Charlywalker's Blog











{July 2, 2013}   A Bunch of Blog Wash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

spread the humor.




Now that my kids are soon to be vacating the house on a semi permanent basis I need to fill a void that has been lying dormant for years. Something that I have been aVOIDing to do based on my life as a wife, mother, dog walker, housekeeper, nurse, chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, laundress, accountant, gardener, psychiatrist, travel agent, consultant, sports authority, and sibling rivalry referee………

I am ready to Tap-out now and try my attempt at re-entering the workforce.  It has been years since I’ve held full time work and I am not afraid to go out into this world and show them exactly what I’ve got:

 

I’ve got a wardrobe from the 1990’s.

 

I’ve got the ability to apply my half -used free samples of Lancome products that I acquired over the years during  a Macy*s back to school sale.  Yes, I got a little side tracked at the Mall while hunting for back-packs and lunch boxes. 

In fact, I’ve got pulled aside by many mall make up artist’s who try to perform their magic on me.  I can’t imagine why they keep picking me out of the crowd of soccer moms.  I arrive dressed in appropriate attire when the doors open in the morning.  I see nothing wrong with waking up and sliding down my fire pole to slip into my uniform sweats that have been standing at attention all night, accompanied by dirty Vans and a Hoodie.  I carry an odiferous  aroma about my being ranging between Downey fabric softener and last night’s Pizza.

  I’ve got my hair in an erect ponytail and  I shield my puffy bags with over sized Raybans.  I can’t imagine why the make-up crews single me out……..

 

I’ve got the ability to clean up while driving and apply make-up at stop intervals. The drivers behind me hate it though, they keep honking at me just because I’m waiting for the Stop sign to turn green.  I thought it would buy me more time with the Mascara…. I find it takes two applications now.  One; to find the lashes, and two; to glue together the few that I have left…..forming a uni-lash.


The downfall about putting make-up on in a car are the bumps in the roads. They are always working on our streets and neglecting to refill the potholes, so when I finally reach my final destination ( usually the school drop off line) and park my car and get out, I notice people staring and kids pointing in my direction.

After transmitting my morning without coffee sneer to ward off evil onlookers, I take a quick pause into the ladies room to wash the morning gas of my hands from filling the empty tank left by my husband.  I looked up at the mirror as I rinsed the suds off  my paws and saw what the villagers were scoffing at:  My freshly applied make-up face resembled a combination of  Picaso’s Weeping Woman and Baby Jane Hudson’s as she delivered a Parakeet to her sister…….

 

I’ve got a pair of pumps that my feet haven’t felt in ages.  One cannot describe the agonizing pinch of  the toes that have been granted freedom in flip flops with arches that collapsed from the great depression of Ked’s insoles.  I took the time one late afternoon to strap on some heels and practice walking in them around the house  with no one around to witness the teetering and the giant fight against balance, except Charly-dog, who steered clear of my runway  in fear of a crash landing.

I spent the better half of the day shuffling about in my designer heels  that peeped out from my Yoga pants.  I practiced my walk until I felt I had it down to a science and stopped echoing a staggering drunk on some forgotten street.  I felt confident and assured that I had tackled the High Heel dilemma and ventured to take my stiletto’s to another dimension:  The Stair case.

Climbing up the steps was met with ease….. it was the descent that had me  clinging to the banister like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, avoiding a result mimicking Scarlett O’Hara’s demise  after her lunge toward a drunken Butler…….

 

I’ve got a resume.    Somewhere.   It hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration.   Just a minor indescretion oversight.

 

I’ve got credentials.  I’m accredited with incredibility. References available upon request.  Go ahead…..request.  Request until the cows come home.  Habeas corpus; I can produce the body……..it’s just a little rusty and needs a make over….which the Lancome staff has a signed commitment to uphold……

If you don’t like my credibility try my crudites. They are incredible, and edible, but not available upon request.

 

I’ve got the corporate beige panty hose that are tied up in knots from the last load in the wash cycle.

 

I’ve got a brief case from 1987 that needs airing.

I’ve got a boat load of humor stuck in me that is trying to float to the surface………………..

spread the humor.




I received something the other day in the (e)mail. It is entitled:

The Kreativ Blogger Award

No, I did not misspell the word…I’m not that Kreative…

I would like to extend a modicum of appreciation to all the Blogheads out there that actually take the time out of their hectic days to unravel my sardonic pen and ink……..er…contents of my motherboard……

This is my second honor bestowed upon my Blog and has been brought to you by:

thewritersescapewithwords.wordpress.com

I would like to send a simple and humble Thank You to this inspirational artist that awarded me this honor and it couldn’t happen at a better time…..just after the Oscars….

Unfortunately CW was unavailable to be here to accept this gracious award so she sent her Charly -Dog on her behalf:

Now let us commence with the program:

Here’s the rules of engagement:

1) Thank the person that Nominated you:       THANK YOU! & See above in RED…

2) List 7 interesting things about myself:       1 through 7, please refer back to my Versatile Blogger      Award…nothing has changed except I am aging…

3) Nominate 7 more Blogheads: My choices are based on the humor these Blogger’s Kreativly Inject and don’t realize how Kreativly funny they are:

woodgatesview.wordpress.com    Ignorethebucklesonmyjacket.wordpress.com  up2randomthoughts.wordpress.com

pooterandboogersplace.wordpress.com   passionateaboutpets.wordpress.com    souldipper.wordpress.com

gaycarboys.wordpress.com     mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com  myzencity.wordpress.com  sandysays1.wordpress.com

bridgesburning.wordpress.com  leftwingnutjob.wordpress.com  newsanvil.wordpress.com digitalbungalow.wordpress.com

misswhiplash.wordpress.com  thegreatgoodsby.wordpress.com

and any food, travel, picturesque, blog I may have missed but always enjoy : I tip my Blog off to you.

As you can see I added more than the allotted 7,  I believe rules are made to be broken……

Thank you to all my faithful followers and I tip my funny bone off to you all!

Spread the Humor: CW





I like the sound of my house in the morning. It begins with a serene calmness surrounded by an abundance of quiet, and ends with a clamor of energies erupting from a mixture of tyrannical teens, a traveling husband, and a wayward dog.

I fancy the stillness to inspire me to write…or…er..scribble down thoughts, however, the only thing materializing in my brain is “still” trying to transpire.  I need a muse.  Maybe the sound of music  might amuse me and become museful to help with motivation which could  ignite and spark a plethora of  musettes to clear the cobwebs visiting my minds museum.

Too much quiet seems to have a Sesame Street affect on me and it’s forcing me to spew an assortment of M’s & more M’s.  Might as well face it I’m addicted to love  of alliteration. It’s a nasty habit, but it’s really just for the pun of it.

For the new year I was trying to get a blog in edgewise at least once a week, but I would find myself sitting and staring at the computer hoping that the keyboard would miraculously take it’s alphabet and form an idea or two….

Sometimes I rest my hands on the keys in the typewriter formation that I learned in eighth grade from a teacher who was missing three fingers, and I would sit in a trance awaiting  an idea to hit that compels  my fingers to vibrate across the raised letters like a divining tool over a Ouija Board.

Sometimes I find myself sitting at the desk with my head in my hands closing my eyes with all my might in hopes that an anecdote will squeeze out from the darkness.  The only things that appear to pop through from that ritual are new wrinkles in the corners of my eyes from clamping my lids shut.

Sometimes I walk around the house looking for anything to stimulate a brainstorm , but, usually I end up facing a  few messy rooms that look as though they weathered a storm and curse at the dirty laundry that  is multiplying faster than bunnies.

Sometimes I jump into my mom uniform and take the crazy dog out for a walk in the “hood” hoping to grab some outdoor information that could trigger some hyperboles of life.  My dog was my original muse when I started this blog adventure, but now we both just walk amongst ourselves  in silence soaking in scenery and leftover urine floating atop the grass. Even my dog carries the “No Vacancy” aura atop is pea brain.  Lately it feels like I’m taking Eeyore for an apathetic walk…

Sometimes I check my email and witness an assortment of blogger’s have been busy at blogging.  I admire the folks that are able to write once a day and even sometimes twice a day.  Sometimes I find my Inbox is inundated weekly with subscriptions that I am too caught up in reading and I find I have left no time to formulate my own  mental material. I wish I had the time to blog every day or even every week.  I tried once, on January 1st of each year since the onset of this blog, I tried with all my mighty imagination to transcribe daily.  A day turned into two days….then three days….then a week….then a month….then I found myself caught up in living life instead of attempting to write about it.

Sometimes I load my brain cells with caffeine to try and jump start a synapse.  I step and fetch myself a warm cappuccino thinking the lovely aroma of my Italian espresso blend will activate an afflatus.  All it seems to produce is a  mild movement towards a quiet ladies room.  I never afflatus in public.

Sometimes I just want to stop all this blogsense and quit.  Maybe free up my stagnant legs that  hide under the desk while the varicosities await their first thrombosis.  Maybe give the chair cushion a break and let the micro-foam have a breather and work the dent out.  Maybe give my eyes a break from the vibrant glare on my screen….oh…wait…I have transition lenses.  I utilize the Hunter  S. Thompson technique….minus the cigarette.

Yes, I like the sound of my house in the morning that harbors a unique calmness before it’s inundated with the walking dead teens and  a tumbling dog chasing a husband who checks in and out and leaves his keys at the front desk.

My Desk.

The desk that shelters the immobile legs and supports the bent elbows that hold the hands that clasp the head which contains the brain that is trying to channel amusements blogged by a jack of all trades…….

spread the humor.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate that sense of entitlement and the continual referencing of the legal age of consent being thrown at me.  Just four years prior I had to defend against the dark art of over usage of that illegal statement by my daughter.  (That’s right..I call it an Illegal statement because teens tend to use it before they are deemed legal).

I smiled that smile you may have seen painted across the Mona Lisa’s face;  the one that smirks: I’m not that innocent…..

I shot back: ” Son, you are right, you don’t need my permission, nor my money, nor a roof over your head, nor the car you drive, nor the snowboard and all the equipment that goes with it, nor the food in the fridge, nor the education I provided, nor the pants that hang below the boxer line, nor the straight teeth, nor the numerous Doctor visits to cure your acne, nor…”

“Mom”…he tries to chime in, interrupting my total recall as I tally his bill and prepare an invoice for Mom Services Rendered.

“Moooom, stop already..I get it”.

“Oh sorry son, sometimes my Stepford brain wiring runs amok with  phrases pertaining to child rearing chores…”

I continue; ” It triggers a signal when a teen gives me eye rolling attitude and it can fly out of control when such teen harbors intense entitlement followed by  contemptible demands that are rooted and enhanced by Jordan’s freshly  stamped armpit”.

How is it that I give birth to two different children of two different genders four years apart, yet I am  met with similar situations at roughly the same time intervals? How…

My daughter once came to me at the same age and roughly the same time with the same demand: I’m getting a tattoo.  Why do they pick a tattoo. Why not a new spiral notebook or a matching pair of High GPA’s.  If they are looking to instill the shock value, getting high scores might do it for me…..

As far as I can tell, I quashed the tattoo dilemma with my daughter the same way I managed to hold off any piercings in areas where they don’t belong.  When my daughter was five she wanted her ears pierced.  Her reasoning at the time was:

 “Because her friend Emily is getting her ears pierced”.

  I wasn’t going to get into the family accolade of my mother’s comeback to anything I wanted to do in benefit of someone else, that being: “Well would you jump off a bridge if so-n-so jumped off a bridge?”.

In which I always responded with: “Possibly… it depends on the weather”.  Or some ending that would throw her a curve ball and cause her Stepford Brain to re-route…

I brought my daughter to a local mall to get her ears pierced as she petitioned.  As we stood next in line, the first piercing victim was a four year old girl stepping up to a high stool  minus any arm support. We watched as the ear-piercing attendant approached her with a giant gun that shoots studs into her delicate lobes.  My daughter witnessed an unbearable Ear Piercing scream from the cute little waif and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit doors.

The next piercing conversation that came up was in her teens when the rave was attaching  a gold hoop through your navel, nose, tongue, and any other not for prime time area of the body. I merely discussed with her that should she attempt to pierce anything but the lobe of her ears, I will personally shop her down and remove the piercing my self….no anesthesia required…..

My first born’s inclinations for obtaining an underage tattoo came about later ,nearing her high school graduation. She, too, offered up the proverbial ” Household Teen Amendment” of: “When I’m eighteen………..”.

It was then I took the medical approach to describe in pain staking detail to my daughter the artistry of Tattooing, knowing full well  of the intense fear she has of needles.  I know this first hand from the early years of her receiving inoculations by the Pediatrician.  My daughter required a Swat team to steady her limbs…..

I continued my diatribe of the long term effect of hosting a tattoo.  I calmly explained that depending upon the physical location of this desired Ink Splotch, she will wake up one morning with that cute little butterfly she posted on the lower 40 anatomy and discover its collagen wings  collapsed  and fell into a fatty fold. And in another thirty years or so  she will experience the butterfly defect of The Girl with the Dragging tattoo….

For all you fresh parents out there who shelter tiny tots and elementary  dumplings who can’t imagine ever being confronted with issues outside of Gerber, Lego, and little league;  hold onto your diaper bags when you hit that bump in the stroller.  There will come a time when one has to confront the battle of the almost legal teen who  proudly injects their unprincipled Bill of Rights onto your List of Wrongs.

Just make sure you don your under armor and prepare for the battle of parental injustice as they cry  foul play when you take their hand in yours and guide them down that road of   teenage wasteland to take  a sneak  peek  under their armpit nation…….

spread the humor. This one’s for you Karen…




I have been doing time as a quasi- stay- at -home parent for..let’s say…..22.5 years.   I believe I  have met the necessary requirements and demands  that became the imprisoned criteria throughout those years in order to  obtain freedom from:  boring PTA meetings,  exhaustible Fund Raisers, Mad Max Sports Chauffeur,  24 hour on call chef , Personal Shopper, Emotional Referee, and in-house psychiatrist…..All this parental jurisprudence  under one leaky roof to allow freedom while enforcing order among family chaos….

I have enjoyed my time in this institution of parenting through each and every stage of child development.   All the way from directing developing girls into their  first wonder bra, to underdeveloped boys figuring out how to un-hook them.

It seems like only yesterday that my daughter was putting her toddler feet into my size 8 Charles Jourdan’s teetering and shuffling through the house while leaving a trail of scratch marks on the hardwoods.  Now she is grown and shuffles her  Knock-off collection between college and home via the trunk of a car, and still teeters and stumbles  in her stiletto’s on the hardwoods.

And my son, soon to  approach high school graduation and walk towards that collegiate path where he will pick up the fork in the road  and use it as a reminder of all the lovely over cooked meals mom made for him.  I think he will enjoy his “leaving the nest” gift I constructed out of the  equipment and attire that lays suffocating inside his sports bag gasping for a breath of fresh Febreze huddled in the garage for months on end….…..oh it just brings tears to my eyes……..

 Yes, time flies when you’re raising kids. Sometimes too fast and in certain predicaments, sometimes not fast enough. Looking back for example: Potty training.  My children had stubborn bottoms. There was no way in Hell that they were going to plant their tuschies on a porcelain stool containing water with a hole in it and “let loose”.  They might fall in and who knows where that  would lead to.

I invested in a lot of time and energy and “potty” reading material in order to get my kids trained in toiletry. I researched all the child experts and read  their advice on bathroom training and the commode controversy. All that information just filtered an assortment of crap that drained me and I was left pooped for the day. Who has that kind of time to sit and read  lengthy descriptive potty books to toddlers in hopes to encourage a movement.

When my kids did finally concede to try the pot located in a chamber adjacent to their rooms, they found themselves  actually liking it and would sit for what seemed like hours.  Once my son  hopped off the pot to go grab a toy and return to the bathroom theater to reenact the “mummy” with Elmo wrapped in Ultra Soft.

My daughter took a more regal approach and dragged her Crayola markers  to the throne as she mastered an  imitation of a Calder painting onto the toilet tank.

Yes, those were the days that I didn’t mind if the hours raced on ahead…

 Lately,I find myself caught in a web that spins in only two directions as my parenting comes down a home stretch creating a possibility for early parole….if you’ll Pardon the expression. There is a minor offensive feeling of freedom when you are about to face an empty nest. It’s sort of an unleashed guilty pleasure of retreating back to what was once designated  as ” Me Time”;  yet, at the same time, harboring a push-me-pull-you defense against “letting Go”.

Just as I came to grips with the realization that my household was soon to be down to basically Charly-dog and me, and I started to feel the content and joy of releasing  most of the everyday tedium  involved with indwelling kids.  Just as my heart  started to jump for joy as I unfastened the shackles of daily duties revolving around kid schedules and looking forward to…oh….I dunno………. perennial Spa time?……..

I received a phone call.

My son’s school called to ask if we could be an “emergency host family for a foreign exchange student from Holland who needed a place until graduation in June”.

This all came about before the holidays. I could not  lie and tell my sons school that there was “no room at the inn”, so I took the little Dutch boy in.

Apparently Amsterdam Boy and my son are two tulips in a vase. They became best friends at the beginning of the  school year.  When Holland boy’s window of opportunity landed  from Netherland into our home, I swear I had met my sons Doppleganger.  They are the same size and shape. They laugh alike, they walk alike, and  times they even talk alike.……….in different languages.

They are both carved out of the same Dutch Elm. Both their bedrooms  resemble an aftermath of the Fourth Anglo-Dutch war.  The shrapnel of clothing splinter out from the opened dresser drawers and wounded trousers lay lifeless on the floor from their nights frivolity.  I gather up dirty laundry from two countries  now.  I find myself lost in the glory of scooping up the minor coins that strategically drop from  loosened pockets throughout the house.  I’ll hang onto the Euro’s from Dutch boy until the exchange rate drops to our level, then give him a buy back option…

I will conclude that hosting a foreign exchange student has actually turned out to be a pleasure.  There are no major complications and the language barrier is minimal.  He respects my professionalism I’ve acquired in the experience of teen behavior:  Eye Rolling is International.

Yes, confronting the empty nest syndrome has had some effect on me. It caused me to confront the hollow spaces left behind where dirty laundry and missing History assignments use to congregate.  I always thought when this time came,  I would succumb to the sadness of a half empty house  and wallow and wine as I second guess my parenting skills. Skills that did not include instructions from the onset.  Skills that you obtained through trial and error and all the Dr. Spock books in the world could not prepare you for. Skills that have been handed down from generations  nursing  verbal acuity with four simple words:

“Because I said so….”

Yes, the bars will be lifted soon and I will be set free to roam about the cabin without tripping over size 13 shoes left in the middle of the kitchen floor; accompanied now  with size 12 Faux Wooden clog slippers.  Something tells me my nest won’t be empty for long and my parental ship will not be sailing into the sunset where freedom rings and Chianti flows rampant, and responsibility can take a back seat. Something  out there is still lurking around and sniffing about my feet to fill the void that is soon to come…..

Oh..yea… I forgot………Charly-dog.

spread the humor




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.



{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…..

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…………………



et cetera
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