’t own a mink or any Faux Furs…..maybe Charly -dog can lend a hand…er a paw….er a pelt……..

MUSSELL SHELLSI think not.  The vision alone makes me not want to order them again with a chorizo base sauce..

CORN COBS:………….I don’t even wanna know….must have been invented by a major Colonel……

I explained the tactics used by the ancient Greeks and Romans who brandished pieces of clay, stones, and sponge on a stick while holding my Rubbermaid pot scrubber Upright.  I told my nuclear family that I take this “not replacing the empty toilet roll” very seriously and it has reached a point of no return. Which is what my family does….No RETURN with a new roll……..

I continued to explain to these deaf ears stuffed with tissue,  about the antediluvian methods the Early Americans used as the Official Toilet Paper:

THE NEWSPAPER:  ….Oh great..now I need to subscribe to the Inquirer.….( it was then my son raised his hand and asked if ” THE DIGITAL EDITION WAS ACCEPTABLE”….).

And lastly:

  THE SEARS  CATALOGUE:  Also known as “Rears and SoreButt”….  One could puncture a hole in the corner of the book and hang it from a hook and rip out pages for usage. ( hmmmm…..my coed daughter could fixate on the shoes and make use of the sales……….could produce a shortage).

After I finished flushing history down my families throats and sanitizing  the grunts and eye rolling, I continued on my rant featuring the discoveries of Joseph Gayetty of NYC and his first packages of  pre-moistened medicated sheets established in 1857. He was so full of himself that his name was printed on every sheet.  The whole country was engulfed with aloe treated toilet paper having a grand old party wiping away their woes…….with gaiety.

( This set off a light bulb in my brain…..monogrammed toilet paper  with each individuals initials on every Extra Soft Single, to rest assure that when they wipe their egocentric bottoms they will be initially reminded that it is indeed a special roll to be hung with glory that faces them daily. My Brood will be made to sit and reflect on that empty stainless steel holder that mirrors the image of a wanton fool who neglected to replace the Two-Ply…………..

Because mom  now knows who the “wasn’t me” culprit is………….well..at least it’s Splinter Free.

Great SCOTT!

spread the humor.




I just received notice of an acceptance package into a nursing program I had applied to over a year ago. I should be elated and bouncing off walls much like my puppy’s tennis ball when in play. Except I am not.

I am having mixed emotions about continuing this venture. I am an older student reinventing another career after playing stay-at-home-mom for the past fifteen years and sacrificing my worldly goods for the betterment of raising children. I am sitting on the white picket fence now about attending this program for many reasons;

One major issue is the cost of the program. This is an expenditure that has a healthy bite to it and I am at a time in my life where I should be mimicking menopause in the Mediterranean and petting my pup while we lap up the Chianti and gnaw on biscotti;  Instead of pawing at textbooks containing fonts that even my +250 reading glasses can’t pick up. Come to think of it the only glass worth picking up should be half full of red wine.

I am an older student and am competing with young bloods. So far I have been superseding  this nouveau wild bunch, but they still act like I’m the token geriatric for the course. Sometimes I feel as though I don’t have a dog’s chance in getting through this, much like the hits I have been getting lately on this blog,….. an all time low.  Someone suggested I turn this blog into a book, she actually called me a “good writer”. I have been tauted as being funny, clever, and witty, but never referenced as a good writer. To me that was an ultimate compliment. I started to give this writing a chance but I didn’t know how to transform my blogging into an actual book.

I was out with a friend the other day driving to a bar and grill to discuss,… well, to discuss,….. um, anything.   As she drove through the maze of rural blacktop now covered in dirty snow, I mentioned to her the prospectus of making this “Bloggie with Doggie” into a manuscript. She likened the idea but pondered on the meat of the book. I mentioned my thoughts to her about” aligning my puppy perils with the coping mechanisms of menopause…… without the prescribed meds”.

She turned the green Chevy Sedan through filthy snowbanks and muttered something about…. “making it more dirty..”.

I reiterated that that was a possibility and; “I guess I could add some porn to perk up the readers libido, after all doesn’t sex and filth sell well? Much  like my over priced puppy products at Pet Smartie?”.

My friend slowed down to a speed where I could recognize and read the street signs and she turned to me laughing:

“You Moron, I was referring to the snow, I can’t believe how dirty it is”.

 So I guess trying to add “Charly-dog Does Dallas” or “Deep doggie Throat” a dog’s fun with a Cautionary Tail, is not on the menu?

Fine then, just order me a martini that matches the melting snow…..Dirty……….. stirred not plowed.




My husband has been in Italy for the last month traveling about to various cities and waking up with a mint on his pillow and a do not disturb sign dangling from his hotel room door. He asked me if there was anything that I would like for him to bring back to me. I told him to bring the do not disturb sign.

While he has been working in the fields  under the Tuscan Sun soaking up the Chianti that was meant for me, I have been knee deep  trekking through a winter blizzard catering to children and a dog and shoveling a 20 yard drive way. I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely hate snow. I think snow should stay atop the mountains where it feels most at home and at peace instead of my street where eventually it ends a mixture of slush and gravel on the side of the road.

My dog is starting to hate the snow. It is no longer a novice for him where he romps and chases snowflakes. Now it is a chore and he will fight to the end to Not go out in the cold. Charly and I are having wrestling matches and he waits until I pin him to get his leash on. He actually retreats to his doggie bed and curls up in fetal position in rebellion. I don’t blame him, I don’t want to go out  into the white chasm that chills every hair on our heads.

 I have found one saving grace though, something that helps with the winter nights and warms the cockles. Whatever cockles are. I think Charly is losing his cockles soon. I have turned to brandishing wine. Wasn’t this the survival mechanism of the early explorers. Didn’t that trusty St. Bernard carry that lovely Keg of    Laphroaig Scotch twenty miles into the Rockies around his thick neck? I wonder if I could train Charly-dog to carry a stash for me when I’m out doing his nightly poo-poo walk. The walk that takes hours because he is so busy sniffing atop three feet of snow in order to locate his last leakage. The last potty stand that got buried under a glacier a week ago and is untraceable even to the most sensitive snoz.

If he could carry a flask of Grey goose around his puny neck accompanied by a saddle of green olives  I could walk him all night in a snow storm.  Work a plate of  appetizers on his back and I have a traveling bar at my disposal. Maybe I could train him to retrieve an Andes Creme de Menthe and place it on my pillow with the dent in the middle.

My dog is no bigger than a bottle of scotch so maybe I’ll have to attach a few airline miniatures behind his ears.  I have a few left over from when I grabbed a flight or two. Those days when I was free floating and had absolutely no responsibility , well, those were the days.  I was a flight attendant at one time. A time when flying was fun and you actually got a meal.  A time when you were thirty thousand feet above everyone else and  miniatures came in a caseload and not in a Bichon Frise packed in some ones Louis Vitton.

I see nothing wrong with a nip or two especially during the chilly nights or when your hormones are bouncing higher than Michael Jordan’s slam dunks. It can get lonely when your husband is away for a long time, but the company of a dog toting a flask of Martini’s could sublimate any longing that may  have entered your heart. There are a few things that can replace the warmth missing from the other side of the bed: A dry martini and a warm puppy. I believe that sums it up in a Dog shell.

Now, If he could accomplish the art of Shiatsu my husband need not return…………………




Dear Faithful Bloggers,

Due to the fact that I am inept at setting archives to my Blog site, I am going to burden you with some of my earlier work. I started this Blog after adopting a mongrel and wrote about my frustrations  with  Puppy-dom. Add Menopause, Motherhood, atypical Mayhem, and a touch of Merlot, I showered this blog with fact bearing sheer nonsense, in which I hope you will comment and: spread the humor….’Sincerely, CW.

The snow is melting and leaving spots on my yard looking like a patchwork quilt. I think the storms are fading and Spring is trying to hone in where it should have been weeks ago.

My puppy is fluent in making storm stools. I was worried how the winter would affect his potty rituals but Charly-dog came through like a trooper. A  pooper trooper. I think he is a little too proficient in relieving himself in the winter, because he now treats the now effacing green blemishes as if they are Poison Ivy patches.He now goes directly to the nearest snow pimple to drop his excess baggage. Maybe the ice on his fanny cools the burning sensation of those tough days of constipation when he swallowed everything lying loose on the floor. Maybe Charly has a case of Hemorrhoids and the snow acts like Preparation H.(hiney).

Whatever the case, he seems to have a hard time figuring out the changes on this planet. He’s only eight months and hasn’t experienced all four seasons to their fullest. Maybe I’ll have to keep a patch of white ongoing throughout the Spring in order to ease his transition. I could sculpt a make shift potty and keep it in the freezer and pull it out in the summer months.

Charly-dog has decided to mark his territory all over the lawn. This is something new to us and takes a lot of time. He likes to cover the entire acre and a half lifting his back leg onto specified areas. Areas that only HE can dick-tate. Charly will encompass the entire yard and stop every so often to spill a little content on his chosen spot. Not like the old days where he would pee for minutes and head home.

I think he actually enjoys this self empowerment  because his tail wags frivolously and he smiles with his eyes squinting as he looks upward.  I can almost hear his brain talking as he does his potty dance: “look what I can do..Look what I can do”.

I don’t mind this ritual now since the weather is getting warmer, but he started this practice during the height of subzero temperatures. I think he enjoyed imitating an arctic nomad wrapped in his own pelt fighting the frost. I think he believed he was the Yukon King  sniffing out Dirty Dan some where in Canada.

Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was one of the many TV shows my mother planted my pre-school ass in front of instead of helping me form Play-Doh letters. I loved watching the rugged adventures of a weathered Mountie and his dog and horse surviving the wilderness solving all the problems  of the Northwest Territory. All by themselves. All Sergeant Preston had was a smart Malamute dog and a horse named REX.

One episode had the Sergeant solving a murder and the only witness was a dog. Can you imagine that? Out in the vast frozen Yukon at the turn of the century and all he can attract is an abandoned dog? His malamute must have been in heat. More like Yukon Queen. I wonder if I were ever trapped somewhere if my puppy would try to rescue me as I yelled for help into his bobble head ears. Or would he respond much like he does to everything by running over to sniff whatever it is to pieces and then turn to chase a fleet of leaves.

I think the only thing Charly has in common with the Sergeant’s Malamute is the mute part. Anytime I call the dog it just falls on floppy deaf ears.I think Charly-dog hears me when I call and I think he chooses to ignore me. He likes to play tricks on me. He likes to curl up in a corner sunspot and lie there without making a sound watching me look for him throughout the entire house. He’s the same size and color of my son’s black & white back-pack which curls up in the same corner untouched for an entire weekend.

Menopause does strange things to your mind. Those missing hormones can play hide and seek with the optical department in your brain. I figured that out one time when my son asked me why I was offering a dog chew to his back-pack.

Spring is in the air and I think I’ll dye Charly’s fur to match the budding roses……..I highly doubt my son will tote a pink back pack….

spread the humor.




Well…I’m heading out West soon for a family wedding.  This could either be a great time or a prelude to a Muppet’s reality show..

The trip started with my two kids , Sweetums and Scooter  being yanked outta the airport security line and experiencing their first Pat Down.  I ventured through the X-ray machine first followed by my son Scooter wearing his hipster cargo shorts that carry more compartments than a B757-200 freighter on it’s way back from China. Lagging behind donning her jewels of the Nile draped like Christmas lights, was my daughter Sweetums.  I gave a pre- flight demonstration the night before we were to depart to the West explaining the list of; What Not To Wear when flying.  My Coed daughter assumed this pertained to Mr. Blackwell’s list.

The first shiny badge to grab me was Fozzie Bear asking if I was the mother of young Scooter behind me.  Three seconds of thought had my mind grabbing my items and race down the corridor to see if  there was a solo seat left  on any flight to Italy and enjoy the Tuscan sun, instead of joining the cast of characters that awaited our landing out West……

I conceded that he was my son and Fozzie said I needed to watch as they Pat Down my teen….with emphasis on his Cargo room.  My son glared at me when I tried to suppress my grin as his six foot frame was experiencing the blue hand grope assisted by Grover.  My son is a character all his own.  He doesn’t need any help from anyone to produce a stand-up routine and gain attention from a crowd.  It comes naturally to him.  When Assistant Grover started the Pat Down procedure  on  Scooter with Fozzie Bear supervising, Scooter decided to give a low groan of “ohhh yeah….”  just as Grover’s Blue paw passed the no FLY zone on his Cargo pants.

I shot my son a lightening stare of a cross between; “Just wait til I get my hands on you, and ,my God I’m going to burst out laughing“.

My daughter, Sweetum’s was snatched by Rizzo the Rat and thrown into a glass maze.  I was made aware of this by the noise her colossal earrings made when they hit the side of her jaw as her head turned to find me. This sound proof booth was a check point for explosive residue.  I watched  as Rizzo  nabbed an instrument  and slowly swept Sweetum’s body with a Geiger counter spewing gusto as if it witnessed the aftermath of a day at Chernobyl.

I saw Sweetum’s leer at me with  worried wonderment and I  returned her gaze with a  reassuring  Cheshire grin through the looking glass.  A smile that carried a bulletin of: Now do you get that mommie doesn’t just blow hot air through your auricles to land on deaf ear-lobes  that dangle designer plastic hoops…..

We made it to the plane and my two darling puppets started to argue as to who will get the window seat. (As if it really mattered and they really wanted to view the geographic’s of our lovely globe.) They both spent the entire flight electronically connected to some type of computer generated apparatus.   Scooter won the window seat lottery and viewed the  whole flight via Ipad Navigator.   Sweetum’s clung to a stuffed bear given to her by her absent boyfriend and plugged herself into her Ipod and lost herself in mood music.

I tried to flag down a frazzled flight attendant to order a bloody Mary and I was met with Miss Piggy pushing a beverage cart down the aisle and yelling at  Steward Beaker to get more cups. Every time Miss Piggy turned to face a passenger someone sitting in the the aisle seat got a shot from the hip. At least it was a padded blow to the head.  I jokingly asked her if she could remain standing there for the complete flight so I could have a head rest and grab some shut eye.  My son laughed at that one.

We landed on the West and were being picked up by my older sister who I haven’t seen in years.  She text me to describe her gold luxury 300G and said  she would be getting us outside the baggage claim.  My children and I grabbed our bags and rolled on out to the crowded arrival deck. We located a Gold Sporty SUV  idling with a woman in the drivers seat staring straight ahead who resembled my sister. We all waived in unison to flag her down and approached her car smiling with glee and started to load our luggage into the back of her car. As I lifted the first suitcase we heard a honk from  the car behind us and it was my sister; Foo-Foo.

Foo-Foo drove us to her lovely home on the water where we  were to stay for a few days before we headed north to attend a family wedding of my brothers son.  Foo-Foo, Sweetum’s, Scooter, and I enjoyed our time together until Foo-Foo’s husband, Oscar-the Grouch, came down with walking pneumonia and made our stay short lived.  Foo-Foo ferried us to my mother’s  (Camilla) place packed in her Luxury Gold SUV for a two hour ride to a charted island.  There we would be met by the Skipper and Gilligan; a millionaire and his wife, the Professor AND Maryanne……….

We stayed between Camilla’s house and my Brother Elmo’s place at the beach house which harbored the likes of:  The Swedish Chef concocting the most delectable treats roasted on Elmo’s Fire, Pops in his walker which was stolen and used as a wheelie- toy by great grandson Kermit.  The cast of relatives included: Rowlf the Dog, Hogthrob, Dr. Teeth, gaffer, Various, Waldorf, Uncle deadly, Julius Strangepork, Floyd, Robin, Thog, Lew Zealan, Gonzo, Dr Bunsen Honeydew, Zoot, Muppy, Beauregard, Janice, Wanda, Hilda, Sam the Eagle, Statler, Wayne, Crazy Harry,Sue, Lips, Nigel, and, last but not least, Animal on drums.  Most of whom began their day with beer and dough nuts and ended the night with fantastic stories which made you laugh until your stomach hurt. Each of whom could capture and carry the most renown version of  Marty Robbin’s song of El Paso in the key of F (flat) to be sung all through the night in various locations in a sleepy town 78 miles north of the Emerald City.

The wedding was a smash hit especially with the Muppet clan singing El Paso as the Bride and Groom took  their fateful walk down the aisle of Marriage into the reception hall.  I loved this group of Muppet misfits and I am proud to have been a part of them during this glorious time.  I didn’t know what to expect  given the horror stories of family gatherings, but this by far was an  unexpected pleasure and sheer Puppet mastery with no strings attached.  Well, maybe with the exception of Crabby Patty resurfacing on shore trying to keep his claws out of the drink.

This was your Muppet News woman reporting……..spread the humor.



{June 23, 2011}   Blog Against The Wall

Oh boy. Here I go again. Hold onto your brains, I’m approaching a bumpy gyrus………..so don’t just sit and sulcus;  fasten your frontal lobes and grin and blog it…..

It appears on this hemisphere we are having a problem with security Pat Downs.  I tried to research Pat Downs using the Google search and I was unable to locate Ms. or Mr. Downs in the Transportation Security Administration.  Pat is a neutral name, it stands on either side of the gender bureau. Maybe I need a user friendly mode that has more badda-BING in it’s engine……(maybe I might have better luck if I check Megan’s Law website…. ouch..)

Apparently  Pat Downs has been seen wearing blue surgical gloves and groping youngsters who are traveling with mommy and daddy concealing Pampers in their carry-on.  It looks as though these little darlings are harboring explosive diapers as they waddle across the airport security sections.  Transit authorities are trying to Change the diaper dilemma and  have the toddler’s check their Huggies into baggage claim in order to lessen the work load of Pat Downs.

Oh I beg your pardon…….I misinterpreted the Ted Turner stations again…..they were discussing pat downs in the physical sense…..ohh do let me blog over….

Let’s talk pat downs.  I have never experienced a pat down since the new law took over our terminals.  I have had the luxury of the Wand tracing the outline of my stature spitting out “blips” as it lingered around my  under-wire……..(maybe we need to call in the Victoria Secret Service…..).   I don’t know how I would feel if I were pulled aside by a young, tall ,dark, and handsome TSA who wants to put his hands on me and gently pat down areas on my body with a slow blue glove…….

Oh…sorry….lost my focus for a moment….

I  saw on the news how some of these transit employees were performing their job. They seem to be enjoying their work now that pat downs have been approved.  The security employees are  a lot more “hands-on” now then they were in the old days, when you would just stroll through a scanner and  witness an occasional rifling of your neatly packed tote; hoping they breeze past an unknowingly canister of contraband left in the zipper pocket of a Samsonite that you borrowed from your sister’s hippie boyfriend….

As a former Airline Employee I never came across a pat down, or even a scanner.  We merely flagged our ID’s and were given an accepted wave to pass Go.  I did run across an incident with a security agent once who may have been riddled with the pat down syndrome when I was on a 24hr layover in The Emerald City.  I spent the night at my sisters house and upon packing my things I managed to slip one of her expensive make-up products into my color coded airline bag and neglected to tell her.  My sister and her hippie boyfriend took me to the airport and walked me to the gate, but her hippie boyfriend stopped short of the security table. ( He must have felt guilty about something…or maybe he was just somewhere over a rainbow looking for his pot of  Acapulco gold..).

I flipped my badge at the agent and slid on through as usual, but  this time they decided to pull me and my bag aside for a check.  As he was emptying the contents onto the table he fished out the bottle of make-up and lined it up in plain view of my sister’s eyes.  My sister commented on my pilfering her cosmetics and asked: “What else did you confiscate from my house?”.

(I may inject now, that this was during a time before CD’s were on the menu of music distribution and Records were the means of composition and not just for scratching, followed by eight track tapes.   For history sake, Vinyl records came in variations of 78, LP, and 45’s and  this all had to do with RPM’s.)

I replaced my articles that were displayed on the security table into my suitcase and I added a little joke as I answered my sisters query.  I retracted with: “Oh yeah, I also packed one of your 45’s in my back pocket”.

I said this as I was reaching behind my back and before I could relinquish my smirk,  a six foot 200 pound Agent came out of nowhere and snapped my arm behind my back and slammed me up against a wall and screamed at the back of my  impeccably coiffed airline doo:

” You think joking about guns is funny at an airport?”………

Mind you, I was in full dress uniform with my company wings flapping an attentive salute. He turned me around slowly and I could see he was a product of the 8-Track heaven generation so I methodically explained the history of  the modes and methods of music transportation and the means of listening to it being played.   He released his grip and let me go and decided not to RECORD it in his evening report..

At least in the pat downs today the agents offer you a quiet explanation as they explore the regions that seem to be out-of-the-boundaries – before the process was approved.  I don’t know if I’m comfortable with a low breathy stranger crooning his moves in my ear as I’m being gently stroked by a blue-hand- group inspecting  my expanding waistline…….

Well….maybe if it’s carried out in Italian, with candle light, dinner, and soft music Recording in the back round …….. I might look the other way………

spread the humor.




Why do men cheat and sleep around on their mates like a junk yard dog scavenging through a dumpster from bone to bone. Do they not realize that after a while not only do they get caught but all the bones end up tasting the same?

I don’t understand the actual concept of how some one can actually follow through and consummate the cheating, however, I do  understand the preliminary’s that lead up to it. I can see how stagnation and redundancy play a vital part in a relationship especially if only one person is adding fuel to the proverbial fire. What is it that enters a persons mind when they start to  want to have that notion to stray. Most seem to lay the blame on lack of attention in their relationship. Why is having attention paid to one so important? Is someone’s ego so deflated that it warrants affection stemming from strangers to strippers?

I have a friend who is worth millions and is a direct descendant of a prominent family who steeled their fortune in the roaring twenty’s.  She is a great grand-daughter of a a guy who has a Hall and a Deli named after him. She lies low in a suburban area located in a semi small state where the shore is eroding faster than Elliot Spitzer’s hairline. She married a nice guy and had two children with him the same age as mine. She was living the quiet life by the sea in a secluded neighborhood that just happened to have a strip club in the adjoining county that touted their Tiny Dancers.  Her husband was a man of leisure and an  unlimited bank account gratis the wife; a bank account that he convinced his wife to support his returning to school for a degree in Law. He would drop the kids off at school and mosey over to the community college and sign in, then hop in the BMW and tend to his education in lap dances by Professor Candee-lite.

He took his education to a higher court and veered off Course and centered around a Pole of conviction which benched him and booted his pre-law ass to another jurisdiction. I did hear he returned home with his tail between his legs in hopes of a reconciliation, but his wife did not find that appeal-ing; and the hammer of justice came down on him one night when she crazy glued his member of congress to his thigh and he had to drag his gavel around the sound block to the emergency room and plead his case while the surround sound echoed “stuck on you” by Huey Lewis and the News.

Yeah you can teach an old dog new tricks using HO-rrifyin ways to TIT-illate the male libido that tends to lie dormant when faced with commitment longer than their allotted attention span…which lasts about as long as Candee-lites thong during one pelvic thrust.

Yep cheating creates havoc, mayhem, and mistrust and leaves many people with wounded hearts and angered souls and bury their sorrow in a bottle of 1999 Beaujolais Nuveau.

I tell them to get a dog. Charly-dog doesn’t cheat. Well, maybe when playing cards…….



{June 22, 2011}   Blog Your Brains Out

Let’s talk friendship(s).  My father use to say to me that in your life time you can count on one hand the people that are truly your friends……Excluding family  of course,……. Oh phew….there were probably a lot of fingers flying about within the Von Trapp household….

I think it has to do with how many lives you have touched along the way, I mean touched in a way that has left an indelible mark of remembrance.  My dad also mentioned that you can spark a good presence by the number of attendees at your funeral.  I don’t know how that got calculated being that one is not Soul(y) present to witness the guest book signatures, and I don’t know if that really holds true  if it is based on the total sum of the crowd.  If a high profile figure is laid to rest in a Hollywood cemetery and draws thousands of onlookers, is that anymore redeeming than an unknown soldier.  Does that signify that the “star” of the show touched more viewers through their celluloid hands than one figure who stood alone and gave a life for freedom?

I dunno….let me think……. did a major pop icon who allegedly overdosed on a controlled  substance injected by a member of the AMA……….touch my life in a way that I should consider him one of my candidates for my Friendship hand?   Nope.

 Did some brave unknown soul who fought for our country  and died while doing so to protect our country,…. did they touch my life and are they a candidate for my friendship hand?  Possibly.

The “Star” provided entertainment which we pay for whether we like the entertainment or not. The venue of this art was provided  for our listening and viewing pleasure.  There were a lot of passer-bys at this funeral  who  stood crying how much their life had been touched by this person.

I’m sorry, but that Peter Pan was so out of reach he barricaded himself behind a gate in order to never land too close to the public.  The only time he reached out his white glove was Pay-day after the concert.  Don’t get me wrong, I like music, artists, and entertainment, my position lays  resting on the point my father made regarding “touching lives” and “true friends” in ones’ life.

I mean  think about it….All the folks that visited the final resting place of an Iconic Hollywood star may have felt an intense affinity to this person, but in all honesty…would this person reciprocate even if they could?  I hardly doubt that the King of Pop would phone me up to come over for a Bar-B-Q at his ranch, or call one night to chat about recipes…….  I can’t imagine The Gloved One would throw down his gauntlet and post bail for an unknown or possibly donate what is left of his liver……Oh, but I digress………….

My father also said to keep your enemies close and family is your true friend.  That is true to a point.  I have a sister who once stole my boyfriend away from me behind my back.  It was hurtful and I lost my trust in her, yet to this day we still talk.  Do I trust her? ..Nope.  Do I keep her close?…um..Yep.

I have had hundreds of friends and acquaintances throughout my life and as I slowly ( and I do mean slowly) fight,…er..I mean..face my golden years, I  now find my friendship ring diminishing  down to two hands and one foot.  (I think my father never took the other appendages into account).  I find myself becoming highly selective on who I want around me with whatever time is left on this planet.  I do not have an opening for people that are not relative to my standards of what I consider a friendship to be.

I have a few incredible friends that I could call in the middle of the night and rant about the perils of parenting without repercussion and judgement.  These are folks that would bail me out of any situation with no questions asked and ask nothing in return for their favors.  These are people that would never leave you stranded and  stand by me through outlandish circumstances….no holds barred. These are friends that ask for nothing yet I give them everything, just because they are friends.  These are friends that have engaged in minor battles and yet we manage to come out without a scrape and find ourselves laughing at the tomfoolery over a Tom Collins.  These are people I tattoo on my friendship hand.

I guess standards of friendship vary amongst people, and maybe mine are highly idealistic, but I find when I don’t keep to my “code” some people just take advantage of you. Do I like that?…Nope.  Do I change that?…Yep.

That’s the beauty of aging and harbor hormones that get in the way….I don’t have time for people in wolf’s clothing.  (Well maybe I’d take some time to speak with a Blitzer in a Navy wool Blazer about a situation).  I will not have a friend just for friends sake, I like a valued individual with some depth and character and not centered on themselves for entertainment.

The group of  faces on my fingertips are imbedded indelibly on my friendship hand and I am honored to be able to reach out and touch their lives as much as they have stroked mine.  Do I like that?    Yep.      Do I want to change that?    Nope.

I have now passed on to my children the Handy words of wisdom from my father regarding friends and they  reacted as I did when I thought I was immortal, only they think of friends in terms of  acronym’s like; BFF and BFLS and TTYL….etc.

I guess their access of ridding unwanted friendships is at the touch of the hand and reaching for the DELETE button……..

well that was easy……..

spread the humor.



{August 13, 2010}   Blog-Leg-Left

Can someone out there help me to publish this as a book? I surely could use the money.  I have decided to incorporate my relationship with my dog,menopause, raising children, and my marriage into some light reading. Oh and float the influx of alcohol into the equation it could  add some  unintentional lightness of being.

Anytime you affix alcohol into the picture it ads excitement and adventure; oh,  and a  slight headache.  Earnest Hemingway use to drink a bottle of Scotch before he  started to write his novels. I just uncork the latest Pinot Grigio and free float. Alcohol adds containment to life’s little sidebars;  And also works as a quick astringent for dog bites.

Yes, my lovely Charly The  Chaniel grabbed my hand with his Chi-hua-hua canines and left a one inch blood gushing gash in my right palm. That pissed me off. That’s my drinking hand.

No, Charly was not fighting me for the Chardonnay , I was attempting to recover a tuft of tissue dangling from his mouth that he stole from the waste bucket in the powder room. I used the command on him to “drop” before I reached for the used Ultra Soft Kleenex, but Charly was stubborn and would not surrender his  rumpled white flag.

So, I, being the larger of the two species, bent down to tear that paper out from his teeth and that’s when he charged and latched onto my hand.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but when I came to there was a lot of blood and a rolled up torn Times next to me and my dog looked like an Andy Warhol painting.

My hand did not require any stitches but I was hurting for a dog trainer.  I called a family meeting, minus my always traveling husband, and announced to the children that I was getting rid of the dog. My twenty year old  daughter said “Good” and continued texting on her Iphone, and my  16 year old son grew silent and grabbed some ice and a band-aid.  (I now know which child will put me into the Deluxe Suite at the Retirement Center and which one will leave me duct taped to a wheel chair drooling in a parking lot).

 There was no need to call the paramedics for me or an  undertaker for the dog; the only phone call I managed to dial was a local Dog Trainer in my “hood”. I had his card for months, but due to economic hardships, doggie obedience and doggie schools and doggie camps and doggie play dates where not in my budget this year.

Plus, growing up with German Shepherds as kid, I never recall any dog training with a professional in our household or even in the neighborhood for that matter. Dog’s just seem to be dogs and they either obeyed or were met on the nose with whatever was handy. Albeit a stick, magazine, or my mothers new Rubbermaid spatula that she ordered through the catalogue  that ended up mysteriously missing from the Gadget drawer one day only to be returned with large bite marks on the handle.

“Rubbermaid, Touching millions of people everyday where they live, work, and play”. Even while sent to the Dog House…at least my mother’s bark was worse than her bite…

I finally gave in to the recession and dipped into my budget Piggy bank and hired a Dog whisperer of my very own. Only he doesn’t whisper. He met with Charly-dog and took that Chaniel by the horns and showed him whose boss. He was The Trainer.  He was Alonzo Harris in Training Day with a mix of Kathy Bates of Misery, throw in a hint of Darth Vader ,  and a wardrobe from Barbara Woodhouse.

 This Trainer got my dog under control and civilized in under an hour. My Trainer can take my dog anywhere and meet any one or any other dog and my Chaniel never complains. Not one little bark or whimper escapes his little doggie lips. If he had lips. The Trainer can make Charly-dog do anything he wants him to do and Charly obeys him, because if he doesn’t he will face the almighty choke collar cutting off his air supply.

When I try to emulate the Trainer and do as I am instructed Charly behaves like he should. Especially when the Trainer is present. I was impressed to say the least, that I actually had a dog that I could be proud of , and not fret every time I had to walk him and a car zoomed past and Charly would try to outrace the moving vehicle. I basked in the glory of strolling by folks in the neighborhood without Charly on High Alert Attack mode. I have to say that training day is the highlight of my life right now because my dog transforms into a T.V. dog that minds his manners….. For the camera anyway…

That’s right , when the Trainer is gone and I am solo again with my pup, mayhem breaks out and he regresses back to his original Hell Boy Look-a-like.  I can not afford to have this Trainer 24/7 unless I offer him room and board.

Hmmm…I’m thinking. My husband does travel a lot and I do have a guest room collecting dust more than visitors….

Well, it could make for some interesting blogging…………



et cetera
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