Charlywalker's Blog











{January 7, 2012}   In one Blog and Out the Other

I love the holidays. I am sorry to see them go.  I believe I could become one of those recluses who keeps their lights and tree up all year long just to keep the spirit alive, and have the home owners association fine me at the same time.

I love Christmas and all the festivities that accompany it.  In the past I use to get annoyed at the fact that the retail businesses would set  up Santa’s workshop in stores shortly after Labor Day, but now I love that the Holiday arrives earlier and earlier every year; It just means I get to revel in that carnival atmosphere a little longer.

Although they start the Christmas phantasm following the  August back to school sales, I still love that I can retreat to the basement and sort through my recently added purchases from last years after Christmas sales.  I don’t know what it is that triggers me to run to the nearest Target or K-mart and thumb through their empty shelves of the previous years leftovers. It is such a gratification to grab a box of netted multi lights for 75% off.   Ohhh…. and hold me back from the singing Elvis ornaments…..I am so glad I didn’t weaken one day and fork out the full price for that…. yes, I am an ornament junkie.

I have  been seen rifling through end caps located in a  targeted area that offer ginormous bins loaded with discarded Christmas paraphernalia in hopes of finding that Lost Ark to add to my temple of doom & gloom that surrounds my house pre- Holiday.

I have had a a house full of people these last few weeks, and enjoyed every minute of it. I love the hustle -n-flow of the teens traipsing through my house leaving trails of candy cane pieces that had set up residence in the couch.  And let’s not forget to mention the patches of dark residue embedded in the carpet fibers, which I mistook for “doggie surprises”, but later turned out to be traces of a Tootsie Roll…………Thank God it wasn’t the other way around.

I am going to miss wading knee deep in the aftermath of torn wrapping paper, and the sticky bows that adhere themselves onto my clothing and go unnoticed until the cashier at the return line in Macy*s peels it off my back like a piece of stinky lint.

My favorite Holiday episode is fighting with colorful tissue remnants stuck to my shoe.  I hated the looks I received when I exited a Sear’s Ladies Room  one day, when I was met with countless stares and titters as my Jimmy Choo waved a white flag from it’s three inch heel.  As I hoofed it past the customer service line, I found myself conjuring up a soliloquy to numerous strangers giggling behind their basket of returns :

“No, really….it’s Christmas tissue……really.…it is...honest…I..I have proof, check the gummy outline on the sole from last years Scotch tape fiasco…”.

The part of Christmas I tend to wrestle the most with is the Tree.  For most of my life we would always indulge in a Real Christmas tree. A Tree that you would stuff family members into a mini van and venture out to a far-a-way farm to spend hours in the cold choosing the right tree  to fit the family room.  I love the smell of Pine in the house and spending days trying to remove the pitch from my hands.  I especially loved the endless upkeep involving never ending vacuuming of piled- up pine needles.  Pine needles that continued to show up throughout the summer.  In fact I think I found a needle from Y2K.

I know this because it was then that I switched to  the fake trees.  They are very life like and are all inclusive.  No need to” just add water…..”.  You take them out of a big box and they pop up and plug in. They have Pine Spray should you miss the scent of a wooded area. The problem is when it’s all over and stuffing that little faker back into its original box.  I find myself in a half nelson with the branches as I roll the tree into the box and ask three people to sit on it until it settles down.  And…I still find myself grabbing the vacuum to suck up Fake pine needles.

I have a friend who has a fake tree in its own Bag.  Her Holiday regime is met with:

First:    Open a bottle of wine and pour a glass …

Second: Open bag and raise slowly from the bottom up and lo and behold an instant tree with lights and ornaments.

Third:    Bottoms Up! And  sit and enjoy the sparkling Spruce while listening to your neighbors cursing at their Evergreens to “stand up straight”.

Yes I love the holidays. The beginning, middle, and end.  I love the aftermath of  de- Ornamenting the tree and placing them back into their  bulbous home and dragging the Tubs to the basement to stow them in an area that is only reachable by a ladder. I love climbing back up the stairs to the bare space in the corner where a naked tree stands pointing it’s fabricated projections at me dangling two forgotten red balls…..

I love arguing with the wintered rose bushes that are holding the outdoor net lights hostage in their thorns.  Every year I keep thinking I’ll return into the house unscathed, but, inevitably I always lose that war of the roses and end up looking like something the cat dragged in……carrying Christmas lights.

LED….less energy……right.

The one thing that was different this year was my daughter having to leave to return to school.  The time seemed to fly by this holiday break and before I knew it she was packing her bags and loading them into the car for the trip back to Happy Valley.   It seems like only yesterday she arrived with baskets of  laundry and suitcases filled a mile high with clothing spewing down a mountainside of of unwashed unmentionables.

Oh..it is such a bittersweet moment when the Holidays end at my house.  One is saddled with the leftovers of  Christmas residuals and the minor deflation of the Spirit gone by the wayside until next year.  I watched through the window of my daughters empty room as the car pulled down the driveway heading down the road back to her future , and I felt a pang of emptiness as I retreated from the window to start the year with some post Christmas cleaning.  I turned around to head towards her closet and there was an unopened gift my daughter  had left behind for me……………

The basket of dirty laundry…….ohhh…. Happy New Year…

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{January 2, 2012}   “Down Bloggie”

 

I want to talk about A-ccount-ability.   I am not referring to a certain Aristocratic Muppet whose capability is to count prime numbers through fanged teeth,…………..I am speaking about folks being held liable to be answerable,……..accountable.  Does anyone fully accept responsibility for their actions anymore or has passing the bedraggled buck  become the accepted modus operandi….

I own a house.  A house that has a roof.   A roof that carries two different dye-lots of shingles splattered about as if it had been  Jackson Pollock laying down the tiles in a pattern that screams Jack the Dripper’s handy work.  This would have fallen upon deaf ears ( and eyes) had my neighbor ( a roofer by trade) not stopped over and bring this faux -pas to my attention.  He said he was tired of staring  at the test pattern atop my house while sipping his Starbucks and working on last weeks crossword puzzle.  I told him my husband’s in the shoe industry and I haven’t enjoyed watching his ancient Chuck Taylor’s  with floppy laces climbing up and down the  metal ladder he loads on his truck at 5:00 a.m. every morning either……..

My Roof Aficionado neighbor kindly volunteered his expertise of Tile formation in grave detail.  He expounded on the faulty craftsmanship, application, and flawed materials that resulted in a leak over our family room.  He set forth with his roofing jargon and  concluded with explicit instructions on what steps to take and with whom to take those steps…..

I took his advice as he took my money for the consult and started at the grass roots level.  I contacted the Abbott & Costello Team who built this house that we paid a small fortune for, and was met with a trio of pin striped suits on the  other end of the phone:

Who am I speaking with?” , (asks Cindy who is the receptionist for the Builder)…..and What seems to be the issue..and I Don’t Know if we can help you…”.

I reiterated to Cindy-who is the receptionist, the knowledge I was given by my neighbor the roof expert.  Cindy forwarded my call to Jack-who is the builder’s nephew, whose job it is to resolve customer problems:

What we have here, Mrs. G, is a situation with the product used on the house that Jack built. This is not our jurisdiction, you need to contact the  company that manufactured the tiles”.   Mutters Jack from his boxed in cubicle.

 So I contacted the Manufacturer Team and they sent out a representative to fix the small leak under the mis-matched tiles.   As this representative did his job atop my pointy roof, we  conversed about rooftops using terms that included “workmanship” and “dye-lots”.  The Roofing Rep conceded that this was a “bums rush” of a job, however, the folks that did the original job are ” no longer with the company”.  And then he left.

He left with two samples of roofing tiles to be examined by Who’s  Top Tile scientists, who later got back to me:

  What we have here, Mrs. G, is a building issue, not  a materials issue.  I Don’t Know if we can help you”, states the rocket roof tile scientist. ” You need to contact the sub contractor”.

“Who?” I Bat back.  “Do they touch base with Who the first contact I spoke with, who directed me to What appears to be the second base of contact for which I Don’t Know if a third party is the answer“…

“Let me get this straight”, I proceeded, “You must know all the players in this business”.

” I certainly do”…he says.

So..”  I ask, “WHO is ultimately responsible for WHAT was placed upon my roof on a house that Jack built?”.

a short pause and then a reply…………

“I Don’t Know”.

Third base!


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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.



{November 24, 2011}   To Err is Human, to Blog is Divine

My television is on it’s last tube and needed to be laid to rest. We owned this antiquated boob-tube for fifteen years and it followed us through-out our trans continental locations with out obtaining one scratch from the moving company.( Even the remote laid intact, batteries included…….).  This ancient analogue helped raise my children and provided entertainment(?) for our family  during Prime Time…………and not for prime time.

I don’t know where this TV ‘s final resting place will be, because…well….I don’t know where TV’s go when they run out of their power supply and forfeit their vertical stance for a horizontal time- base.  I guess the amplifier is out cold and syncing into the contrast as it separates the demodulator which will never flyback in order to transform…..

In other words I am  now faced with having to purchase a replacement.

I hate shopping for Large Electronics. Unless it is a life-like robot of Brad Pitt.    I particularly do not like to shop for  a large electronic  housed  in a giant ware -house that offers the Cost- Consumer, what they deem,  a  fair and balanced deal.  

  Unfortuneately, one day while unloading my five gallon olive jar onto a conveyer belt during checkout,  my membership was inadvertently upgraded to a higher level. This was LED by princess Leah wearing a yellow see through vest wielding a laser ,holding me at gun point, which I later found out is  disguised as  random price checks….

SO…. now I get to make  Executive decisions when I spend on items that nurture a shelf span of eternity and could possibly supply a small nation. 

I have been a member of this giant house of Cost-Containing surplus since their conception, and never took the opportunity to investigate their backlog of electronic offerings, until our faithful Panasonic died.

I entered the wear-house in anticipation of leaving with a new TV. A new and improved TV.  A   television of our times. A television that my children can be proud of that contains the current mechanisms to import whatever attachment they may need to export for their viewing pleasure.  Something that will tickle their little pixels…..

I spent two hours pacing through the television aisles with various brand names and notable features staring at me. I had fragments of the alphabet swirling in my head, with the likes of:

LCD…LED…HD..CRT….DLP..HDTV…..all those abbreviations gave me a thriving ADHDS………Attention Deficit (to) High Density Systems.  Soooo many choices and my time was running short.   I immediately ruled out Plasma,…….. who wants to watch a clear yellowish fluid flow out from the screen……..

Finally, a Cost-Courtious employee approached me, well I think it was an employee, this one had on a red vest. I was grateful that  it wasn’t security as I had been  occupying the  same area for  hours with out assistance, possibly raising a height of suspicion around the store.  (Yes…I’m sure to them, I was a candidate to conceal a 60 inch  SMART-HDTV under my  Victoria Secret Hoodie and shuffle out the wired doors wearing platform booties onto the lot, where I inevitably always forget  where my car is parked…… ). I guess I could have pitched a tent in stead of a fit, but I wasn’t in the camping aisle….

Even under non emergent  shopping days I spend a leisurely   2 plus hours trolling the hallways  of this giant ware-house.  One day in particular I noticed a tall  man with dark hair following me about as I meandered between the 50 lb coffee bags and dancing on through the plastic utensils that can service a table of 500. It wasn’t until I lingered too long in the women’s necessity aisle that I caught a glimpse of him eying me through a peep-toe shoe, and I waltzed my flat-bed of items to the front desk to complain.   I ranted about the blatant obviousness of their security methods and do they really think I can smuggle a frozen King Salmon in my spanks………unnoticed????  Chilling thought.

The manager listened intently and had me describe the man to him that was following me throughout the store. I did this with intense detail from his cologne  all the way to his fake pinky ring.  The manager gave a slight chuckle and exposed to me that his store only has  women security agents employed today.  I  thanked the manager and asked him  that when I am ready to check out would he kindly furnish me with an escort to my car as I do not want to end up sleeping with the frozen fillets…….

Meanwhile, I was LED back to the Electronic ranch to listen to the courteous  attendant start to describe the differences in the various makes and models of the HD haven that was spread out before me.  I stood there in my TV trance and I snapped too when I heard him utter the word “Smart Television”. 

  Hmmmm.. I am tired of that adjective being attached to items of every day use………… Smart tv, Smart phones, Smart washers & dryers, Smart clocks,……. Smart Alec’s………..I’m not playing this Panel Game Mr. Smarty pants…..

I don’t want to own anything that is smarter than me.   I might lose control. And God knows how often the Control’s get lost in my house……

After a long and arduous meeting of the neurons, I opted for the Smart -TV costing a bundle and causing my wallet to smart.  The Cost-Conscious employee loaded the flat screen into my car and off I drove into the sunset toward the reluctant  teen at home awaiting to help me assemble this work of art.  This ART that carries a 90 day return policy. This Smart -piece-of-crap-de-resistance hung flawless in our home up  until the 99th day when it decided to use it’s craft and emit distortion and ghost figures followed by pixel interruptus……

My Panasonic never gave me any back talk…

I went through the proper Channels to remedy the problems which ultimately LED me to dismantle the Hair-brained TV and lug it back to the giant Cost-consuming store.  I stood in line with receipt in hand and was approached by a Blue vested worker who loudly announced that I was “past the ninety days for a return”. ( At this point I was thinking maybe  I should have opted for the Plasma, at least the blood pulsating through the veins in my head would have been replenished….)

The large mouth bassy flopped over her deck of returns and handed me a business card with a toll free number of a concierge unit belonging to the giant Cost-conglomerate and fished out the words “good-luck”.  

Luck I don’t need….a working TV…..I do.

I tried to remain calm and not activate the spare key on my key chain to the wine cabinet…….but I  realized I was  not in the confines of my own  home, and I don’t have key roaming…..

I was instructed to “step aside” for the other customers as I stood guard of my flat screen and dialed the number issued to me for problem resolution.  I explained the situation to this Cost-concierge in grave detail and was LED to the  call center of the manufacturer of the Smart-TV,who told me to:

“Go home and set the the TV back up and we can troubleshoot and call the repair person for replacement parts”.

O.K.  let’s re-cap: “I spent mega-bucks on an electronic item from a Cost-corrupt environment that is barely 3.5 months old, who is waiving their responsibility to assist me in exchanging this faulty TV and passing me on to the Maker who produces this product , who want to send someone to replace a part which has not yet been determined if that is the root of the problem?  In other words….you are telling me that my  brand new  recently purchased smart -TV  is in need of repair”.

I buy a Brand spanking new TV.  I go home and plug it in.  I turn it on and it works, it works for the first 90 days.  Now they want to put parts in it with out investigating the TV.  They will not give me another one. They will not give me my money back.  I am stuck with this Brand New HDTV that, even if parts are exchanged or repaired , could still cause issues after the warranty expires. Then what? More repairs?  Hmmmm…..how very Smart of them……

I walked over to the Armoire sitting across the room that carried the old Panasonic in it’s cupboard and looked at the bare shelf and pondered at the changes over those 15 years. Changes involving the advancements in our society.  Changes in the products,the people, the customer service from Neverland, the hand-off of accountability, no more dumb TV’s…….

Changes that LED me to turn that empty cabinet into a wine closet where I will sit and toast my Brand New Flat Screen Smart HDTV  with all it’s ghost like manner  spewing  fireworks of distortion, while I wait for the Smarty-Pants repairman……..

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{November 5, 2011}   Blog Wars

As I mentioned briefly in my last post, my son is in the process of filling out applications to various colleges of his (?) choice.  I am glad that we are now in the techno- age and this tedium can be completed online instead of the hoards of paperwork covering the floor like confetti.

My son has mastered the first few lines of the application, and I thank God for all the education I paid for so he can fill in his name, address and phone number correctly.  On one of the applications his mouse tripped over a tab asking for his ethnicity.  He clicked on the menu and viewed the drop-down of options that proposedly describe his inherit make- up.  He scanned the itemized arrangement of nouns and adjectives covering the world and turned to me and asked:

“What is my ethnicity?”.

I internalized his question and tried to visualize our family tree to see if I could manage to shake out some Ancestry in under 30 seconds to supply him with a proper response to adhere to the applications request.  He interrupted my mental search engine and asked:

“What do I place in the Race?”.

I said: ” Just tell them you won by a nose”.

Finishing his eye rolling he darted back:

“Am I White- non-Hispanic?”

I stated in return:

” See if they have beige with freckles and completing  your fourth year of  Spanish…….”.

He returned to the menu options and scrolled to the end of a long checklist of titles until  he spotted a selection dubbed Caucasian.

Then  asked…….:

“What about Caucasian….click that?”

I stood over the sink scrubbing  the burnt remnants resting on the bottom of a pot from last nights dinner and peeled my Rubber- Maid gloves off my fingers and  raced over to my sons computer.  In doing so, I started to examine  his statement: What about Caucasian..

I have to admit I don’t even know what that word describes or means, but I was taught as a kid to check that  category….no questions asked.   I never liked checking that box or any other box for that matter. What difference does it make.

  Caucasians, I later discovered through my sons investigation on the Web,  evolved from a dividing line between Asia and Europe with some added spice that included Polynesia.  They settled in an area called Mount Caucasus and produced Caucasoids and Europids. (Caucasoid? Europid? These sound like something you need an ointment for……..).   This group harbored the likes of Russians, Hindu, Azerbaijan, Armenian, Iranian, Turkey, and North Africa. My son also found that this Mt. Caucasus, in it’s time, “produced the most beautiful men”.

So…where were  the women in this mix?  I don’t know who lead that Caucus……….

My son interrupted the rant going on in my mind and asked again which option to select.   This opened the door to discussions of family genes and the history of our clan.  The Ancestry showed we derived from a menu of  a Heinz 57 variety and could not be narrowed down to just one Box.

So??” He continues, ” Which box do I mark and what is the one called Other for?

I don’t get why they  have a need for any classification in the first place. What difference does it make and who set that standards anyway, and he’s right in asking about the “Other”.  I never knew what that category includes and I still don’t, and I think Everyone filling out applications should check that Other box. I think we all fall into that category one way or another. I thought having to check the Caucasian selection was odd , but who are the Other’s?    I know The Other’s is an old movie set in a haunted New Jersey Mansion featuring a mega star from Australia and directed by a man from Santiago, Chile.  I wonder if they checked the Other Box when applying for this movie.

I snapped out of my telepathic tirade and tried not to harangue myself as my son chimed  in :

“MOM, mom, moooom….chill”.

I don’t think this application  process was meant to be this overwhelming within the first paragraph and I wonder if there are any OTHER teens contemplating the categories offered on this collegiate menu. Or questioning it.

I told my son to leave that section blank and write in his own box and mark it:

POPEYE…I yam what I yam…..AAAHuuUUHGUhGuhGuh

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{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.

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{October 25, 2011}   Put on The Blog

I think I may try to post something once a day to drive the readers crazy or to possibly have them ask for more……

Last night I had a dream about Bill Gates. I have had dreams of famous people before but never one of this caliber or fortuitous in nature. I don’t know why Mr. Gates decided to pop into my castle in the air, maybe it’s the menopause gods messing with my brain; but he landed there anyway and the dream took place in an automobile.  He was driving of course, and I was in the passenger seat.

The car in the dream was not the one I actually found myself leaning on one cold afternoon outside the Westin Hotel while waiting for the airport Taxi to arrive. In the dream, this auto was a very sleek Cadillac Escolade with tinted windows…

  I have never had the pleasure to meet Mr. gates. I have only seen pictures of him on integral publications. I knew his dad was a lawyer in Seattle like mine was, and maybe, just maybe, they crossed paths a few times in the court house elevator to exchange briefs…….

Anyway….. as I was heading back to Los Angeles and awaiting a transport vehicle to pick me up along with the other less fortunate’s who couldn’t afford a cab, the “Sit-n-Wait” bench was occupied and I was left with standing room only. Nestled under the car port in the semi circular drive to the entrance of the Hotel I noticed a Mercedes abandoned sitting close to the pick up area.  I mozied on over and leaned my too- tired-to-stand-anymore- rump against the rear fender with one leg  propped atop my Hartman carry- on, balancing  the Times on my knee working on a  puzzle I started three days earlier. Just when I finished filling in an 11  letter word for Mega rich person who monopolizes the computer industry……….

I heard an attendant scatter about rustling a set of keys and running after a man walking towards the Teal car where I was resting my laurels and he tossed out a quiet yell:

“Here’s your keys Mr. Gates”.

My tuschie came off the back end of that car as if it had just sat down on  a wet seat on the Subway  headed to Coney Island. I slowly looked to my right to catch a glimpse of what I presumed might be the Billionaire,  (it could also have been my eighth  grade science teacher. Same name different incomes outcomes).  It turned out to be the Microsoft Mogul and I was hoping  he wasn’t going to instruct the attendant to have me removed and get his car dusted for commoner butt prints….

What I actually witnessed was Bill giving me a double take. He looked at me twice before he opened his car door to get in and didn’t utter a sound.

There are only a few reasons I can think of when someone looks at you twice:

one: you think you recognize that person,

two: you like what you see and you have to have seconds.

three: “what was this girl thinking resting on his specially made Teal Sadies as if it were a hitching post equipped with a watering hole. Why the nerve of that girl placing her back pocket of her designer jeans against my hand crafted rear panel indulging in the New York Times Puzzle. What,…..  she’s too good for the Seattle Times Sudoku??”.

O.k…That actually happened…..with the exception of the NY Times…..I  was reading the Horoscope section holding a pen………

My dream  last night about Mr. Gates opened with the two of us riding about in a giant SUV and he was yakking about how we were going  to go swimming at a club that my family belongs to.

He was very concerned about my “knowing how to swim”, and “do I like swimming”.( I didn’t know how to respond because it was 30 degrees out and snow was still on the ground and swimming was the last thing on my mind.)  As I sat there in the passenger seat groping for an answer that would honor the Mega- Trazillionaire, my puppy , Charly-dog, popped onto the dashboard and rummaged through the front seat of Gates car as if he owned it.

Mr. Gates started quizzing me about Charly-dog and asked: “what kind of food he eats” and “if the food was expensive” and “was it tasty“.

I informed him of the brand and mumbled that I had not yet sampled it.

Then I woke up. I woke up with a feeling that I had just held a private meeting with one of the top richest men in the country and our conversations centered around swimming and dog chow, instead of  great stock tips or insight to a new pc product.  I was left drowning in a  Pool of Purina……..

I don’t know about anyone else, but conquering menopause without medication is starting to have it’s effect on me.  The estrogen has now hit the subconscious below sea level. My anterior pituitary has reached its last droplets of hormonal secretions and is casting its FSH out to the sea of dreams. Flooding the GATES of  REM.  I use to have dreams that had me floating atop the clouds care-free……with no Dog interruptus……….

Thank God my puppy was there to witness the whole thing, he smiled at me in the morning as if everything went swimmingly well…..

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{October 25, 2011}   Another Blog Faced Liar….

So Charlywalker added a photo to her blog in hopes that some day the Freshly Pressed Gods will smile upon her and iron out the wrinkles in her writing…maybe add a little more starch..maybe have it permanently pressed.

I’ve been hiding behind my Gravatar because it is ageless and I am incapable of mastering Photoshop.  I have read many blogs, responses, and comments on this lovely WordPress wonderland and have found that most of you Blog-heads out there will use your likeness in your Gravatar…so…….I felt it was my duty to come out of the Gravatar closet and stop hiding behind my screen.  If you find this photo offensive kindly let me know and I will return to that sassy photo I have used in the past and , which I feel, truly depicts my lovely sarcastic nature.

If you take the time to read the blogs posted on this lovely word pressed outlet mall, you will notice a barrage of precisely chosen Gravatar’s that suit the Blogger’s genre.  I have decided to comment on some of my faithful followers pictures used to represent their Blogs, and I would love to commend those folks that actually  use a photo of themselves as their Gravatar.  Personally, I think  that takes a lot of guts to do. Guts….something we are all  equipped with, but usually it just lies dormant in a hollow cavity waiting to spill out and expand among the readers. Guts I did not possess until now.  Guts to actually locate and download a photo that I find acceptable..and er…airbrushed.  I do not like to have my picture taken, unless it’s by accident…… taken in Black & White…..from three miles away on a crowded island……without a telephoto lens.

Some Gravatar’s I have witnessed really suit the Blogger and their field of blogging.  Some of the most bright ideas face me with their intense yet quizzical look thinking to themselves: “Who is this person behind that fifties photo OP, and does she really wear her  hair that way?”…”Does she actually blog in pearls?”.

Some pictures merely depict just a portion of one’s head or face.  That bothers me.  When I see the partial head shot I feel as though I am back in Dial-Up Days waiting for the download to complete.

One picture shows a “Gent” sitting upright yet listing like a sailboat to the port side as if someone just threw a pie at him and missed.

I adore(?) the Cereal Killer’s mug shot…..the one who aids and abets in nectarious nectarine recipes that cause me to drool incessantly leaving traces of DNA on my keyboard.

I love love love the cartoon characters……..come out from behind the mask Batman..you have me Hooked.

You certainly can’t beat the animal Gravitars…GRRRAnimals.  The dogs & cats melt my heart…..although I know one Dusty Cat that can scratch a mean Post, followed by an ordinary bloke who blogs behind one tiger with bad hair…..I can’t get my Phil of his posts.

I am, however, puzzled by one Gravatar of a lovely caricature of a petite red  Blog-headed woman who sends lovely comments to me, yet I can never get onto her site to send the same in return.  Every time I click on her blog name I am sent to Cyber-space.

I can’t take my eyes off Mr T. Gravatar.  When visiting his blog I “sense the intense” and I “Pity the fool” who doesn’t take the time to discover him.  My first inclination when I stumbled upon his moniker of IRRATEBASS; I immediately thought he was either a really angry fisherman, a mad saxophone player or he just hated his guitar……..

I admire the Gravatars that actually define what their blog spot is about and try not to throw you into an S-curve of figuring out what that Roschach represents.

There are so many Gravatar’s i collect in my dashboard and too many to mention.  I am thinking of developing a Gravatar Award.  Kind of like the Versatile Blogger award, but I might add a Psychological profile to the addendum……..

Sincerely, Charlywalker……you were expecting a guy?   Spread the humor.



{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.



et cetera
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