some stories are so funny; we laugh until we cry and some stories are so sad we cry before we finish, but all stories need to be told...

Friday, December 17, 2010


i get mad when clementine's say "seedless" but aren't.
can i return them?
how do i know if the whole box has seeds and not just the one with the seed that i am eating?
can i return them if they are peeled?
who's fault is this?
who do i talk to?
where should i go?
to the grocer?
the farm?
a random orchard somewhere?
who should i ask for?
the produce stocker?
the store manager?
the farmer?
mother nature?

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

no more ms. nice guy

it cannot be stopped
like puking- when a story or an idea for a story makes an appearance in your brain- like puke, it must be dealt with immediately.
otherwise it is lost
and if it thinks itself to be a really good story- it won't stop- you try to sleep STORY- you try to eat STORY- you try to go to the john STORY STORY STORY
you cannot put it off- if you try this, thinking, "story, i will deal with you later"- well, you'll find stories don't negotiate. they come. they go. it's like that-
sometimes they won't stop nagging even after you've written them down. then they stay and switch to edit mode. so you'll be in the middle of a romantic sexy moment and you'll receive a message marked "urgent" and in that moment of ecstasy you'll hit your palm to your forehead and think "brilliant- the mouse should get the cheese in the middle, not the end" and you'll look at your partner hoping you didn't say that out loud.

there is a mouse in our house
or before you say it let me correct myself - in the voice of my THESKYISFALLING grandmother there are several mice because "IFYOUHAVEONEMOUSEYOU HAVESEVENOREIGHT" where she draws her statistics from nobody nows, but she is hungarian, a little wacky, a whole lot grumpy and she is usually right.

we laid out sticky traps and in all honesty at first i felt really really bad. we would catch a mouse and i would picture his teeny wife or his teeny mother in her teeny mousehole, standing at the entrance wringing her teeny mouse hands in anticipation of her teeny husband's/son's return.  a teeny mouse baby would be crying in the back ground and teeny mouse toddlers would be acting up in the absence of the teeny man of the teeny house. the teeny mouse woman would turn to her charges and sadly explain in her teeny sad voice "papa isn't coming back" and there would be lots of teeny tears and the teeny teen-aged mouse boys would promise revenge upon the humans who killed their father- some sort of death by giant sticky trap.
i don't feel bad anymore
i am tired of awaking each bright morning and stepping into my living room only to be assailed by the smell of garbage.
i am tired of lifting the bag from the bin and watching the garbage juice pour from the mouse bitten holes.
i am tired of trying to get my fingers into the crevices (what purpose they serve other than to make cleaning impossible i haven't a clue) of the bottom of the can trying to scrub the left behind crumbs and garbage away.
i am tired of trying to strategically get water into the bottom of the dirty bin all the while trying to avoid the two dime-sized holes at the bottom (made by the manufacturer OBVIOUSLY a lover of mice as these holes serve no purpose other than mouse entry- are they there to air the garbage? i think not.)
i am tired of wishing i had paid better attention (okay, who am i kidding not better attention- i wish i had paid attention) in math or science. whatever. the subject where the teacher explained water displacement and how although it looks like a small amount when disturbed it turns into a huge mess.
we have caught three (*technically i would say four as one was large-ish for a mouse, but small-ish for a rat- he was equal to two mice)
and now i want them all
i want them to suffer the same way they make me suffer
they are fucking with us
the other day we spent hours "doing the right thing"
we emptied and scrubbed closets. we plugged all the holes with steel wool- we discovered that gorilla glue makes tape and we taped over the steel wool.
we rubbed clove oil on the baseboards- hoping the mice would see this as a warning sign and keep out.
we were tired but happy, thinking there was no way they could get in.
i awoke to the garbage smell.
next level
we tried mashed potato buds from a box. you know, the ones from the 1970's that nobody should have eaten and i'm quite sure if the research were done it would show that most of the current cancers are caused by ingestion of this item (as children of liberated mothers of the 70's- we ate a lot of  "quick and tasty" foods- "no muss no fuss"- no future either- but who cares?- they're quick AND easy). we were told that mice love these potatoes- they would eat them- then return to their "den of strategy" where their bellies would explode.
not nice.  but more dignified than death by sticky trap.
have you ever seen a mouse on a sticky trap? they go from cocky to cheerless- in seconds flat.
i used to feel the need to pour oil on the trap, freeing them all the while yelling RUN RUN before sly came to "take care" of the trap
now i want to sit and tell the mouse- "we tried, we really tried to keep you out- to show you we were serious, but you wouldn't listen"
i envision the mice, while i am in bed at night straining my ears to listen for them- i see them
in teeny tiny tom cruise mission impossible outfits
they rappel down to the floor. they have teeny tiny headlamps. they use teeny tiny hand signals.
two mice raise the sticky trap nearest the garbage while the leader climbs in.
there is a chain gang formed and crumbs are passed from teeny mouse hand to teeny mouse hand. teeny tiny mouse bags are filled.
the leader is pulley-ed to safety.
the last two lower the trap, give one last look around, switch off their head lamps and disappear.
they laugh loudly as they count their score.

we cannot catch them.
we think they are gone.
we forego the traps.
garbage smell.
we place traps down
we place traps DOWN- our kitchen is 10' x 10' and sly placed 13 traps out last night.
we catch nothing
but i hear the teeny laughter....

now i think i know the score
i'm ON to them
they have a pattern with dates- like a serial killer
the teeny leader has a teeny office and behind his teeny desk next to the teeny magic erase board (where the day's teeny assignments are posted all pointing to apartment d1) there is a teeny calendar.
i must watch
i must wait
i must by a calendar.

Monday, December 13, 2010


i just spent over an hour
writing a funny blog
about mice
or more specifically a mouse in this house
and it was funny
the mice had outfits
and an office
and there were mashed potatoes from a box
and pulleys and ropes
but when i hit 'publish post'
i received an error
and was bumped from my blog
in a panic i quickly tried to sign back in
i came back to nothing
now i am sad
and drained
because i told this really really funny story
quite possibly one of my best
and nobody heard.
sheesh & egad
and now? i got nothin'
stories are never funnier or as good the second time around.

Friday, December 10, 2010

courtesy cards- not so courteous

my entire life i have been baffled by the necessity for club cards- you know the obnoxious slender plastic things hanging from your keychain - the piece of plastic that allows you entrance to the world of discounts....
why are these necessary and what is their purpose?
yesterday, i went to rite aid- to buy listerine and paper towels (yes, i lead and extraordinarily exciting life).  i placed my purchases on the counter and the BEYOTCH-y check out woman asked "you have a club card?"- "nope" was my polite response. "well then the paper towels aren't .94 cents they are $2.29"
now, i am not super proud of myself- it was a knee jerk response- it just poured forth before i could stop it "are you fucking kidding me?- seriously. do you see the crazy in a roll of paper towels costing $2.29?" dumbfounded the bitchy clerk stared at me- to which she responded with the neck-i-tude and the tongue click; both of which i cannot do and cannot stand.  (here i must interject TWO TWENTY NINE for one single roll of paper towels. not the super duper 6 in one roll. not rip the size you need. regular paper towels- NORMAL paper towels- for $2.29 they should come with maid service- or they should have the ability to wipe my toilet and bathroom sink unassisted)
back to my rant
i don't understand why i need a card to get a special price; it is like the continuation of high school: only the cool are entitled to the cool things.
why do i get a discount if i possess a sliver of plastic and the poor schlump behind me without the plastic does not?
i don't pay for the club card. i don't want the club card. i despise the club and the card.
i really really don't get it
it is one of those things that makes me feel as though, for one second, i zoom out of the scene- like one of the visitors in a christmas carol- i am "the ghost of stupid retail rules". i look down on the scene and i can see the stupidity of it all, but nobody else can. i can see that we americans are like drones- (say this in robot monotone) 'okayletmegetmycardforyousoicangetthediscountandoveraoneyearperiodiwillearnafivedollarreward".
i don't care about your "rewards"
i don't care about your club
i don't care if i am cool enough to be on your team.
i just want the paper towels- the roll that must have gold between each sheet.
"take them off of my purchase, i don't want them"
more neck roll from beyotch-y
more tongue clicking
"nice" i murmured as i walked out the of the store with my attitude in check and my lone bottle of listerine.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

a little to the left of right

staying true to my consistent lifestyle of inconsistency i admit out loud:
"i used to be indecisive, now?  i'm not so sure."

Friday, December 3, 2010

wrinkle wrinkle, i'm a star

i remember thinking, as i would lie in the sun throughout my youth and adulthood- smearing baby oil with iodine all over myself - and once my sister and i were so desperate for "lotion" that we used CRISCO (yes we burned badly; i'm pretty sure that most of my current skin damage stems from that day)- but i remember thinking "it doesn't matter if i damage my skin, there will be something to fix it". i was right- there is a plethora of injectible solutions out there-

here's the thing; botox is a sad attempt to hold onto something that isn't ours to keep.  all of the youthful remedies are really really pathetic-they have taken away our dignity and our ability to age and accept ourselves while doing it. i know i know- i hear women screaming "liberation and freedom" and "our right to do whatever we so choose" but i don't buy it. is it what you REALLY want or are you trying to keep up with what american society dictates women should look like?

my mother, with whom i haven't spoken in 3 years, went to florida for 5 weeks. nobody really knows why- she just went. hold on a second- let me get out my rocket science notebook and calculator; let me call my friend janet (we've made a lot of calculations together over the years)- while i'm speaking to her, she googles "facelift" and oh, there it is, "approximate recovery time- with post operative visits and removal of stitches- about 5 weeks". so my mother had a facelift OR hoping to open her own puka bead necklace shop, she was looking for seashells; she stayed for 5 weeks wanting to give herself enough time to gather the necessary materials without raising suspicion towards her absence.  i don't know, you decide.

and here's thing about all this crap. at first, woman look okay; some woman look amazing. but it seems a slippery slope- anti-aging techniques seem to be addictive- it must probe at the brain cells and make woman lose the ability to see themselves as they appear in the .  maybe these woman only ever looked at themselves in the side-view mirrors of automobiles?  when they see their own hideously ginormous lips a subliminal message starts to play in their head "objects in this mirror may appear closer (and larger and puffier and more artificial) than they actually are. woman go from looking good to looking freakish and nobody says anything- except me & janet- and then we look like whiny bitches. 

i don't care if you choose the freakish path for the rest of your days. what bothers me is when you don't admit it. so i sit here and watch sophia loren, whom i'm pretty sure should be dead by now, in interviews talking about her skin regimen and i want to puke. and joan rivers has, in my warped mind, become the white woman equivalent of michael jackson- so very very wrong that i cannot even look at her, especially when i am eating. and my own mother who slipped away to florida and came back appearing "rested and YOUTHFUL" five weeks later is added to my rocket science freak list-

there are days when i look at my own reflection and cannot believe what i see- where has time gone and who is that person looking back at me?  there are days when i am bowled over in humiliation when someone asks me "how old is your grandson?" and they are referring to my 3 year old.  there are days when i wish i could take a butter knife and the vacuum and "fix" myself. but for the most part, if i take the time, i am proud of what i see. i am growing and blossoming (and spreading and settling). i am following life's natural path; eventually mother nature will win. i don't want to waste my days worrying about my next scheduled botox appointment or if my hair cut covers the extra pulled skin behind my ears.

i spent a lot of time at the beach this summer with my beautiful perfect meditarranean-olive skinned stepmother.  a smidge over 60 she looks incredible- honestly- and as we were walking in bathing suits on the shore she said to me "one of the most difficult things to accept about aging is that people still look at you, but they don't see you as a sexual being anymore-" that really struck me and has stayed with me. i look at older people differently now- understanding that they too still have needs and desires- 

i wish that we could all liberate ourselves and see how truly beautiful we are and what a gift an amazing gift this life is.

it has been said that ironing compromises the integrity of the fabric- this holds true for humans too.  we are meant to wear & wrinkle- it shows our true character and begins to tell our story before we even open our mouths.

and now for the food bit:
perhaps a rosemary & olive oil focaccia should be the snack choice of the day-  the reports: "recent research is now revealing even more benefits attached to this remarkable herb (rosemary), including its ability to help prevent cancer and age-related skin damage, boost the functioning of the liver and act as a mild diuretic to help reduce swelling".
i bid adieu and guiltlessly grab a bottle of wine to take with me out into the sun.
votre sante.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

it was me, only it wasn't

last night i dreamed i was a hooker.
that's not right- i wasn't a hooker.  i was me- not this me now, the younger me- the me that i always think i am and then end up surprised and a bit startled at my own reflection. usually after a glance in the mirror, i am forced to take digital pictures of myself so that i can better see what the world sees, which isn't really possible is it? to see what others see? we can only see what we see never what others perceive us to be- and now that i think about it - hallelujah- and praise be.

back to the dream
which was brief
i was dressed, um, wow, now that i look back- i was dressed WHORISHLY- with those cool boots that are in style now (not uggs- god, don't get me started there- i am now compelled to interject- whose idea was it that ANYONE can wear uggs and that whilst wearing them 'tis best to accent them with spandex leggings- what IS this world coming to?).  i was wearing those adorable/sexy ankle boots with the super cool wedge heel and mine didn't have zippers or velcro- they were amazingly cool slip-ons. with the boots i was wearing a short skirt and a fabulouso 3/4 sleeve jacket. walking through union square park, i was pulling a stylish expensive small suitcase when the incident occurred.
a young mexican dude - with his hair swooped into a fauxhawk-and sporting a white t-shirt and jeans. and - wait a minute - oh gross. as i sit here and delve into my subconscious it is all becoming clear: i know who the mexican dude is- it is the boyman painting the halls in our building.  i think i just threw up a little.first because- no offense meant here, but i'm not super into wee spanish men and second because i'm pretty sure i am old enough to be his mother.
so boymanmexicanpainter was sitting on a curb in union square park- he had one arm casually across his lap and he threw one arm into the air as he looked at me and shouted "twenty eight dollars!"
to which i responded with that snotty laugh thing "pffyeah- twenty eight thousand just to talk to me"- i was looking good and feeling better.
that's when the cop put the cuffs on my wrist and arrested me for soliciting.
i woke up thinking: "twenty eight dollars, i wonder what that means."

and now? the food part of the blog
shea & i are off to the city in a bit- to the library and then to whole foods to get some root vegetables for roasting; we are having friends this weekend and will be making a roasted veggie and white bechamel lasagna, a green salad with red onions, pears and a simple olive oil & balsamic vinegar dressing and sly will make FOCACCIA (aaahh- do you want to come over).