Charlywalker's Blog












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.




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.




I was just curious.  What does it take to get Freshly Pressed? I have been known to take my clothes to the cleaners to get that extra crease in the pant leg and a little more starch around the collar.  I walk around in wrinkle free attire unless it’s summer and I’m wearing linen.

Who are these folks that judge what will get pressed and what will not get pressed.  I’ve never had any indecision from my dry cleaner about my substance, unless they need to use the potent chemicals to remove the Marinara spot from  last nights dinner at Gino’s Trattoria.

One person mentioned that winners are chosen for the freshly pressed page if they include some eye candy. “Something picturesque that will catch the readers eye”.  Maybe if JD Salinger added a few Kodak moments to his draft he might have changed the title to: Catcher in the Eye….

I like the appeal of words and how they can lift off the page and let you formulate your own picture in your mind.  If a writer or author or better yet, a Blogger, can captivate your imagination with their writing, I think that should hold quite a presence in the judges EYES……anyone can Shop around for a Photo.

Is this the wave of the future in our young readers,( and I mean younger…under my age…waaayyy under my age)?  Are they in need of eye props to help them imagine what words are portraying?  Are folks becoming incapable of using their imaginations anymore to paint a photograph in their mind from descriptive expressions?   What if Melville used a Polaroid instead of his lovely colloquy…….would we witness a snapshot of Captain Ahab standing aboard the Pequod hoisting the Whale by a giant fish hook grinning into the camera held by First mate Ishmael?  Would that make Moby Dick a Whale of a story in our minds today…….maybe after the publishers harpoon the New Edition for today’s readers…….

Whether it’s paper or plastic screens that we feast our reader eyeballs on, do we need a pictorial accompaniment to satisfy our thoughts brought about by the written page. Have our imaginations been blown out of our brain and Gone with the Wind replaced with operable archetypes?  Do I need to paint a picture now……  having a sketch of Scarlett O’Hara wearing a dress made from draperies would not have helped my mind capture the burning of Tara……..unless she managed to leave the Curtain rod in….

Sometimes I wonder with Great Notion if the original bible had pictures ;would more folks pick it up for a read? And , possibly, the Blogging umpires would then try and Iron out the Photo-shopped pictographs for their freshly pressed homer…….

spread the humor



{June 14, 2011}   Blog’s In The Belfry

I woke up this morning with a horses head in my bed.  I didn’t find myself reacting like Jack Woltz  from the Godfather  did ,  who arose in his Egyptian cotton sheets next to his prized Khartoun screaming bloody murder;  I woke up with a two inch stuffed head of a  Seabiscuit pencil topper dangling  by one reign over my face  repetitiously neighing:  “I’m a little pony” in the same tone that emanates from the Chucky Doll when the batteries are dying…….

Charly-dog brought this Child’s Play to my attention at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday. I don’t know how he got his canines on a souvenir  from a Bat Mitzvah that we attended eight years ago.  I don’t know what possessed him to share his discovery with me at the break of dawn, but I do know that there have been  many attempts made on my life brought about by my pooch, and maybe this is some kind of final warning……

Maybe it’s a  symbol or a for -shadowing of what lies a HEAD on the floor below for me to trip over -and break my neck.  Like maybe the pencil end that held the plush memento where an eraser should’ve been……..

I tried to get my dog to relinquish this token  of affection(?) that brought back scenes form a 1972 classic, but he held onto it tighter than the Great White  clenching  onto Chrissie Watkins legs in the opening scene of Jaws.  Not even the Jaws of Life would be able to free that stuffed stallion from my dog’s choppers.

  My dog Charly, followed me throughout the house carrying that faux foal head around with his jowls seeping saliva that is soaking onto the drool resistant carpet.  I know he harbors a subliminal message somewhere under that  bobble head of his while he clenches that colt between his Sublingual gland.

I was determined to not let this dog intimidate me into spending the morning worrying about his ulterior motives brought about with his prized possession.  He was not going to drive me crazy in thoughts about his future ploys with that stuffed toy head.  No way,  I am just going to set my chair to the recliner mode and conduct a self Rorschach Test with the cloud formations in the sky until Charly stops grinning at me with that furry fabric stuck in his teeth.

While I was retreating in the back yard reading the Sports page and sipping my coffee, , Charly  decided to drop Mr. Ed’s head into my cup of Joe.  It took a while to fish him out because  a Palomino  is hard to locate when you take cream in your coffee……..

Maybe Charly-dog is trying to give me a “Heads up” and pick the winner of the Belmont Stakes…..Maybe Charly is  able to channel predictions, and  just maybe  he is able to  label  winners.  (Although, I don’t recall seeing “Made-in-China“,  followed by  “Press Here for Sound“, and  “Inspected by No. 9“, all winning by a stuffed nose in the Kentucky Derby.   I mean, what would be the odds of that?)

I am not a gambling person but if my dog can predict a winner of a Major Horse race I just might have to capitalize on it.

This toy bronco brain that my dog introduced into my bed this morning might be a message of some other nature. Maybe it’s a clue telling me to be on the lookout for the rest of the Horse that could be logistically placed in harms way. Maybe it’s a sign from the clutter- god that my daughters room needs to be excavated again.  Maybe the act of  a pet pooch offering up a petite padded pony’s head lodged between his lips takes on a symbolic meaning of a deeper fashion.

  Maybe he’s trying to tell me that heads will roll if his dog dish is not filled promptly by seven.

Maybe he knows I switched his Flea & Tick remedy to a cheaper brand and he’s looking for retaliation.

Maybe I should stop letting him stay up and watch re-runs on the classic movie channel and just stick to viewing the Dog Whisperer where Charly  can enjoy seeing Pit-Bulls rip the heads off of Chi-hua-hua mixed breeds…..

(uh-oh…..now I know where  “drop the My little Pony head in my bed” idea came from….)…




My daughter will be off to her “sleep-a-way” college very soon and I am having a real push-me-pull-you sensation circling my being with regards to her being an absentee family member at the dinner table.

It’s amazing how fast time flies when you’re raising children.

  Running a close second is my son who will be gone in another year, which leaves just me, a husband, and a crazy dog.  Coming in third is my traveling husband who checks into this House Hotel periodically and has check-out by 11.  So,  inevitably I am left with just me dining with Charly-dog sharing our kibble-n-bits and picking  on a bone or two….

I suppose confronting an empty nest syndrome could cause one to feel slightly deserted  and leaving one to feel alone to combat that empty feeling rising in your stomach, but actually, it’s last nights dessert followed by a gastric flare-up that’s creating the fuss.  And you thought I was going to wallow in  lonely abandonment and cry over Spilt Vintage Port…….

Having the place all to myself???   I say…Halleluja and pass the Pinot Grigio……Sweet freedom…..I can’t think of what I want to do first:  Sleep til noon or Kennel the canine and shop-drop-and -roll into a SPA…….without family interruptus.

Just think of the exhilarating feeling of not getting that emergency call of: “I forgot my English paper  that I left curled up at the bottom of my bed that’s due today,”  while you’re in the middle of a shower that was  already scheduled for an earlier time…..

Or the incredible lightness of being inside your purse that no longer carries the contents of a beloved family members lost possessions…..

Imagine not having to try to cook for four, in addition to  their last minute friends that  may bombard your kitchen promptly at 6pm. Which  leads you to hop in the car and rush to the grocery to buy more food, but as you start the car it’s low on gas because the other family drivers never load the tank, so now there is an unscheduled stop to fill up. Which, when you are grabbing  the car that your daughter inhabits, you nearly have a head-on because you are fighting off a pile of college clothes in the passenger seat causing an avalanche of underwear to flow onto your lap.

Imagine not having to engage in banter about: “How come I can’t go the Marilyn Manson concert by myself, I’m 15 you know……:.” .    (yeah I know…, I was there when you were born…remember?).

Ohhh..I dunno….something about that guys(?) LAST name that bothers me, being that I was  around during the Helter Skelter years….

Lately, my son and I  have been having a communication breakdown.  I think it has to do with an increase in his hormones and a withering away of mine. We are currently amidst a clash of the mighty testosterone-Titans.  He wants his Friday night lights to be continually burning while my dimming levels are suffering a low AC/DC output leaving me longing to lounge into Sunday morning.

My son accused me of not being “cool” and never having any” fun” and  that irritated me because FUN use to be my middle name.  Fun is part of FUNny, which I use to be before my children were born and Worry seem to take funny’s place.

This poor teenage lad thinks his mother was Born This Way. He thinks when I plopped out of the womb I immediately set up shop in a household full of responsibility waving a Clorox wipe to rid all the dust that has been collecting in the ancient corners of my life.

Sometimes you have to drop that parental facade of setting a good example and let that little offspring have a piece of your life as you knew it…..or remember it……

My son exclaimed that I don’t let him have any fun. This statement is based  solely on the premise that I won’t let him go to a RAVE party that mixes thousands of unknowns from around a tri-state area and continues on into the night lasting an eternity…..

He mumbled to me that Everyone is going.

I asked him to give me the names of Everyone;  I’d like to check with Everyone’s parents.  I don’t recall ever meeting the Everyone Family,  and maybe I need to check the school Roster for Everyone’s address and phone number. Maybe Everyone’s Parents  are available for dinner sometime…..(I’ll make sure Everyone is there).

This is where we both reach Moot hormone point…….

Then he hammered  in a closing statement:  “I could lie about it and say I’m going somewhere else and spend the night with a friend, instead….”.( 23K spent on tuition and he ends his clause with an adverb…..).

“Well”..(you smarty teen who thinks he just closed the justice doors on me…) “I guess I would know your lying to me”.

“How?”  He smirks, as if he holds the secret to life.   ( Which I gave to him, by the way...).

“Well”……..(you  know it all teen who couldn’t see a Mac truck breezing in front of your Ipod clad ears):

“You just TOLD me….sooooo…….go on………ask me now if you can spend the night at a friends house…..”.

I sat my son down and explained to him about the repercussions of a lie.  No, I didn’t go into a fancy parable  like my parents use to do and infer references that included Pincochio, Instead ,  I decided to take another twist and give my son a little Flava-Flav of my own accolade of life with my parents.  I told him I too told my folks I was Spending the night at  a friends house when I was his age because my parents wouldn’t let me attend a concert:

“But son”, I said with great urgency and  glowing remembrance;  “this was no ordinary concert, this was a Rock Festival in the late sixties that resembled a mini Woodstock which you are now studying in your History book along with Vietnam, LSD, and Sqeaky Fromme’s red sweat shirt”.

“Son”, I continued, (as if I were there now, three feet away from Jim Morrison crooning “Light My Fire” through his three weeks growth of beard):

“This was a Pop Festival in the summer of ’69 when tickets were $6 and the featured  headliners were the legends of:  The Doors, Ike and Tina Turner, Country Joe and the Fish, Joe Cocker, Bo Didly, Led Zepplin, Alice Cooper, Santana…and Chicago…..”.

(These bands were escaping my palate with all the excitability a fifty-something mother stuck in a time warp could muster….yet trying to keep her parental controls in check….)

“Son, this was two days of reckless existence and FUN nights rolled into a day of recovery………which, when I got caught in my lie ,  nearly cost me a one way ticket to an all girls Catholic school in Canada, thousands of miles away from my friends,  where I would be forced to wear Maroon Knee-highs for Identification purposes only….”.

“Son, if you want to LIE to me and then  get caught, (and  you will get caught) ….(we live in a small rural town), please make sure that whatever story you concoct in that under developed teen brain of yours, is for a worthy cause…….like something that has gone down in History………..”.

“Attending an over sized party of punks that is hosting a Dee-Jay who  scratches vinyl records for a living is nothing to RAVE about to your children…”.

(It was soon after my  total recall rant that my Coed daughter decided to chime in and eradicate her life of missing concerts, which started the dog barking and dinner was burning…).

Maybe I won’t miss the tete-a-tete’s that bring my blood sugar to a boiling point, but I do know I’ll miss the presence  of my children at my dinner table.  Sometimes letting a little of your past leak out can mark your place on the “teenage map” of life and put you on the “cool Mom’s” continent.

 And, Sometimes,  you just  have to concede and curl up with the dog and wait until they come back home for well missed dinner……..



{June 5, 2011}   Blog Agility (earlier post)

If you are reading this blog AND you find it clever or funny please comment. I need the feedback or otherwise I am wasting my Megabytes.  Speaking of mega-bites, my puppy is still snapping even after two weeks of guaranteed training. I don’t blame the Trainer , I blame my family who are lacking in the follow-up program arena.

My scheduled training of two weeks ended recently and I feel a bit empty inside. Charly-dog and I got use to the trainers 10 a.m. visits and it is hard to let go now. This trainer came into our lives and spent hours with each and every member of my family and worked with all of us as a whole to get Charly on track. I am  starting to have a small tinge of anxiety that once he is out of our lives for good, things will resort to the way they were.  The trainer did drop an anecdote  while sipping his bottled water, that being ;if any “uprisings” occur he will be here on the spot, and this is guaranteed forever.

Hmm.…. I could always find some fault somewhere in my puppy that might need tending to; maybe stage a scene or two…….kind of like the little boy crying wolf, only it’s a middle aged menopausal woman needing someone to talk to other than her doggie…..

I find as I am getting older and less tolerant of my estrogen levels, that letting go is becoming harder and harder. I took my son to the airport to catch a flight from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. He has been bugging me to let him fly out to see his best friend  ever since we moved out to the East Coast. My children have traveled extensively since they were born, but never without me in tow. I have this phobia about my children on  planes without me, what if something happens to that plane; what if there is an outbreak  on board of food poisoning from stale pretzel’s; what if there’s an emergency landing in a Delta swamp; what if  they have snakes on board……or worse yet , Samuel L Jackson  is pushing the beverage cart………”I’ve had it with these Mother F*ckin’ Pepsi’s on this Mother F*ckin’ plane…..coffee? Tea?….”

My son is 16 and does not qualify for the “unaccompanied child Airline escort” anymore. Plus, there is a $100 hidden  fee for this “Program”. It must fall in line with the “Meal Program” and the “Luggage Program”.   Personally I think they should wave this amount for first time moms letting their youngster fly solo and traipsing through Major City airports spending all their allowance on nonsense that is flagged out in the open Kiosks. ( Oh , yes son, I love the $50 neck snuggie you purchased to keep you comfortable during your flight that you left on board and is now on its way to Hong Kong where it originated from).

My sons flight was delayed over an hour from his connecting flight. I have a party retrieving him at the baggage claim terminal and they phoned to inform me that his flight was going to be late.   I got nervous.   I phoned the Major Airline that starts with a “D” and has been around since the Nixon administration, to find out more information about his flight. The “D” Agent confirmed that it was delayed twice, out of Atlanta.

I spat out; “TWICE?”.

“Yes”,( he said with an accent that was identical to the driver in the second Indiana Jones Movie).

I interrupted his silence with a very loud “WHY TWICE?”.

He enlightened me with the explanation that the first delay was a security issue.

(Oh great,  glow snakes in a Plane Pocket..)

AND THE SECOND DELAY? 

  “Was a maintenance problem”.

 I questioned him further on the maintenance problem and he laughed and told me:

Well the plane is in the air now”.

Oh thank God, that is so reassuring, I am so thrilled, oh, and I feel so relieved and unconcerned that that plane is in the air now! How about the landing??? Please tell me the maintenance problem was a toilet that wouldn’t stop flushing or the Captain’s coffee pot heater light keeps blinking, or the food cart has a rusty wheel…………

I popped open a Dos Equis and brought up my sons Itinerary and  started to track his flight on my Macbook like a Pro. I love technology, it’s almost like being in the control tower yourself, minus all the other distractions, like ten million OTHER flights trying to take off and land.   I went into the “D” Airline WEB site and typed his flight number and it showed a map of the U.S. with a little yellow airplane following a bright blue line to his destination. I felt a little more at ease and managed to breath a little easier…………..

Until this little yellow plane started a nose dive over Arizona….

The time left on his flight was an hour and a half and the meter was not moving, nor was the tiny yellow plane that I was watching for twenty minutes without blinking…

 That little mustard piper cub was not advancing on my screen and I was having the most horrible images run through my mind.  Images of a black smoke plume smoldering from seat 11B because I thought I  had confiscated all the fireworks my son wanted to share with his friend in California. Where they are illegal.….. And maybe, just maybe,  he sequestered a box of black Snake Glow worms that he stuck in his back pocket. I was a flight attendant once and have witnessed plight flights that brought me to my knees saying a few Hail Mary’s while pouring a few Bloody Mary’s……anything’s possible.

I shut the laptop off  and logged back on to the “D” website to commence with stalking my sons flight. His fake plane kept stalling in the air until I clicked the refresh button so it would advance faster to LAX airport.  In a matter of seconds that little yellow cartoon 757 was now starting it’s descent  into Los Angeles with it’s nose in the air and landing in 22 minutes……..Funny if I keep clicking the Back Button that plane just might land on time.

My son loves being independent and Hates that his mother texted him thirteen times before he even left the ground. I can’t wait to tell him about the tracking device….I wonder if they have that for everything…like when he starts driving or is out with his friends at a movie, or maybe, just maybe…on a date.

Yes I love technology it helps a mom sleep at night…….and you thought Big Brother was watching……………hellooo Big Mother……..



{March 20, 2011}   The Tail Wagging the Blog

Fasten your keyboards….. it’s going to be a bumpy blog.  I love flying…in an airplane. I love being 35 thousand feet up in the air and staring down at the back sides of cloud formations. I love the feel of the jet engines revving as the plane bolts down the runway for take off.  I love the ascent at a 45 degree angle where my belongings escape their captivity from under the seat in front of me. I await the clatter of the landing gear as the axle stretches to secure the bald Michelin’s into their hiding place. I love when the “OK” light goes off so I can plug my earphones into the armrest and settle in to their 90’s Muzak system. But my favorite airline attribute is having my  very own video screen located on the seat in front of me to view the latest Blue Ray release…..uninterrupted…….except by the captain…..every 15 minutes…to give us an aerial tour guide of the earth below.

I don’t want to hear how the Rockies are “lovely this time of year covered in snow and temperatures below zero,” spoken to me with a voice that keeps clearing his throat of last nights frivolity with the crew.  I want to land my eyes and ears on Brad Pitt in his  tight WWII uniform spewing mean words from his bleached teeth and not some Inglorious Basterd breaking in on a scratchy Boeing 757 microphone to update me on demographics of geographics. 

NOR do I want to be disturbed by the swishing and hustle of a flight attendant who doesn’t fit down the aisle holding a giant GLAD bag to retrieve garbage.( They really need a scheduled pick -up time).

Nor, do I want the constant undecided passenger in front of me whose seat houses my screen, to continually hold an argument with the recline button. You will not win.   And if one more two year old stands up in their seat and hurls their sippy cup over the head rest for me to pick up…well…I’ll start throwing my miniatures back at them.  Just see how they would like it if my Vodka splatters on their face and their adorable overalls…  By Gosh….. Just try to explain that one to the grandparents when you land……

Oh, long are the days when Airline flights were a luxury  and you could un-flex those tired legs and extend them past a 90 degree angle. Oh, those good times of not fighting over the arm rest and ending up in an elbow altercation over some space. Which is now an added fair to your ticket along with luggage fees.   “Please stow your arms at your sides and sit on your hands until the captain has turned off the No Elbow Room sign”.

I miss those days of taking a stroll about the cabin during your flight and possibly stopping by to chat with fellow travelers and sharing a Bloody Mary or two, but now the aisle only accommodates the passing of one thigh and it better not be attached to Fat Albert.  And, God forbid, you should need to get up and use the latrines during the food service. That happened to me once and I waited in the rear of the plane until the entire 280 passengers were served. Then,  after the food conga line had cleared, I noticed the flight attendant was wearing her yellow life jacket and holding up a stop sign to ensure that traffic flowed in the right direction.

Oh, and let’s touch base with the cuisine featuring a pretzel bag no larger than Barbies Evening in Paris Purse or the  over priced mystery meal sealed in a plain white box that was probably processed via irradiation on the catering truck.  And you wondered why the salami was so shiny………Once I found four grapes running loose under the cellophane wrapped cheese and crackers that had escaped from the vine and the flight attendant  confiscated my box from me claiming “I received a First Class Meal by mistake…..”.  How  did they know?     ohhhh They heard it through the grapevine…

Once upon a time , many many many years ago, there was a lovely East Coast Airline that had jumbo jets that served a three course meal in first class featuring  a roast that was carved right before your eyes and all the fine wine and champagne you could endure on a flight from Puerto Rico to New York City. A service that started with a fresh Caesar Salad and ended with a chocolate torte. The entire meal was displayed on real china plates with silver utensils that had serrated  knives to slice the succulent roast, and a glass filled with a fine Bordeaux that you held by the stem, and a pristine white cloth napkin draped across your belted lap to catch any crumbs that fell from a turbulent fork.

All of this fancy food rolled by on several carts ushered by Stewardess with manicured hands and were required to pass a weight standard. And if you were in coach you were served a fully heated meal on a tray with an offering of two Entree’s to choose from. There were passenger lounges in the front and aft of the plane equipped with couches and end tables with reading lamps adhered onto the top where passengers could sit and mingle and enjoy the bar cart. There were closets aboard to house your garment bags so your Brooks Brother’s was protected and assured a wrinkle free trip. There were toys for tots stowed in a cardboard trunk to keep the little ones busy.

The flight was all about fun and keeping the passengers happy and safe until a Big Bad Merger came along and ate the little airline and ripped apart the galley’s and lounges that occupied vital space needed to be utilized for more passenger seats in order to stretch and cram people in tighter that a pair of spandex pants covering Oprah’s ass. Leaving souls to never again recline comfortably or to be free to walk about the cabin without hazard lights flashing or Nazi Cabin Crews dictating who gets to keep their carry on luggage on board and who gets to fight the crowd in baggage claim.

THE END.

This is your Blogger speaking…. and thank you for flying charlywalker.wordpress.com



{August 19, 2010}   Independent as a Blog on Ice

How long should couples stay together………in the same room.

After 20 -something years of marriage I realized that I can only tolerate my husbands presence  around me  about ten minutes per day.  That would be 365 days times ten minutes divided by 60 averages out to , say, roughly 6.5 hours  per year.  Quite the discrepancy  since the first “I Do’s” were spoken. Come to think of it I don’t recall uttering those two words at my wedding.

We were married atop the North Tower of the World Trade Center and our presiding clergy were a traveling duo consisting of a  Priest and a Rabbi. The only thing that was relevant in my mind under my too tight wedding hat was the drinking of the wine before I delivered my vow’s in Hebrew. (Mind you, it was a warm Manachevitz  with a screw top with no year posted on the label).  I did notice the priest chanting something in Latin ( non-Hispanic) along side of the Rabbi while they both nodded  their heads in approval. OH I BEG YOUR PARDON, that was Davening .

I was born a Catholic and I married a Jew. In NYC there are not many orthodox religions that will approve and preform a ceremony for a Bi-Religious couple and I was not keen  on the JOP, the line is too long at the state department and , unbeknownst to my children until now, I had a bun in the easy bake oven so time was of the essence.

We found our Divine Duo in the yellow pages.The first encounter was  scheduled with the Priest at his Midtown apartment on the sixth floor without a working elevator. We sat down to interview him and in the first five minutes we were interrupted three times by mysterious knocks at the door, which he readily answered. On the first interruption I noticed on the wall two photos of  three priests dressed in their Sunday Mass Garb with their hands folded and their heads slightly lowered in prayer form. As I studied the Photos more intently I noticed one of the priests looked exactly like Robert DeNiro and the other resembled a likeness to a very young Sean Penn. When our Padre returned from his mission at the door I commented on the resemblance of the two pictures and the Father confirmed that these guys in the pic were indeed the two famous actors.  He then rattled on about how he worked with them on a film.

“Oh”, I said, ” where they going through troubled times or maybe  you were coaching them on Priest-dom for their roles?”.

No, he was also an actor, and he pulled out his resume of films and fanned it out on his desk. Obviously a method man from the Vatican…. He reassured us that he is also a writer for the Catholic Digest and engages in these sidelines for extra cash; adding marriage ceremonies to his repertoire and to his bank account.

To this day I still have a burning sensation in the back of my brain that might indicate that my marriage of twenty one years could be, well, just might not be, oh this is silly of course it’s legal. But I still get that funny feeling in my gut every time I watch the opening wedding scene in the movie Prizzi’s Honor and stare into the eyes of our Priest as he preaches the  exact soliloquy to the actors as he used on us.

Which brings me back to whether or not I said “I do or I don’t”. I really don’t have a clue because the other half of the Holy traveling team was a Rabbi who only spoke Hebrew throughout the service; And he made me drink the wine and choke on words that sounded like I was coughing up phlegm. (Actually I was trying to choke down the Manashevitz and had an epiphany when my husband stomped on the wine glass.)  I guess, maybe after twenty some odd years I have finally HIT the spittoon of Independence and want to manage my own chamber-pot. Maybe I’m tired of side stepping glass fragments that spew every time I hear a Mozel Tov. Maybe those ten minutes alone with my husband in the same room with no one speaking can be managed or downsized by half. Maybe in those five minutes we could actually come to a realization that that one night twenty one years ago neither one of us recalls saying those words:  I DO”.

I DO remember telling his mother for the tenth time that night that”NO, I will not remove my hat”.

 I DO remember my older sister arguing with me about the seating arrangements because she was mad at my other sister and didn’t want to be at the same table.

I DO remember my new husband spilling red wine on his Tuxedo shirt.

And I DO remember our Priest yelling out the phrase: “In Playboy” , when the Best man made his speech about seeing me for the first time.

Which made the Rabbi “oye Vey”, my father roll his eyes and denounce his Notre Dame lineage, my mother in law pull her son aside and say; ” I told you so”, my brother in law dial his cell phone to get a copy of the edition, and my mother asking for the Priest’s phone number.

A marriage made in heaven, or as close as you can get on the 107th floor of the WTC with all the trimmings.

Yes, ten minutes in a room with my husband alone  after 21 years is like watching paint dry on a wall. The only excitement we encounter now since the kids are grown is catching a remake of our wedding video. Need I ask: Do I stand alone?



{February 19, 2010}   Go See a Man about a Blog

My puppy  is surviving the winter better than I am. He doesn’t complain about the weather , well he can’t talk, he can only show me, and, well, I wouldn’t know what a dog complaint looked like.

Is it a growl or a whine or a refusal to eat his tasty Science chow. Or does the complaint come in a different fashion, like maybe diarrhea. How about runny poop droppings all over your front lawn covered with snow in 20 degree weather. I’m talking Hershey mini kisses laid out in the shape of the Big Dipper. I followed my pups constellations for over an hour until his well ran dry and all that was left were air astroids blowing holes in the ice.

I watched him travel the terrain of  my white cliffs of clover to find  a depository spot. I watched him scurry in circles sniffing through two feet of snow to find the appropriate patch to delegate his dog-doo. I watched his worried face grimace while he tried to control what was escaping him without permission from  his tail end. I watched him trek through the alpine with each paw sinking into the white abyss while he scavenged about to find another drop spot. I watched as the pure white blanket of snow slowly converted to the color of a Coca-Cola slushie.

I felt terrible for my eight month old puppy whose rear-end looked as if it were running from the law. I never knew a dogs system could be so sensitive, after all he is a dog. Dogs roamed the earth forever scrounging about in dumpsters out side dimly lit Italian restaurants sharing a string of spaghetti and chasing meatballs.

You never witness any Intestinal breakdowns with  Lady and the Tramp. Or how about all those  Dalmations  canvassing through a winter mayhem  eating everything off the ground and drinking out of Cruella’s puddles. Not one of those 101 offsprings gave the slightest inclination that they had a bowel problem even with all that twilight barking.

I wonder if Lassie experienced any  unfortunate irritabilities on the set. Yeah I could see it now, Lassie’s running to rescue Timmy in the well but has an attack of Montezuma’s Revenge  which causes him to retreat to a latrine with an “L’ on the door and leave Timmy to rot in hell. I never liked Timmy anyway.

I had to watch a lot of television as a kid and my mother would use the TV as a baby sitter instead of doing paper snowflake projects with me. I watched every episode of Lassie until he finally did go home. It was always the same saga: Timmy has trauma and Lassie cures it. I bet when they were done shooting the show Timmy would taunt Lassie and try to cajole  him so Timmy could take the lead. Probably during a break Timmy would offer Lassie a nice tidbit from the catered lunch table that would cause Lassie’s vitals  to evacuate all over the fake scenery. Try scraping that off cardboard. Now there’s a mess Timmy can’t contend with.

“Mommie mommie Lassie’s stuck in the Honeybucket lapping Pepto-Bismol….come quick….”  Cut. Take. That’s a belly blaster.



et cetera
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