My Self-imposed Exile aka "Did anyone miss me even a little bit?"

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players..."

Shakespeare wrote that line ages ago and it has been ages ago since I've written a blog.

I first figured I'd take a little break...you know, the collective juices in the mind of a wannbe writer pooling up in that place real writers know all too well about...and then that water just sat and stagnated...waiting for enough time to pass to dry it all up.

Instead of the writer of my destiny...I became one of the players...a has-been drama queen to be precise.

I lulled about the house sitting down each time to write a blog and then harkening back on the words of a couple of my friends and my two kids (my poor kids who have to read it no matter what) who mentioned they "didn't like" or "didn't think it was funny" or thought "it's too long...so I stopped after the first couple paragraphs" -- and then I backed away from the keyboard and had a private pity party with me being the guest of honour. I probably even toasted my self-imposed obscurity once or twice...or 30 or so times. With glass raised in ceremonial fashion, I'd utter some rot like, "Je reviens...something something French-sounding blah blah..." for impact. I was, after all, drinking wine or French-made "Grey Goose" vodka -- I had to keep the drama up.

And I took those critical comments like...well, like anyone would take any critic who makes or breaks a play, film, or restaurant. And then, like a chef in that panned restaurant...I put everything on the back burner and let it stew a while.

Oh, I'd get spurts of ideas and feelings -- "things to write" simmering inside of me...but, again, I'd push it to the back burner and the critics' words would come back out to haunt me..."I didn't like this one so much...".

I found out in the past month or so that I am my worst critic.

Instead of listening to the other people who said they enjoyed it...and people I would run into around town who would say "Hey, I always read your blog at the Montgomery Advertiser and I really like it" (they are the people I always have to quiz - and sure enough, I'll be damned, they DO read it)...I listened to the harshest voice I could: My own.

I "boo-hoo'd" around the house day and night...I'd start to write and then semi-storm off in a huff saying things like "Oh, who cares?" or "Why even bother?" under my breath. I figured I'd be like that aging movie star from the "golden era" who waits for the great come-back script...who waits for the calls from Hollywood to come in...who waits...and then fades away like the heroine in that final frame of the last flickering film she starred in.

I'd wait...I'd wait until people started asking why I'm not writing anymore.

I waited a while.

Those "calls" just weren't coming in...oh, one or two did...but not the maddening frenzy I was hoping for...so, I waited some more.

Then, I did what anyone would do given enough time and gaining enough courage: I asked those friends if I really was that horrible a writer. One said he was "just busting my chops" and the other stated he never said I wrote horribly...and why would I say I welcome "all comments" at my blog if I only wanted to hear the good ones?

Touché. Point taken...point processed...back on point.

And that point being: I am now going to step out of the limelight of that stage...and get back behind the curtain, writing, where I belong.

(If you're wondering about all those "chef" references interspersed with the "stage" ones...tune in next blog to find out why. Yes...this is my first "Tune in Next Time" promo/teaser tag. Does it work? Tune in next time to find out.)

What Gives?

(I wrote this "article" 25 June 2010 for possible inclusion in the Montgomery Advertiser's printed edition. It never saw the light of day...but I decided to dig it out a year later because I think the story still needs to be told -- it IS a nice story about a nice person and I've always felt the media needed more such subject matter. But crime and controversy sells, so the bad gets the coveted first pages and good things are relegated to teeny-tiny columns hidden on the last few pages, or, unfortunately, as in this case...the trash bin.

I left this piece exactly as it was submitted...so please bear in mind I didn't alter it in any way -- facts and figures have undoubtedly changed since. I thoroughly enjoyed the entire process: finding an interesting subject to report on, interviewing, writing, etc., -- hopefully you will remotely enjoy reading it.)

The old adage "You get what you pay for" doesn't hold true for anyone who has reaped the benefits of Freecycle.org. You see, Freecycle.org doesn't sell anything whatsoever, but that doesn't necessarily mean you come away empty-handed. Every single day countless people across the nation are giving away or seeking things totally free of charge; and here in the Montgomery area, one of the most prolific "give-awayers" is Raymond Tyc.

And anyone who is a member of Freecycle knows of Ray as well. Ray, how should I say, can never be confused with any other Freecycler out there. Sure, there's been some who've tried to copy him, but they can't hold a candle to the master (even IF they got that candle for nada on Freecycle).

Most people who give away things on Freecycle tend to be matter of fact about it: OFFER: Refrigerator. Doesn't work. Must pick up.

But not Ray. He might be giving away the most insignificant item in the whole universe, but the story he conjures up regarding it (many times with his wife as the foil - a fact she is totally fine with), will make it look so good you couldn't possibly pass it by. And, truth be told, you'll look forward to the next thing he’s giving away, if only for the tale that's told. This man definitely has the gift of gab, which, I'm sure, we won't ever see up for grabs on Freecycle.

When I sat down to interview Ray at his house the other day, I had visions of a door opening, just wide enough to squeeze through, and being led by the hand across a knee-high strewn jungle of junk accumulated over someone's lifetime. But it was nothing like that...everything was neat as a pin and nothing piled up from floor to ceiling as far as I could see.

The obvious question to ask right out the gate was, "Why do you do this?" Certainly with the things he's given away over the course of two years (sofas, a dining table, cd players, tape players, T-shirts, a child's ride on-jeep, etc.) he could have amassed a tidy little profit; upwards of three-thousand dollar's worth by his own account "if you had to buy everything new". Ray responded, "Part of why I do it is just because it's fun, part of it's because I have no need for objects or material goods. I was a collector of things when I was young...I've moved on."

Unless it's a high-priced item, don't expect to see it on eBay. "It's just not worth packing and shipping it off, I'd rather give it away." His face just beamed; you could tell he really enjoys what he does.

The highest priced item he’s given away? “Either the chipper/shredder or the stereo system.” And, he confessed, about one-third of the things given away, he’s picked up from curbs. He “hates stuff being trashed” so he “picks it up and Freecycles it”.

He admits the first person who responds by email rarely gets the item, “Whoever strikes my fancy the most gets it; courtesy and appreciation wins over quickness.”

As far as gratitude goes, Ray states, “Only about ten percent of people ever send a ‘thank you’ email, but a lady who once claimed my 1968 Radio Flyer wagon even sent me a photo of it after she painted it green.”

While he might not get public accolades and the adoration of millions, I somehow get the feeling the 56 year-old retired USAF engineer will continue his charitable ways while also fascinating us with his witty stories for the long haul. "I'm a terrible salesman" he confesses to me, but I don't buy it at all.

And another thing I didn't have to buy, and true to his generous nature: I left his house with a shopping bag full of tomatoes and peppers straight from his beautiful garden. Whoever said "there’s no such thing as a free lunch" certainly never met Raymond Tyc.

The Freecycle Network is a nonprofit organization founded in May 2003 to promote waste reduction in Tucson, Arizona. It currently has over 3,500 community groups and millions of individual members in over 70 countries.

Spooning It On a Little Thick

Behold the wonder that is the miraculous "multi-purpose" spoon:

Sure, it might look like an ordinary spoon to the common eye...but I sensed something was a bit special about this run-of-the-mill plastic beauty which made it anything but...run-of-the-mill.

But first, a little tie-in...

We went to the Georgia Aquarium the other day, which is a very nice aquarium; altho, for some reason I keep thinking the Baltimore Aquarium was nicer. But as we were strolling around from one exhibit to the other "Tropical Waters", "River Dwellers", "Cold Water Creatures", etc., we stopped for a drink in their cafeteria. And that's where I first spotted "it".

My first clue "it" was indeed going to be nothing like I had ever laid my eyes upon before -- was the labeling of the implement holders themselves. Keep in mind this place had a Starbucks...so it was pretty swanky, ya know. I say this for you doubters out there who think I might be exaggerating a bit or making this stuff up. I'm not.

The implement bins were labeled "Forks", "Knives" and, one would probably automatically think "Spoons" or even "Sporks" given their sheltered existence and the mere fact they couldn't point out an oyster fork from a bone marrow spoon even if their measly little pathetic lives depended upon it. The Georgia Aquarium holds balls...actual formal "Cinderella"-type ones...so these people aren't in the least uncivilized or uncultured.

Nay, spoons and sporks were not to be had at a place as grand as this. This place had "multi-purpose" spoons.

I absolutely kid you not. I checked on the Internet when I got home - and sure enough, they are indeed "multi-purpose". Of course, at the time, I was just in amazement as I reached to touch the magical "push down -- receive a dining implement of your choice" machine. Typically, I've only ever seen these reserved for usage of straws alone...so again, you can tell we aren't dealing with any old "reach on in and touch all the spoons with your grimy unwashed 'sea urchin/sting ray petting' fingers before you come to the one which tweaks your fancy" open bin holder.

This was an elegant establishment...there were no plain-Jane white plastic "silverware" to be had anywhere here. Black will always be the topmost when it comes to designer kitchens and couture dresses and such...after all, they wouldn't say "Beige is the 'New Black'" if it wasn't, right? Having the wherewithal to stick to this shocking and avant garde principle at the Aquarium -- they're proclaiming that "black is not only the new black...but the ONLY black" when it comes to your fine plastic dining pleasure.

So, when I wrapped my eager fingers around my onyx beauty...I knew I was in possession of something truly novel. It had to be...and the 'black on white laminated printed sticky label' they use to differentiate the various culinary items there certainly wouldn't mislead me.

I sat down, virtually mesmerized by my new acquisition. I gazed at it from all angles like Keanu Reeves did with his spoon in "The Matrix". Only there WAS a spoon...I knew it...and I had it.

I set about trying to fathom all the wondrous things this "Swiss Army Knife of Spoons" must be capable of doing. It didn't take me long to come up with a few.

-- You can use it as an actual spoon.

-- You can use the bowl to measure liquid things which are inside it.

-- You can use the bowl to measure dry things which are inside it.

-- You can put it upright and measure how many "spoons high" something is.

-- You can use it as a knife if you have very, very soft foods you really need to cut.

-- You could poke something with the remotely pointy end of it.

-- If I would have taken two...I probably would have been able to "play spoons" with it. Oh, the wondrous magical noises they would have generated, too. I'm smacking myself in the head (of course using my "multi-purpose" spoon to do so) for not getting a second spoon to find out how sublime the harmonics on these babies woulda been.

-- You can form nice dents in soft foods and things like Pla-Doh with it.

-- You can use it as a fork if you already have a fork which you then use to transfer what you just picked up with that fork...onto the bowl of the spoon.

-- You can use it to fling things at people - like a very tiny plastic trebuchet.

-- You can stir things with it - using either side. It's remarkable really when you think of it. You can also stir things with it using either end.

The possibilities are virtually almost limitless.

Eventually I had to put my spoon away and get up to see some stupid "Garden Eels" which hovered partway outside their holes until they sensed danger and then retreated back inside them...only to pop back out...and do it all again...a never ending display reminiscent of that "Whack-a-Mole" game. Then just a few displays over were some type of fish, which, when building their nests, would suck up a bunch of sand and shell debris into their mouths and then deposit it outside their little love abodes...making everything look as inviting as they could to capture the attention of the über-choosey lady fishes.

I smirked my little smirk as I saw them continually gather and spit, gather and spit, gather and spit...knowing full well if one of them could be trained on the usage of what I now held in my purse...the "multi-purpose" spoon...it would move that whole evolutionary business up a notch or two on some type of hierarchy food pyramid. Heaven knows, if it could catch on, what those animals might possibly come up with by the time I visited again.

But for now...nature as we know and like it...is safe. I have my "multi-purpose" spoon and good things are going to be coming my way now...I can feel them. And when they get here, I'll be prepared.

Perhaps I have finally found my one true purpose in life? I might be destined for even greater purposes...as I now can handle multi-purpose things...presumably well beyond the scope of others.

Yeah...I think I'm going to like having a multi-purpose in life.

Three Time's a Charm?

After watching yet another episode of Chef Gordon Ramsay get flustered and cuss his way into acceptance on some "Kitchen Nightmares" show filmed in Philadelphia, it dawned on me how nearly everyone seems to be incorporating some British slang words into their boring American lexicon thereby seeming to be extremely interesting.

In fact, some news sources speculated there were more people in the USA watching Prince William and Kate Middleton get married a couple weeks ago than there were watchers in the UK. While wedding guests in Royal attendance queued up to get inside Westminster Abbey...donning outrageous hats and dowdy clothing...Facebook was abuzz with comments. But, some posters, who fly a different red, white and blue flag, flaired it up a bit with Brit.

Oh, we've all been guilty of doing it from time to time. Don't pretend you don't. Even "BBC America" is running an ad about Brit words and what they mean and how posh it is to use them.

Like that.

"Posh." C'mon, no one even used the word before that silly "Spice Girl" (you know the one who looks like a lollipop -- big head, stick body, married to Mr. Spice aka David Beckham) came about...unless you count Michael Caine.

It seems, nowadays, everyone uses words like "wonky" and "numpty"; it's only a matter of time before we use words like "brill" and "pressies".

I also love to make up words. I always have and I always will. I've written about my penchant for coining words...and I've done at least one blog about British words. Go "here" and "here" if you don't believe me. Below are a couple I made up years and years ago and pretty much use them on a daily basis...so much so that I'm almost convinced they're real.

Scubby: (adj.) Unkempt looking. "Will you please shave...you're looking really scubby."

Slurb: (noun; verb) When a cat smooshes their face up against you and leaves that kinda wet scent they mark their territory with. (Said to my cats:) "Ewwww...stop putting your slurb on me!" "Stop getting me all slurby."

Scrolly Guide: (noun) The thing on your television which you view to see what is on television. "Let me look on the scrolly guide to see what's coming on at 8:00."

Why most of my words start with an "S" is anyone's guess.

So just for the heck of it I attempted to make up my own British-sounding words...and, it seems some actually might exist in some capacity. Case in point: Apparently adding "tw" to any word makes it instantly "Twitter-worthy" but since I don't "Tweet" I didn't know this...and I believe 99% of everything Tweeted is pretty much complete "twarbage" anyway.

This made me wonder if there are really any words out there which haven't been tried in some form already. I honestly believe there are people out there randomly syllablizing every single sound, combining it with another, and then popping it online to get some type of notoriety. So, I decided to jump on the proverbial bandwagon as well before it's too late.

And might I add..."'BBC America'...are you listening??"

Jilly-nubber: (noun) A female pleasuring device similar to a French Tickler only derisively British. "At her Hen Party, Kate Middleton received not one...but four Jilly-nubbers - two from her sister, Pippa!"

Twollocks: (noun) Insert gratuitous "bollocks" comment here...only do it twice.

Harrodsment: (noun) When the staff of a posh store constantly harass someone by following them around condescendingly asking if they need any help finding "something". "Each time we go into any bleedin' posh boutique just to have a look around, the Harrodsment always starts up."

I'm half-thinking of starting up a "British Word of the Day" blog. The gist of it would be that I watch "BBC America" and then blog about a word I haven't a clue about (existence and/or usage)...and then attempt to use it incessantly in a senseless blog.

After all, I am pretty much half-thinking senselessly most of the time anyway.

My blog was going to end with that sentence above...but, here's an update:

In fact I was so inspired by my newest endeavour that I created a THIRD blog! It is called "Brit Word of the Day"...and is found if you click that highlighted link right above.

Join and comment. Have fun. That's all I ask. Let me know what you think of the layout, the colour scheme, the positioning of things and so forth - and please comment there about it so I know where all the comments are. If you don't like something let me know...it's the only way I'll know something. I'm not the greatest technical person in the world - but I can figure out some things. But if you don't voice your likes and dislikes, I'll never know. :)

Thinking Out the Box

I have been known, on more than one occasion, to have a drink or two...or suck down my Ambien and then start (or attempt) to write.

I've written emails, I've commented at news sites, I've written...and posted blogs I had no real recollection of typing in the first place. The lack of comprehension of the material I've purported to have some remote grasp on is astounding -- and my stream of consciousness when I'm barely conscious is, to me, utterly amazing.

This, of course, never stops me as I do it again and again.

What can I say...I love to write.

Once in a while I'll notice a typo AFTER the fact. That's totally logical -- as alcohol and Ambien, even with the best intention -- and relying on the "spell check" button, doesn't catch everything; especially if you use a word that exists but you put it in the wrong place. This is where re-reading something (out loud if possible) comes in handy. Usually if you re-read something...and do it sober...chances are you will catch things. Not all times. Most times.

I've written to fellow bloggers, privately, about having typos at their blogs...I've even written to big-time reporters at big-time newspapers, and they've always thanked me for doing so. One thing a writer dislikes more than someone catching their obvious (or not so obvious) typo...is making one and not seeing it...and finding out about it later after others have undoubtedly read it countless times.

The point I'm trying to make here is that we are all human and to err is human...to re-read divine.

I always get a kick out of it when someone who is trying to be "oh so knowledgeable" hits that "submit" button on a news story comment before realizing they are a complete and utter idiot. Or, a more likely scenario, having that fact pointed out, over and over again, by numerous people. While we all make silly typos once in a while - it's another thing altogether (or is it "all together") to mouth off and basically stick your foot IN your mouth...especially when you can't edit after.

And if that isn't enough fun...we have people who are placed in positions of power...even if that power is indeed transient or limited...who attempt to make a cohesive sentence and fail miserably. These people are typically referred to as "copy editors".

Okay, okay...while I admit that last statement was a true statement more times than not...it's not what I'm talking about specifically this time. What I'm talking about is an email which was sent to my friend in Texas after he complained about a food order at "Church's Chicken". I haven't changed anything other than the name, address and telephone number. This way, just in case the person somehow reads this, he/she won't go over to my friend's house and stab him to death. I'd hate to have that on my conscience...plus who would I talk to on the phone about people who can't write their way out of a paper bag...or, in this case "out the box"...to save their lives?

Keep in mind this was written by the Regional General Manager...in a state that may or may not be Texas. (Hey, I seriously don't want my friend killed.) This email has also kept both of us entertained for over three years now...

Date: Tuesday, January 22, 2008, 9:08 AM

My name is Bob Smith RGM with Churchs Chicken on Main Street. I'm so sorry to here, 12min was the wait time before you receiving your order. As well as the sauce from the wings was leaking out the box. Your comments will be address with the Restaurant team and staff. I would like to offer you a free complimentary 12 Boneless Wings reg frie and drink for your delay. Thank you for taking the time on letting us know how to better serve you. Please feel free to contact me at 555-4567

Thank You

Bob Smith

Sometimes you just gotta wonder what some people were thinking...and IF thinking was even involved at all.

What can I say...Church's Chicken...gotta love it! ;)

Remote-ly Interesting

My son always wants me to play video games with him...but I cannot.

You see, my "video game expertise" ended with Space Invaders" and "Asteroids"...all played on the Atari game system...many, many, many years ago. The Atari system had a controller which consisted of a little toggle joystick and one button off to the side of it. I believe it was red.

The controller my son has for his Playstation 2 and Wii, etc., etc., have about a hundred buttons...and sometimes the controllers vibrate. I'm not too sure for whose pleasure (certainly not mine)...but...they do.

I just went into my son's room and asked to see one of his "more complicated" controllers. Of course, as is customary by him, he retorted, "You mean anything more complicated than Atari??" He knows all too well my gaming skills died about the same time Ms. Pac-Man came out. The Atari and all the games (you know, Skiing, Pong, and Breakout) I had were eventually relegated to the attic and that was that.

This controller by Sony, has four keys on the left, then...on the right, four more keys with circles, squares, and other geometric shapes I haven't seen since Geometry class in 1975. Kind of around and below this layout are a few other miscellaneous switches, and a couple toggle thingies up as well to occupy your "second set of thumbs" apparently. If that wasn't confusing enough, it has two sets of two buttons which might be controlled by your index and middle fingers...or, sadly, in my case, just pressed randomly along with all the others.

I am, for lack of a better term, a "complete dork" when it comes to trying to play anything with this. ANYTHING. I also have no clue how to play any game even IF these controllers were to be simplified (extremely simplified). It's always "Jump through hoops, spin around, put your left foot in, take your left foot out, grab the cherry...don't touch the mushrooms...fly through the air at warp speed and pick a bale of cotton. Jump up, spin around, pick a bale of hey...what the heck am I DOING???

I have no clue. A small monkey on acid would get a better score. And that's not even taking into consideration the aneurysm I'm sure to get because there are more lights flashing than at a 1970s disco.

But what does all this have to do with anything?

I'll tell you...

My TiVo died a couple months ago. My first tier TiVo (get prepared for this - I tell everyone) that I won at an AOL Dennis Miller NFL Rant Contest with my one and only entry. Week 6 to be exact. I loved that silly machine. I didn't realize how much my life changed in about ten years of owning that stupid thing. It made holding your bladder until a commercial a thing of the past. It made dinner possible. It made not hearing what someone said the first time...an archaic annoyance. In essence...the little magical box was indeed my mini Pandora. Once I opened it up...I could never get all I was now accustomed to - to go back inside. Once I tasted of the forbidden fruit of technology...I was a giddy drunk. When it died...I went into withdrawal.

I am ashamed to have become so reliant on something so incredibly unnecessary...especially when others have dealt with so much more horrific things lately than their damned TiVo dying.

But I couldn't deal with the cold chicken in the fridge and the cold chicken from my TiVo withdrawal - so I called up the cable company to inquire about adding a DVR. Two days later...just in time to watch (and pause and rewatch) the live broadcast of Prince William and Kate's heavily replayed nuptials, I had one installed. Thousands without cable all around me, but since I was in the queue before the bad weather, mine was installed without any pomp or circumstance.

It also was installed without any written or verbal instructions. I basically had a Playstation 2 installed to replace my Atari...and I was all thumbs.

The dinosaur TiVo I had...was easy. It had an easy to follow remote...with prompts and words on the screen and you couldn't do anything without it asking "Are you absolutely SURE you want to do THIS???" This was now some mutant alien replicant...and I was awoken to the 21st century after being frozen since the late 1900s.

I am able, so the literature tells me...to be able to record two shows whilst watching a recorded third. Able to switch between two shows and watch them both by swapping between them. Able to even watch things I haven't seen back in time to an hour ago...but, for the life of me, after having done it once and being amazed...I have not been able to replicate it again.

I believe I recorded a show last nite. I believe I can probably figure out how to get to it...but other than that...I am clueless.

But I wasn't as clueless as the guy who installed it as he told me my ten year old remote would "still work with it" as it was "universal". Keep in mind this is my ten year old remote which made a plasticy-tinkly noise when shaken. This exact same remote, which, when I took it up to the cable company after the wedding ceremony...was promptly and ceremoniously tossed in a drawer and replaced by something...most regal.

But prior to this "changing of the remote" , I sat, almost as wooden as the Queen's Guards, when I watched the "Royal Wedding" a few hours earlier -- afraid to click a button lest I push something I couldn't "undo" - all the while in possession of this mismatched remote.

I sat, and literally "played" Playstation 2 with an Atari controller while watching the grandeur on TV...and it made me think...

The last time I played my Atari...about 1981. The last time I watched a "Royal Wedding"...1981.

Time goes by so fast. It's almost like I'm sitting here on a sofa fast-forwarding through my...and others' lives.

I'm still baffled by it all...how so much can change from one generation to another...how fast things (and people) grow and become so outdated...and how fast things are obsolete and don't work anymore in a world you once thought you knew. A world that was once so new. And then you realize that no one should be expected to be content to live life with a wonky remote.

And with anyone's life...just like trying to navigate blindly around with a new DVR and remote, there's just so many combinations of things that can go right...and so many that can go wrong...

...but without pushing a few buttons...you'll never ever know.

(Okay...on a different note...does ANYONE out there know how to work a CLIKR-5 remote? No online instructions...nothing on-screen like a TiVo had. I'm so incredibly lost - I'm pushing buttons at random like on my son's video controller. I'm so lost. Sometimes things work...and other times...nope. And I don't remember the "combination" of things I did...to get it to do it again - or not do it again. I can't find anything online which is remotely (yeah, ha ha) helpful, either.)

Prom...iscuous?

I'm sitting here watching the film "Enchanted" on The Disney Channel and there's this commercial that comes on talking about high school proms. And how people wait four years for it to happen and only three people enjoy it and blah blah (I stopped listening at this point) and then this one girl comes on and says something like, "C'mon...when do you ever get to ride in a limo...that's something you remember your entire life!"

So...I thought about my prom. I didn't go to my prom, per se...but I did go with my boyfriend at the time to his senior prom...when I was a junior.

I sat and I sat and I tried to remember if I rode in a limo or not. For the life of me I can't remember what we rode in...I don't even remember much of the prom. And it's not because I have a bad memory. Seriously, I have bowel movements which have been more memorable. How incredibly sad is that?

I remember who I went with...and I remember (sorta) who I went home with. I didn't go home with the same guy. How even more incredibly sad is that? Boy...I must have been a jerk...perhaps I just blocked the whole sordid thing out of my mind. Who knows. All I know is I went to the prom with one guy...got into an argument with my date...danced with another guy...and came home with him. Did he go to the prom alone? What happened to the guy I went with? Did he go home alone? Did he end up going home with the guy's date? Most people don't buy one ticket to the prom...and now I'm actually wondering.

All I know is that there were no "detours" on the way home. Nothing worthy of any circa 1980s "coming of age" teen movies. Nothing "Porky's-ish". Nothing "Revenge of the Nerds-ish". I've never seen "Pretty In Pink" but I'm going to go out on a limb and say it was nothing like that, either.

But I do remember every single guy thinking he was "going to get lucky" after the prom. Some rode on down to the shore (the very same Jersey shore on the show) and rented hotel rooms. And I always thought "How could anyone's parents be 'okay' with that?" Furthermore, how did that conversation take place?

"Hey, Mom, Kevin asked me to the prom!"

"That's terrific, honey! Have you guys thought of a really good place to go to 'do it' afterwards?"

"What, Mom?"

"You know...it's an unwritten law...you get taken to the prom...you have to 'put out'. (Insert little knowing laugh here.) You didn't know that?? That's how we got YOU!"

"Oh, Mom...that's wayyyyy TMI."

"What's TMI, honey? 'The Mating Instinct'? Because if that's what it is...yeah...your father and I really went at it like 'bunnies in an Animal Planet documentary' when we spent the nite at this seedy little motel in Seaside..."

"Ewwwwwwwwwww...Mom...seriously...wayyyyy TMI!"

"Yeah...that's EXACTLY what I told your father after the THIRD time..."

"MOM! Seriously...that's disgusting. How can I EVER have a good time at the prom NOW?? All I'll be thinking about is...ewwwwwwwwwww...you and DAD! Ewwwwwwwwww!"

"Yeah...okay honey...you just keep remembering that...especially AFTERWARDS." (Insert evil grin here.)

Well...my daughter's not going to the prom this year...but I'm sure I'll "remember" something "really special" to pass along to her to make her enchanted event even more memorable when it rolls around. ;)

Scaling Literary Heights and Other Fairy Stories

My totally elegant Soehnle scale.

I just weighed myself and I gained weight. I know I did as I have a swanky scale from one of those Norwegian, Swiss, Swedish or other such Norse-type land where they're typically renown for growing beautiful, lithe women whose skin glows with the dewy innocence of one of those ethereal fairies in that "faked fairy photographs" hoax perpetrated by two little English girls. Those sweet little "innocent" girls, along with the "prim and proper" British doctor who snapped the infamous, but equally fabricated, Loch Ness Monster photograph...admitted years afterwards they duped unsuspecting people whose only fault in life was hoping too much for magical, wondrous things.

Whilst innocence lost is a sad, sad thing...weight loss is another thing altogether.

Anyway, my nifty scale lets me know how much I weigh, how much body fat I have, how much water's in my feet (I guess - as that's the only part that goes ON the scale), and how much muscle I have. It does this all in a couple minutes...going to a doctor to ascertain all this would take hours...and then you'd have to wait for the test results they never tell you about unless they were bad...or they forgot...or they said they called but they didn't as you have caller ID and you know damned well they didn't call at all and "just didn't leave a message" because you weren't there to have it delivered personally.

So, I now weigh a whopping 110.8 pounds.

I can hear that collective sigh of contempt mixed with hatred clear across the Internet here. "One-hundred ten pounds??? Are you insane??? I WISH I weighed 110 pounds!"

But, you don't see my plight. Oh, yeah, I have one. Listen...

...I lost about 15 pounds here in the past year. Of course it comes straight off the boobs...but even without that bit of "too much info" - a person who is tiny to start with doesn't have a lot of room to lose weight. When I got down to about 107 I started to worry...when I got down to 105 I started to freak.

When you weigh a bunch, losing a pound or two or five or ten doesn't necessarily cause a sense of panic... I'm sure it's more like a feeling of elation. When you weigh 107 or 105 you wonder "Just how much more weight CAN I lose before I really have to worry about it?"

So, when I stepped on the scale just now and saw I was almost...almost 111...I felt really good.

You see I've never had to exercise. Never had to jazzercise, never had to aerobocise, yogacise or Tae-Bocise. In fact the only "cise" I do where I think I'm any good at...is criticize.

That I do extremely well. And you can lose a lot of weight doing it...especially if you "worrycise" at the same time.

Mostly I'm critical of my own self...but when I, as a wannabe writer, get a whiff of another "writer's" work, especially when I could have possibly done that work and done that work a LOT better (or at least "quite a bit" better) - I go into criticize mode.

Anyone who fancies themselves a writer knows exactly what I mean. You never read a news article as "just a news article" - you read it as a news article with an inordinate amount of grammatical mistakes. You read all comments below these articles and inwardly complain to yourself, "People who really want to be taken seriously should at LEAST know how to SPELL correctly!" You peruse the book aisles in any massive book store and continually balk and roll your eyes and say extremely naughty words under your breath. You can't conceive of anyone actually making money on something you'd have been embarrassed to show your own mother when you were in third grade...but there they all are, as bright as day. Or day to any vampire who could attest to it in any of those 20,092 books they're selling there that has a vampire as a protagonist or an antagonist or a misogynist. All I know -- is the gist of it...is nearly pure crap...as I could surely do better...

...you know, if I actually tried...or knew someone...or lowered my standards enough.

So, after all my criticism is eventually vented out and all is said and done and I finally drift off to la-la-land in my Ambien-induced coma...I'm hoping the only thing I don't lower, other than my perceived high and mighty literary standards...

...is my weight.

And, I do believe in fairies...I do believe...just like I do believe I'll be a real writer one day.

(Thanks again to my friend, Phil, for planting that "cise" seed in my brain and egging me on to write this after listening to me vent...for the umpteen-millionth time.)

Of Facebook and Other Wonky...er...Wonka Things

Okay, I, against my better judgment and immense personal dislike of it...have succumbed to hanging out a bit on Facebook.

No, I haven't joined any "Mafia Wars" or "Vampire Covens" or whatever they call them. I don't grow virtual vegetables and I don't ask people to give me any sheep.

What I do is type things in my "status" line like "I'm having a chocolate truffle!" or "I wish onion rings grew on trees." - and people reply back.

Oh, sure, I reply back to their nonsensical posts as well...but it passes the time in what is a less than ordinary life...and the mere fact that people will reply back to my doing the laundry or smelling around for that "weird smell in my house I can't find" - makes me happy.

It makes me happy that people also have less than ordinary lives, too...and that we aren't all getting showed with flowers and wined and dined at the most ritzy restaurants. We aren't all jetting off for private showings at the Louvre...and I don't even know if there are such things, but I'll never get one, so I'm not that curious to Google to see if they do indeed...do such things.

But there's one thing which boggles my mind even more than people who are willing to reply back to my mundane antics...and that's the weird stuff that pops up on the right side-bar each time I go there. I copy/pasted a few below (and didn't alter anything)...and commented accordingly, not always according to what people think is correct...but c'mon, you know we're all secretly thinking them if we're totally honest here.

Here goes:

"Racheal Ray Lost 18 lbs"

rachaelrayshow.com

She cut down a significant amount of stomach fat by following these 2 old diet tips.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Rachael Ray likes to eat. She's also a little porky...and her fingers look like sausages about to burst out of their casings...but they're probably tasty, so I'm not faulting her. Rachael could probably lose 18 pounds just by skipping two meals. Oh, c'mon, it's true. Did you ever see the amount of food she puts down her gullet in that show on the Food Channel where she goes eating in restaurants all over the world? She's always saying how cheap these places are...but they're not that cheap if you order one of everything on the menu that's under $10. And those "2 old diet tips" they mention? One is "NOT EATING" and the other is "EXERCISE". There's no other magical way than those other than getting your stomach downsized or being extremely depressed.

Remember that old "Grapefruit Diet" from years ago. Why it worked is because no one can eat more than two grapefruits at any one sitting. No one in recorded history has ever bought more than two at any one time...ever -- that's why there's always a surplus of them at the store. Look around - all the plums and apples are gone and there are three oranges left, but there's like half a truckload of grapefruit all nicely stacked like there are "secret grapefruit fairies" on the ready - replacing one each time one is removed. But there aren't "secret grapefruit fairies" - plus you can't stick more than two in that plastic bag anyway -- and no one's going to expend the energy to walk back over there to grab another baggie in order to buy that third one.

Bucket List

groupon.com

365 Things to do in Montgomery before you die.

First off...I refuse ever to use the word "groupon". I won't use "staycation" and I won't use "interrobang". If you don't know what an "interrobang" is...good. You shouldn't. There's no earthly reason why anyone should. It's stupid and whoever coined the name should be taken out behind the woodshed, stripped naked, covered with honey and left for the ants to get. But only after their photo is distributed across the Internet with a "WTF?!" caption Photoshopped on it.

Secondly, there aren't 365 things to DO in Montgomery...and if there were I wouldn't want to do them all. I certainly don't want to die here...so at the very most I'd do 364 and stop. I'm not stupid.

And, if I'm not mistaken, I'm pretty sure I saw Rachael Ray eat what that guy's eating in that above photo on one of those shows of hers. She also washed it down with some Portuguese Kale Soup afterwards.

Faithful Women Wanted

seniorpeoplemeet.com

Single Men on Senior People Meet are complaining there are not enough women registered.They need female attention now.

Okay...so they know I'm old because I have my age listed somewhere online - but to assume I just want to meet some "senior" guy is a bit premature on their part, isn't it? I mean maybe I'm a "cougar" - and then again maybe I'm a "cougar who's NOT faithful". Again with the assuming on their part. And then that "...need female attention now" bit sounds a little too much like a horny Veruca Salt from that Willy Wonka movie if you ask me. "I want female attention from an Oompa Loompa, NOW, Daddy!"

Okay, that didn't come out right...but you get the idea.

I think.

Okay, I really have to hurry up and end this blog...so I can post this blog...so I can get back on Facebook to let everyone know. "Everyone" being my 268 friends I've never met...but who are anxiously waiting for me to say something.

I think.

Esmerelda and the Area Known as 51 (Part 1)

It was just about dusk as Esmerelda sat behind the counter filing her nails at the only gas station in Goldfield, Nevada.

She had sat behind that counter every day, or near about every day, since her daddy got taken ill with a raging fever that ended up taking his breath away. Momma prayed hard that day and asked Esmerelda, "Sing with your angel voice, child, sing so the angels can hear and come straight to your daddy to 'take him home'."

Esmerelda obliged.

She was just a girl of about seven...but her voice could make grown men weep - and when the town, once a boom town for gold, started to get deserted, grown men wept for other reasons. Esmerelda didn't really understand where "home" was. She just knew when people got bit real bad by snakes or had the consumption, they always went "home" and then no one ever saw them again. They parceled you up real good, too. Put you in a big wooden box to send you there. She figured a special postman with a big wagon and two horses came to take you back "home" and your family would walk as far as they could and then came back again...crying.

But no one came back once they went home. And for a very long time Esmerelda was afraid to ever go home, but as she never lived anywhere else, she figured she was already there. Then, as all things go, time passed and she understood about "home" and then was worried her momma would go there one day. Sometimes she'd find herself doing chores 'round the house and her sweet voice would pour out like liquid sunshine and kiss the ears of everyone within earshot. Then she'd clam up and run outside as far and as fast as she could. She didn't want those angels to find her momma.

But now she was filing her nails and Curtis was in the garage of the gas station shouting obscenities each time he'd smash a finger. Curtis worked at the little grocery store and service station that was smack on the edge of town. Smack on the edge of town to nowhere really. Wasn't anything much before or after the town and certainly wasn't much there. The only thing within miles was Las Vegas and the only time people came through Goldfield anymore was because they heard it once had gold...but that was a considerable time ago, but that never stopped the passers-by who lost everything but gas money out of Vegas. Goldfield was a tank of gas away...and if they got lucky and found the stray nugget, it was a tank of gas back. And the only place to get that gas was at Esmerelda's daddy's store, "Old Bob Perkins' Place" it was called by the locals and that's what it will always be called if Esmerelda and her momma had anything to do with it.

It didn't cost much to run and Curtis got paid only when he fixed something, which wasn't very often, but then again, Curtis was never going to amount to much anyway...but that never stopped him from trying to hit on Esmerelda.

He had it all worked out in his simple head. He'd marry Esmerelda when the time was right and that time would be any day now seeing as she was starting to fill out her dresses too much and started wearing her momma's. Then he and Esmerelda would move in with his momma as she had the biggest house for miles around. Curtis never knew why she did, he only knew they didn't want for anything...but he never much wanted for anything anyway...anything but Esmerelda, that is. And that "wanting" wasn't exactly like wanting a new tire or wanting a new pair of shoes -- it was more like wanting some dinner...only sometimes this hunger seemed a lot deeper. Curtis, again, never really knew why.

But Esmerelda's hunger and desire didn't lie with Curtis...she wanted to go to Hollywood...or at least Vegas. She liked the distinct smell of ozone once when daddy took the family on a trip up there shortly before he died. Once in a while, on a warm still night, Esmerelda swore she could still catch a whiff of it if the breeze was blowing just right and if she turned her head just so.

Esmerelda knew she didn't have much time, either. The desert sun can blanch the bones of a dead thing white in a couple days...and the supple, taut skin of a young girl of 15 turns into something hard and leathery like the cowboys and Mexicans wore in those "shoot 'em up" movies she wanted to star in. Star in them right up there on the silver screen with Gary Cooper or John Wayne. Even though Esmerelda only went to a movie once, she knew that's what she wanted to do...she also knew, aside from "going home", that was her only ticket out of Goldfield.

And the best way to get there was on a tank of gas after someone found a big enough nugget.

So, each day she came to work dressed in her momma's best clothes, her hair styled as closely as she could get it to resemble the latest "starlet of the month" on the magazine cover and smelling of something called "L'amore de Parisienne". It cost a whole fifty cents...the finest her daddy's store carried. And there she would wait, filing her nails, anticipating that one day, and one day soon, a big Hollywood director would need a fill-up on his way scouting around for a new place to shoot a film...discover her in all her momma's Sunday finest...and sweep her away to the place where dreams can be made real...or at least as close to the reality she always dreamt about.

Each day, she'd walk home more disappointed than the last...and the days she spent waiting turned into weeks, then months, and finally years. Curtis had filled out enough to become interesting to her...and as he was the only boy close her age for miles, his dream was beginning to look like it would be her dream as well.

(End of Part 1)

A Totally Cheesy Story

I've been challenged to write a couple blogs. One being about an incident in my youth involving a mall, a rugby player and fake English accents...and another where I take two totally unrelated words/ideas and then link them up together in a slightly amusing story...rather what I tried to do when I did my "Potato Farmers" blog located here: http://mariannsimms.blogspot.com/2009/08/potato-farmers-new-vampires.html

And while I am always up to a challenge...especially when it comes to writing...I couldn't help but post up a photo before I eat all the evidence.

Normally I am not a big Cheetos fan, but my son was running off at the mouth the other day about how gross Cheetos were...yadda yadda yadda...and before I knew it I was at the store determined to buy a bag, open it up, smash a few on my chest and literally lie back...in wait...for my son to finally stop his game long enough in his room to come out and see me. This, I figured, would really get him annoyed, and honestly, what joy does a woman of my age (with a 23-year-old son who stays locked away behind a door sitting on his butt playing video games all day) really have anymore?

Yeah, exactly...

...so there I was in the Cheetos aisle.

I wasn't too fond of the crunchy ones as they don't have that nice air-puffed, melt-in-your mouth feel to them. The white cheddar (I'm assuming...I didn't stare at the bag long enough) Cheetos just didn't seem right...plus the tell-tale orange-y powder that gets on everything would lose its impact if it were a pale yellow...and the word "NATURAL" on any bag of Cheetos...well, didn't seem...natural to me.

Then I spied them...the puffy kind, but with a twist. Literally, a twist:

So, I grabbed my bag, along with one-hundred fifteen dollars worth of other stuff you typically buy when you shop hungry, and I left the store...with visions of pissing off my son dancing in my head. Yeah, I was smiling from ear to ear.

I came home and tasked him with putting away the groceries. I mean, he sits all day and eats my food, the least he can do is put it away while I go and turn on my computer to check my mail and begin to sit on my butt the rest of the day.

And just as I envisioned it, I heard it: "Why'd you get these? Oh, these are blah blah blah..."

My purpose fulfilled, I decided to uncork my brand new bottle of Grey Goose vodka (yes, it has a cork) and make myself a yummy Martini. I hadn't had one for a few weeks and this type of elation called for a celebration. Okay, emptying the cat litter-box would have been just cause to make a Martini...but you know, for purposes of this story, it was all about the Cheetos.

So, I poured my liquid luxury into my sleek Waterford "Connoisseur Gold" Martini glass and topped it off with a nice lemon twist. My olives were banished inside the refrigerator because I didn't hear them "pop" sufficiently. (One day I will do my anal food blog, I swear. Hmmm...that didn't sound quite right.)

Then I proceeded to check my mail some more and go on Facebook (something I hadn't really done other than to promote my blog...which never worked on Facebook before but that still didn't stop me from trying). and this time actually try to come up with a witty "status" line. Undoubtedly going on Facebook when it's not 3:00 a.m. has its perks -- as people are actually ON it. I commented - and, lo and behold, people answered back. I was amused for a while until the Martini was gone.

I, being the sort who believes all beverages look better in a fancy glass (packaging is almost everything after all), decided to pop open (and I listened and it made the "thwuck" noise) one of my daughter's Gatorades - the "Cool Blue" flavour. Personally, I would think the lemon-lime or the red kind is tastier than the blue, but she likes the blue, so that's the kind we get.

The "Cool Blue" hue looks startlingly like the shade of blue that Hpnotiq (the alcoholic beverage) stuff comes in...and whenever I pour it into my Martini glass I always think of it. That's really the only time I do think of it as I'm not particularly fond of Hpnotiq...altho I had to try it once as it was a very pretty blue colour and the bottle was kinda cool looking. Yeah...again, the packaging is often times much better than the contents.

I stared at my mock alcoholic drink and saw the lifeless lemon twist at the bottom beginning to suck up the colouring like those limp, lifeless celery stalks in those 5th grade "Science Projects" with the glasses of food dye. It was turning an unhealthy shade of "blellow". It was pretty obnoxious. I sat and looked at it some more. "The only thing" I thought, "which would look more gross...would be if something orange was up against the blue."

Then I had a "Eureeka!" moment: The spiral shape of the Cheetos twisty things might actually be able to be perched upon my Martini glass like a makeshift bar garnishment.

These are the things 3:00 a.m. in my world are made of.

Yes, I know...you are all jealous you don't lead the type of life I do...the type of life you can only dream about. Yes, those dreams are usually called "nightmares"...but they are still dreams nonetheless.

So, I present to you...without further ado...with staging...without the Hpnotiq bottle (but shown separately)...my idea of the most unappealing drink known to mankind:

(Behold..."The Cheesy Martini")

Now, who's up for a refill?