Jesus Has Two Daddies

Hark, the herald angels shout!
One goddamn string of lights is out!

Well, 'tis the season - at night, other than the Great Wall of China, the only other thing that can be seen from outer space is: our house (although it is a very, very, very fine house). 

My housemates, of 20 years, John & Tony, LOVE to decorate the house at Christmas.  Tony is sent up on to the roof, generally in October to put all of the outside house lights in place (before weather makes that a suicide mission).  The outside trees and bushes can then be done at leisure.

Right after Thanksgiving and once poor Tony (the only one still agile enough) brings all of the boxes of ornaments up from the basement - they fill up the guest bedroom in its entirety.  Christmas, especially for gay men (I don't mean to call out any one group, but if you can name another who is, in a preternaturally large percentage, associated with good taste and creativity then please do keep me posted) as Christmas allows for the very tasteful to dip their toes in, dare I say it, the Sea of Gaudy. 

As long as taste and elegance have been restored by Epiphany.

In fact, it is a widely held belief, amongst a very large group of our friends, that any house, any where, that has Christmas decorations up after the 6th of January, must sadly be the home of people who drink way too much to care.  Although strands of just white lights are always in good taste.  In a car of any size, with any combination and permutation of our friends, the ones we see all the time and the ones we see once every few years, if we pass a house with Christmas stuff happening outside of the allotted time period, all conversation stops, and just like a Greek chorus, we cast our eyes downwards, and whisper, out of the sides of our mouths, "Alcoholics".

Anyway, this year is rather low-key and we have just the one tree.  Perfectly shaped and decorated, precisely as John's mother taught him - small ornaments at the top and then growing in size with the very largest baubles at the bottom.  It truly is magnificent and I have seen more than one straight man clutch his pearls and mutter "stunning" under his breath.  This year is a "bubble lights" year which Tony & I adore (and John does not).

Last year had been a non-bubble light year and so we hung the movie star ornaments on the main tree as well (they have often had their own tree in other years).  Ours, I can absolutely guarantee you, is the only household, in the world, in which it is possible for the following exchange to have actually happened last year:

Me: Uh-oh
John: What?
Me: I believe Myrna Loy just fell off the tree.

And sure enough she had.  This year, the movie stars are adorning the oleander.

For the first ten years that we lived here - I was always away at work, hearing Christmas carols played on the steel drum.  Really never did get used to that.  Anyway, at some point, John had decided to go through my boxes of Christmas ornaments which I had packed up when mummy died and never looked at again.  Lo and behold, he found the little wooden crèche that had belonged to my mother's mother and perhaps went even further back to Ireland.  The house here had been always been manger-free until then but for some reason John brought it out. 

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Now, this is "Crèche Fucking Central".  The boys have collected either whole manger scenes or parts thereof in their travels over the last 20 years.  I was quite moved, the first year I was living here on a full-time basis, to see the crèche of my childhood that had always been on our mantle at home.  Upon closer inspection however, I found that a pink Cadillac and a turkey, that is way larger than scale, had apparently also made their way to Bethlehem.  Part of the reason for the turkey being so large is that once you lift up the turkey, there is a couple illustrating one of the many, many positions of the kama-sutra.  Oh, holy night, indeed!

Now, there is one Nativity that is all gold (which would be OTT at any other time of year, but is perfectly perfect just now).  There was another that was basically just three large wisemen, so we always thought of that one as them packing for their road trip to Bethlehem.  Sadly, Tony took out two of those wisemen last year when he fell down the steps and cracked a couple of his ribs.  A couple of other manger scenes are also scattered about the house.

Santa Claus? I cannot even begin to guess the number but there is not a place to cast one's eye in the kitchen in which there is nary a Santa.  But then again, the kitchen is black & white with red accents so it was just made for Santamania.

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We are having a very small sit-down tomorrow night and I must remember to point out two things to our guests - one would be to not let the dessert I have made get anywhere near the candles.  The bourbon content is high.

And the other, is to point out our favourite of all of the nativity scenes.  It is a wee, small one and was brought back from one of John & Tony's many trips to Italy but sadly, the Blessed Mother had been decapitated on the trip home.  No worries though, we hooked Joseph up with one of the wisemen and voilà -

Jesus has two daddies!

Merries & Ho's to one and all!

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Why Can't I Think Of Something That Stupid?

Whoever said, "There's a sucker born every minute" (and to those, who even as you are reading this are thinking, "P.T. Barnum, ya stupid git" or words to that effect and to whom I must counter, "Nuh-uh, s'not - Google it") now, where was I?  Oh yes, an illiteracy of idiots, a confederacy of dunces - well, let's just say they abound.

The vastness of the very vapid first became apparent to me in the mid-70's when the "Pet Rock" became such a sensation.   I could see how it might've had limited appeal in say, New York City.  Although let's be realistic, if, for reasons I still cannot fathom, we wanted to add a rock to the family, we would've had to go either all the way (three blocks) to Central Park or "to the country" to pick one out. We could however go and view them at The Met (four blocks), or on our very exciting forays (in taxi cabs through the park) to The West Side and The Museum of Natural History.  This way we could visit them without all the responsibility and emotional attachment that might come with having a pet one.

I have, of course, now found, over several decades of not living in New York, that rocks are every-fucking-where!  Not a day has passed since then that I haven't kicked, trod upon, tripped over, driven over or had ricochet off my windscreen, gravel, pebbles and rocks.  This is Montana - we grow rocks here.

And yet - quite successful were those rocks in a box.  Go figure.

At the moment, I am greatly perturbed by the popularity of something called a "Snuggie".  Can there really be THAT many people who are ill-equipped to use a normal blanket?  Except for the polyester part, back in the day, my people used to have the same thing - except we turned it around, added a smart little belt and called it a robe, FFS!

But wait - there's more!

Now there is some new thing that is a one piece body suit, that looks good on absolutely not. one. single. person in the commercial.  It appears to be made of 151% fully flammable polyester and there is absolutely no way that anyone wearing this ensemble can look dignified.  Ever.  And yet, they'd have you think that it's what everyone is wearing now.  There's at least one guy in the ad who, in a smart suit, could totally pull off Captain of Industry but alas, just as with the rest of the poor people in the ad, the only vision that this one piece suit really conjurs up is Polyester Cult Member.

Why am I talking such smack about polyester? Well, A) I really only like natural fibers - mostly cotton (I have a love/hate relationship with fleece and will only wear that which is either 100% cotton or has the very smallest amount of polyester) and 2) Other than that, what can I say - it's the same thing with Mandy Patinkin.  Neither Mandy nor polyester have ever done anything to me personally, it's just that they both give me the creeps.

Let's face it, I ain't gettin' any younger and not only are the chances almost non-existent that I will ever get to retire - I may actually still have to work for another three years after I am dead - so it is clearly becoming incumbent upon me to come up with a better plan than the daily entry into the Publisher's Clearing House dealio.  I wonder if they reanimate Ed McMahon now to give the winner the giant cheque or if it is someone else?

So, pet rocks, backwards robes and an outfit that screams, "Help me, I am being held hostage in some sort of wintery Jonestown.  They're going to make us drink the hot spiced cider tonight". 

I'm reasonably smart, why can't I think of something that stupid?

Nigel Tufnel pain scale

My body came up with a way to celebrate both Veteran's Day as well as Nigel Tufnel Day.  Unfortunately, it was an executive decision in which I had not been consulted.  I so would've voted no.

Anyone who has been playing along knows that I have rather a lot of body parts that have just packed it in.  I don't mean to be whiny, just catching other people up. It started with a ruptured disc and sciatica in 1978 and it's just been downhill from there. I wondered if my doc's assistant (a lovely woman, really) was taking acting lessons on the side after calling me with the results of my x-ray's to tell me, in a rather dramatic delivery that I had "severe osteoarthritis" in my knees.  No cartilage. Nada. Zip.  Alright then, good to know. Thanks.

At the time of my heart attack, two and a half years ago - I would say that my daily pain, on the old 1-10 scale was maybe 5.  I think that because my body has been falling apart gradually rather than all at once it has allowed me to develop a fairly high threshold of pain.  I also think that like our parents' generation, we still hold a sort of "suck-it up and walk-it off" ethic.  I tried to walk off my heart attack for 20 hours before I finally thought "Yeah, this can't be good".  I just got lucky.

I was faithful about going to the physical therapy, but
unfortunately finally had to quit because they didn't listen to me.  When I explained that my knees and back no longer work all that well, I'd get, "Why don't we just do a mile on the treadmill?" We?  WE??  OK, well first, even when I had hit "Circus Fat" did I ever refer to myself in the first person plural. Please do not "we" me, lady.  I've been living in this body for almost 51 and a half years and I don't recall ever seeing you there.

Anyway, in my effort to be a good and compliant patient, I went along with it until finally I couldn't deal with the collateral damage that was being done to other parts. When I told them that we would be parting ways, the always upbeat lady said "Oh, that's too bad - we were doing so well" and all I could think was, "Yeah, well I'm beginning to feel like an only slightly more ambulatory version of James Caan to your Kathy Bates".  My daily average pain had wandered up to about 6.

Now I just go with stretching, five pound weights and dancing.  Just put on my iPod and rock out.  It's both cathartic and is flexible enough so that on the days that the same can not be said for you, you can just use the other parts that seem to be acting reasonably.

This past spring my body decided to give me a little something new to take out for a spin: bursitis in my right hip.  How craptastic.  It was pretty hideous for a couple of weeks and then faded back a bit.  It never went away completely but was behaving rather like a sibling who is waving his fingers 1/32 of an inch away from your face thus inciting the ballad of the back seat: "Make him stop touching me", "Nuh-uh, not touching, not touching".  Anyway, it never went completely away, it was no where near what it was in the beginning but it would continue to make its presence known.  I believe that I was being stalked quite frankly.  Up we go to 6.5 now being the very best for which I can hope.   Oh well, suck it up.

Just this past Monday, at some point in the mid-day, BOOM, full-on, "Hi, didja miss me? I'm baaack" in my right hip.  I am trying to maintain my sense of humour and remember that Maya Angelou said something to the effect of "Just because I have pain, doesn't mean I have to be one".

On Tuesday morning, I put in for refills of my pain meds because it can sometimes take a couple of days and I wanted to make sure I was covered for the weekend.  Today's pain is brought to you by the number 8.

Check-in at the pharmacy Tuesday on the way home from work.  Yes for my muscle relaxers, No for the hydrocodone.  Oh well, that was just a crap-shoot anyway. I still have a couple of my pills left. 

Wednesday morning, closing in on 9 territory.  I really hate when that happens.  Had to go do one thing that absolutely had to be done for work, went to check back at the Drug store. Nein.  Alright, still have another day or so.

Thursday - this is going to be my lucky day, I can just feel it in my bones.  And joints.  And tendons.  And muscles. And nerves.  No worries, I have two pills left (although three is what it takes to make even the slightest difference).  I get through the things that I absolutely, positively had to get sorted out at work and then on my way home at around 3:00pm, I was going to suck it up, put my head phones on loud, get food for the weekend, pick-up my pain meds, go home, make a nest of the 9 pillows I seem to require and spend the weekend laying on ices packs, etc. and really commit to not doing all of that ADD wandering about - just for a couple of days.

The prescription still has not come back - very frustrating because they really are usually quite good on both ends.  No pain meds on Thursday night. Ow.

Guess what happened this morning?  Did anyone guess bursitis in the other hip as well?  Alright then - gold stars on your foreheads.

Called the Pharmacy, the prescription is in, oh, wait but there is a hold on it because insurance won't pay for it until the 15th.  I only wished that this sort of thing surprised me anymore but I am, more often than not, the living embodiment of "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all".  The young lady (they know me well there, and really always do their best to try to sort something out) said though that she could give me some of the prescription if I wanted to just pay the regular non-insurance rate.  Hell yeah, I'll pay anything.  Seriously, I'm at 9.5 and sinking.

Now, how to get there with the least amount of sceaming and swearing? ........Nope, never mind, there is no way - just off you go.  9.5 was my resting pain rate, certain movements, going up and down the stairs and in and out of the car for example, had me letting go with some humdingers.  No one can compete with a private catholic school girl when it comes to swearing. No. One.  

I was seeing stars at this point but made it to the shop, picked-up my meds and took them immediately when I got home.  I'm down to about a 7.5 which doesn't sound all that great but believe me, I am grateful since a couple of times today certain movements made me hit 11, just for a second, but still...

The irony of hitting an 11 on 1-10 scale on 11/11/11 has not been lost to me. It does not amuse me but I accept it.

Do not attempt to adjust your regular pain scale. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Nigel Tufnel pain scale.

If Only My Metabolism Matched My Attention Span.

I used to have an attention span.  Really, I did.  As a child I could spend hours reading a book, or playing cards, or backgammon or whatever.  Now, there is absolutely no question that I have ADHD.  Or ADD.  Or, quite simply, JWTFiGoH (Just WTF is Going on Here)?

I no longer seem to be able to go from Point A to Point B in one straight line.  Either physically or mentally.  My last 15 minutes have been as follows: I should really write a post about something. I think I'll nuke some broccoli.  Type in the name of the post and part of the first paragraph.  Go to iTunes, download a song.  Think about downloading some more.  Nope, let me go back to writing the post.  WTF am I watching on TV at the moment?  Comment on someone's post on facebook.  Type a bit more.  Oh, I should take my empty broccoli bowl to the kitchen. Get up (or slide down, my bed is a bit higher than standard but then again, I am a bit shorter than standard) and let loose with the usual string of invectives that accompany any movement made once all of my joints have frozen up from sitting for all of 6 minutes.  Return from the kitchen with some pistachio nuts.  It's the lowest fat nut you know. Seriously, what is on my TV?  Scroll through the channel channel.  Switch over to "Little Miss Sunshine".  Oh shucks, man - why isn't this one of the High Def channels?  Crap, now I need a fresh Diet Coke.  Exchange empty can for full one.  Alright then, what was I writing about?

Oh yes, then there are the times I find myself in a room but have no idea why I am there.  The small lounge off of my bedroom is a room that I refer to as "The Room of French Farce".  It is maybe 8 x 10 but there are five (yeah, I said it, FIVE) doors off of this room - so when I come to the inevitable halt in that room and ask myself what in the fresh hell is it that I was going to do, this room is of no help whatsoever.  It is merely a portal to several other places.  Am I doing laundry?  Was I getting something from the kitchen?  From the bathroom? From the cupboard?  From the back fridge? Am I leaving the house?  It often just ends up with me back in my bedroom trying to remember what it was I was trying to accomplish in the first place. 

Oh, sorry I'm back again, just went over to fb for a minute. 

Hey, look - the guy  from "Breaking Bad" is in "Little Miss Sunshine". 

Right, the attention span thing - I blame it on the whole "multi-tasking" movement.  What the hell happened to just tasking?

Why do we need to move faster? Why do we have to have everything right now?  Patience used to be a virtue - now the three minutes it takes to boil a cup of water for tea just seems WAY too long.  As foretold in the book of Eagle: "Life in the fast lane - surely makes you lose your mind.  Life in the fast lane - everything - all the time".

I believe that the philosopher, West, summed it up nicely when he said:

Work it, make it, do it, makes us
Harder, better, faster, stronger

N-n-now that that don't kill me
Can only make me stronger
I need you to hurry up now
Cause I can't wait much longer

I have already wandered aimlessly for over a half a mile in a very small space today. 

I have also just gone back to iTunes and downloaded that Kanye song.  Now I am listening to it, dancing from the waist up and typing...

Nope, wait here - full dance break!

I have the attention span of a hummingbird - if only my metabolism matched my attention span...

Bite Me!

Oh Yay!  It's almost November - one of the three sweeps periods of the year.  Every show pulls out all the stops competing for the biggest audience.  Or, technically, the most number of viewers.

For reasons I cannot fathom, for talk and entertainment shows this means -  let's dust off the fat suit again and dress some unbelievably tiny woman in it and send her out into the world.  Goody!

After watching her attempt to maneuver her way through life (through the miracle of at least 25 pounds of hidden camera equipment built into the suit), we then get to listen to the once again wee woman weep her way through the narration of the video.  The taunting, the cruelty, the shame, the pity, the agony, the agony, blah, blah.  Fun!

I believe you could improve your viewership even further if you could put someone, like say, me, into the suit of a woman who weighs less than a load of wet laundry. Now, THAT would be something to see.  Magic!

Americans are getting bigger - it's a fact.  A sad one, but a truth nonetheless.  I question the wisdom then, of pissing off such a large demographic.  And yes, I mean it both figuratively as well as literally.

And what if someone, (and again, I will be the example) were able to whip my big brethren into a frenzy - we would be a force to behold!  While I can be very persuasive, I prefer to use my powers for good.  It's just lucky for you that I am lazy as well (but the jolly and light on my feet bits have held me in good stead my whole life.  It's not all doom and gloom, you know).

And so, to all of you air-brushed, impossibly thin "reporters" and "anchors" (all of whom I could probably snap like a twig just by looking at you real hard - but again, I'll be the, uh, bigger person), on behalf of a movement I prefer to call "More Of Us To Love" (or maybe, "Large & In Charge" - I don't know, can't decide) may I say:

Bite me!

Don't Forget The Glitter.

It recently occurred to me that Keith Morrison of NBC's Dateline has a propensity for making everything he says sound creepy.  He could be reading fairy tales or nursery rhymes and all you could hope was that Chris Hansen would arrive imminently with his hidden camera crew to find out just WTF was going on here.

Upon further reflection I wondered just WTF was going on here and who decided that these generally horrifying stories should be read to small children?  And just before bed?  Some ye Olde Association of Therapists?  The only "fairy tales" that had truth in advertising were those by the Brothers Grimm.  Today they seem more appropriate to be episodes of, I don't know, "Law & Order".

For example, I'm pretty sure that Child Protective Services should've been called in for both the cases of Hansel & Gretel v. Stepmother as well as the old lady who lived in a shoe with so many children she...what's that?  Oh, her name is Nadya Suleman, the shoe is a stucco house and CPS has already been called.  Alright then, good to know.

Or Bambi?  Really?  Bambi, Thumper and Flower frolicking about the forest then BOOM, "Sorry, Bambi, your mother is dead".  I can still remember becoming almost inconsolable listening to this story on the record player (the VCR/DVR of the 50's & 60's).  If I had even ever seen a deer at that point, it would've been in the Central Park Zoo but it was the principle of the thing. 

And Little Miss Muffet?  Bitch, please - really not as innocent as it seems.  Particularly to the arachnophobic child.  If this goddamn spider is so big that it actually "sits" beside her then get Chris Hansen in here STAT because the odds that the local exterminator has released a gross of pregnant spiders from Three Mile Island to drum up business are pretty high.  Especially in this economy. 

So, after enduring wolves blowing down houses (and when they can't get work blowing down the houses then they are out wilding in the forest and stalking a young girl in a red hoodie who is just trying to get to her grandma's house) or hearing about a little blonde girl who had not just one but THREE bears break into her house (and again, where are that child's parents? ) this is then generally followed by "Well then, good night, dear.  Sleep tight." 

Sleep tight my ass! Didn't you hear the story you just read to me?  Oh please, won't you read me "In Cold Blood" or "Frankenstein" tomorrow night?  My sole consolation for many of these stories was the distinct lack of wildlife on the island of Manhattan however my stress levels elevated anytime we left "town" and went to "the country". 

Quite frankly, I would like to suggest that the term "fairy tale" be retired altogether unless it can be said with the proper reverence. This is a complete misnomer anyway - at least for those of us who know that a true Fairy Tale would have better lighting, more musical numbers and witty repartee.  Oh, and glitter. AND it would win Tonys, Emmys and Oscars.  And even the straightest dudes would be heard whistling the tunes - days later.

These stories of horror should henceforth be known as "Here's a little ditty that should start you well on your way down the yellow brick road of life-long insomnia".

Let's eschew (bless me) old school fairy tales and break the chain of reading stories about cannibalism, bear, wolf and atomic-size spider attacks and general death and dying to our children.  There's plenty of time for them to find out that life isn't fair. And that there are days when that is the best that can be said. Also, they really need their sleep.

Let's read the stories with the better lighting that show that all anybody wants is to be treated kindly or that being different is to be celebrated. 

Let's teach them happy and empowering songs and not something like, say, "Ring Around the Rosie" - 'cause really, nothing says "Yay, it's great to be alive" better than a song about The Plague.  Instead, teach them to lipsync to Miss Gloria Gaynor's, "I Will Survive" or, "And I Am Telling You" and perhaps for good measure, throw in "R.E.S.P.E.C.T". There are several valuable life lessons to be learned in these songs.

Children should know that sticks and stones may indeed break their bones but that a witty comeback is  often the best revenge.  Develop an extensive vocabulary.  Words good.

Oh, and don't forget the glitter...

For What It's Worth...

This past week I was honoured to be taken as "Show & Tell" to the pre-school of my second tiniest bff, Margot.  Music is a big part of their curriculum (which I find most laudable as well as awesome!) so I went there to sing Loudon Wainwright III's, "The Swimming Song".  This is a song that I have been singing to Margot since she was a baby.

I did not however, as I had threatened on facebook two nights before, conclude the program with "Peace Out. L'il MoFos" and then, gangsta that I am, a mic-drop.  I just thanked them and said that they were the most sober audience for whom I had ever played - leaving off that this included the fact that I used to have to play at Sunday morning Mass (flipping Vatican II, damn your folk masses) as well as Mass at school all the way through middle and high schools.  Jesus wept.

Since I had behaved (which I can only imagine is a sign of aging - not sure I like it), apparently the teachers want me to come back again.  I am delighted but quite frankly my repertoire is built on a foundation of songs about drinking, life's regrets, love (both lost and unrequited), some drug-taking and often include swear words - you know, the set-list of any bar singer - it occurs that I need to have a think about what else I might be able to learn and play for them. 

I haven't quite figured that out yet since my lack of attention span then had me hop on facebook, see that one of my bro's had posted a Peter Gabriel song and then think, "I totally need some Peter Gabriel on my iPod" so, I downloaded "SO" and mentally wandered off, thinking about how finally, FINALLY, the masses are mad as hell and won't take it anymore.   Here.  In America.

Our Federal government has done fuck-all because no one will listen to anyone else and on local levels with the stripping of Union rights, making voter registration requirements almost impossible and these little GOP fiefdoms popping up all over the goddamn place - the kettle has finally whistled.

Yet, I was still on iTunes (RIP Steve Jobs - that you came up with a concept that allows me to sit at home, and think, "I really like that song, X" and then in a true act of instant gratification allows me to own that song two minutes later and be able to play it at high volume in my headphones is, to me, the best invention.  Ever!).  These protests, national and international, made me think of all of the music of my youth, songs of protest, yet songs of peace.  Songs that implored us to make our voices heard.  Anthems and hymns that made us want to in fact, get up, stand up, stand up for our rights.  Not that we are completely without that now, "Sing" by My Chemical Romance is a brilliant example.

The song that then came to my mind (and I'm afraid I don't know the path that got me there, so let's just move along) first came out when I was just beginning to play the guitar.  It was not a song I played at that time since the list of songs that I could sing convincingly, given the fact that I was 10 and growing up on the Upper East Side, was limited.  WTF did I know?  There was really no trouble I had seen, whether anyone knew it or not.  Maybe that's why that little girl who sings in that fat-old-opera-diva-lady voice creeps me out so.  My set-list was mostly The Monkees and those songs suitable for folk masses - some Jesus-y and then others like "Blowing In The Wind". 

This song, I now realize, has only three chords and so, on this cold, gray, wet Montana fall day, I am going to memorize the words so that I can play it and invite those who know it to sing along (no, you wouldn't have to know the words exactly, that's my worry) and dedicate it to those who will now take up the mantle (as we have been there, done that and the mantle is a little heavier than many of us should be reasonably expected to lift at this point).

And so, in the words of the philosopher, Stills:

I think it's time, we stop, children - what's that sound?
Everybody look what's going down.

'Course I also think that Jay-Z/Alicia Keys' "Empire State of Mind" should replace "New York, New York" as the state song.

For what it's worth....

Andy Warhol Is Not The Boss Of You

Where in the fresh hell have manners and consideration for one's fellow human gone? When did we start rewarding aberrant behaviour with fame and fortune?  I like to think that I still take peoples' feelings into account, when possible, before speaking or acting.   While it pains me to say it, I will admit that the thank you note has always been my bête noire. I will also admit that just earlier, this very day, I posted on my facebook page that I thought the GOP should consider moving from the Debate/Town Hall format to Cage Matches of Death. I have properly excoriated myself and mea culpa-ed all about the place and given myself 3 Bloody Marys.  What's that you say?  Oh no, I'm Irish Catholic - Hail Marys, Bloody Marys - all quite the same, I can assure you.

This, I believe, is the result of the marriage of Reality TV and Mainstream Media.  Hey, I'd be lying if I didn't cop to the occasional "Real Housewives" monkey on my back.  It's the accident from which one can not turn away.  Many is the time I find that I have been dragged into one of these scream-fests during some innocent channel-surfing on my part.  I then realize, about 10 minutes in, that the clicker is still in my hand and my jaw is beginning to ache since it has been agape the whole time.  Who in their right flipping mind would hang around people who treated each other this way?

Then there is that group of ne'er–do–wells from Jersey Shore.  How hideously behaved must one be to have the entire country of Italy say, "Grazie, no" when asked if the show could film there? Remember, this is the same country whose Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi, appears to be the love child of Fatty Arbuckle and Larry Flint. 

The scariest of all, because they are showing themselves now, in great number, are the people who possess the Lynch Mob mentality.  It was indeed at a Republican Debate earlier this month when Rick Perry's record of 234 executions was applauded! WTF?

You know, America, repeating the same mistake over and over again is a sign of insanity.  Who decided Governor of Texas is the stepping stone to the Presidency?  Look what happened last time we had a Texas Governor as POTUS. Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ - under Perry, Texas was talking about secession just two years ago.  So, what we basically have here is a serial killer who doesn't even bloody well want to be part of the United States of America.  Delightful.

And so, to the Mainstream Media, both those considered legitimate and credible and well, ya know, FOX - please, please, stop giving notoriety to the poorly behaved.  Yes, I understand that Andy Warhol once said that "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes" but A) y'all are taking this way too literally and 2) Andy Warhol is dead and not the boss of you.

Quit Changing Shit.

I am not so sensitive to smells that I cannot bear any & all scents but I would say that I am a 7 out of 10.  It is not out of the realm of possibility that I might have to bathe again upon return from a party before I go to bed.  We all have many people in our lives of whom we are most fond but sadly suffer from LSS (Loud Scent Syndrome).  I particuarly noticed this when I lived in the West Indies but we are not immune at home.  Between the "Hellos" and "Good-byes", by the time I get home I feel as though I have run the gauntlet through the perfume department at Bloomingdale's. 

There are also smells which, when found in nature, are a delight to the senses but when made into something artificial are quasi nausea inducing (to me).  Roses? In nature, divine! Body Lotion? Gag!  The scent of lilacs on an early Montana summer evening is intoxicating.  Air "freshener" = "Where the hell is that smell coming from and what is it?". 

"That smell" in fact, is what seems to have become the universal scent of so many, many things (irrespective for the most part, of the fruits, flowers and/or herbs listed on the bottle): green goddamn apple.  If it's not that, then the smell of whatever it is, is way too much! Who voted on this? The few smells of which I was tolerant have either been discontinued or the scent I loved is now gone and replaced with green flipping apple.  Gone is my beloved, dark green, piney Herbal Essence Shampoo.  Baby Shampoo is now green mofo apple, which is just simply wrong.  I don't know what the scent of Finesse is or I guess was - haven't seen it in a while - just know I liked it and Head & Shoulders, which used to smell like clean laundry now smells vaguely like cedar and makes me think of hamsters.

Did no one learn from the "New Coke" fiasco of the 1980's?

Where in the fresh hell have all the good oxford cloth shirts gone?  Now they're all "Easy-care!", "Wrinkle-free!". I hate them.  Oh, they say the shirts are 100% cotton but they feel shiny which kinda creeps me out.  I've been a loyal cotton wearer for as long as I can remember (perhaps I was recruited and pledged a life-long allegiance to the fabric outside of Best & Company as a small child?) and I want it to look AND feel like cotton, damn it.  Cotton wrinkles.  Linen wrinkles.  I wrinkle.

Do not, however, for one minute think that this means that I wish to actually iron the shirts (or even care enough to bring them to someone else to iron) - but I have developed a brilliant, "oh, it almost looks ironed" technique: first, I've rarely seen the need to un-button my button-downs - waste of time, but I do unroll the sleeves and unbutton the collar before the washer.  I let the shirts tumble in the dryer for about 10 minutes and then I pull them out, put them on hangers and kinda tug the rest of the wrinkles out then let dry.  I would say that when finished, my shirts and I are about the same amount of wrinkled. More than some, less than others.  But WHO decided everyone wants wrinkle resistant shirts?  I'm talking to you, Eddie Bauer, BroBro, LL Bean.

Seriously, just who the hell are the THEY that decide things like the green apple conspiracy, or that the word "free" in the National Anthem should now be sung using a vocal run of no less than 37 notes?  I know lots of people and none of them are "they" and they don't know anyone who is (are?) "they" so just who then is, "they" anyway and why are they fucking with us?

This morning I awoke to new facebook settings - d'oh!  I did then feel the need to point out in a post on facebook that the fastest growing group of people who are using the "internets" and electronics are we - the old, the tired, the loopy.  We, the holders of the AARP card. We, the old dogs who are just fine with most of our tricks, thanks and who, as the Baby Boomer Generation, represent an ass-load (standard unit of measurement) of people and really no entity wants to piss us off since we're already cranky.  In all honesty though, this is a change that I'll hate until I love it and forget what the last one looked like.

But for the rest of it, I am not a fan of change so please just quit changing shit.

I Can Scratch Glaucoma Off The List

I believe that I can say with some authority, based on empirical evidence gathered over several decades, that Marijuana is not now, nor has it ever been, a "gateway" drug.  I will tell you what is a gateway to a myriad, a panoply, a veritable pu pu platter, if you will, of drugs: aging.

As do many of us of a certain age, after first making sure we have woken up that day, part of my morning ritual is the handful of pills that I apparently now need to continue waking up in the daily fashion of which I have become so fond.  First of all, some of the damn pills are so impossibly tiny that I can't believe they are really doing anything anyway and if, God forbid, I drop one, I find myself wondering if that was a really important one.  Does the 5 second rule apply to pills or can it wait until the next time I need to bend down?  Wait, was that one of the very tiny almost square ones or one of the also very tiny somewhat round ones?  Alright, just start again from the beginning - Focus!

At one point, for almost two years, I was on a heart drug that was pretty shockingly expensive (relative to all of the others).  I did question the wisdom of prescribing this sort of medication to someone who clearly has some sort of heart issue and then presenting them with the charge slip so that suddenly one becomes Fred Sanford, grabbing at one's chest and yelling, "I'm coming to join you, Elizabeth!".  I will accept drug company conspiracy and/or Darwinian theories as the correct response.

Then, there are the colourful warnings on the bottles of the impossibly tiny pills that only bring out the anarchist in me; "Avoid grapefruit", "Do not chew".  Well, goddammit, I had no intention of doing either until you mentioned it.  Grapefruit had never really been a big part of my life anyway (and only a very small and rare part of my cocktail life) but I occasionally find myself either in the produce section or the juice aisle having to avert my eyes, dramatically, as though I am in my own telenovela, crying out, "¡No, mi pequeño toronjo, nosotros nunca podemos ser juntos!"  It's only a problem if I don't use my inside (my head) voice.
   
I am fortunate enough to live in a state in which I am currently legally allowed to purchase and use marijuana as one of my medications (although Conservatives are trying to muck this up too).  I have now used it for more than 35 years for both pain management and yes, recreationally as well. I absolutely believe that cannabis should be legalized and taxed but that would make far too much sense.

Quite frankly, I'd rather stick with an herb than one of those new drugs featured in the oh, so very many advertisements that require 52 of the 60 seconds to list (as read by a world-class speed talker) the side-effects - one of which is often: Death.  Maybe it's just me but I believe that Death is rather more than a side effect.

At worst, pot has been responsible for some very unusual food combinations. It has also been responsible for creative epiphanies, a higher love and the reason SNL is still on the air.

While none of us can really tell the future (yes, Miss Cleo, I'm talking to you), I think that I can say with a fair amount of certainty that whatever other health issues may have to be faced in the future, at least I can scratch glaucoma off the list.

Pump Up The Valium

First of all, for any and all of the rest of you who are running into a spate of things going, well, not well - I am here to tell you that flipping Mercury is in retrograde. It happens three times a year and can wreak havoc on all sorts of things.  It is, at any rate, that which will take the blame for the last few days.

Next week is my dreaded annual stress test.  It is a test that I do not want to fail 'cause the last time I failed, I was not all that thrilled about spending Christmas Eve day receiving three more stents from Santa.  (No biggie though - checked in at 8:30am out at 1:30pm.  Went out to dinner that night but still... Christmas Eve). 

None of us can control that which stresses us or when and how many of these things will happen simultaneously - that part is just called Life.  The trick is trying to figure out ways to mitigate the effects, if at all possible, before it ends in tears.

The stress test is, of course, aptly named and not helping my current situation.  I will also say that doctors make me so anxious that my blood pressure goes through the roof. My other doctor had a vaguely alarmed look on his face a couple of months ago, after they'd checked it three times.  I am aware that it is not really practical for medical personnel to try to sneak up on patients in their natural habitat in order to get a more typical reading so I took my own for a few days, sent it off to the doc and got the A-OK.

I have been doing my best to try to chill a bit more, let things go, understand that I do not have to say yes to every bloody thing - especially when there is a lady in my head screaming "Nooooo!".  You know, we all do what we can.  In the past six days I have been rewarded with:

• A panic attack
• A cell phone that seemed to be auditioning for a Stephen King movie.
• A bee sting
• My car deciding to die in the Used-to-be-Buttrey's car park earlier today.

Now - the good news: the feeling that a truck is being parked on my chest is no longer part of the panic attack - making me hopeful that my heart is working just fine, thanks.  Also, a handful of valium helped me knocked that mother out in two hours instead of 12.  Piece of cake.

I now have a new phone that looks as though it will work when it is supposed to.  In the interest of full disclosure, my old one had gotten a little wet but I dried all the bits off immediately and it seemed to eventually do everything that it used to for a while but then the seizures began and it had to be put down.  This new one has a much better keyboard for texting anyway.

Owing to my extensive collection of ice packs, my earlobe, though still swollen, no longer resembles that of Joseph Merrick.  Hadn't been stung in years and just prayed for no big allergic reaction - mostly because one of my few allergies is to the stuff that people take for allergies: Benadryl.  That's just how I roll.

As for my car - yeah, got nothing on the upside of that yet.

And so, onward and sideways:

Pump Up The Jam
Pump Up Your Kicks
Pump Up The Valium

Homer Simpson is my Reiki Master.

Just as many of my body parts seem to be aging at a more rapid pace than seems necessary (I mean, Jesus just wept, Keith Richards and Ginger Baker still walk this earth and yet I am the one with six stents in my heart?  Compared to them I treated my body like a temple.  OK, maybe a hookah bar but whatevs), it is my fondest hope that my maturity level (or lack thereof) will somehow, in an act of inverse functionality, one day even things out.

Perhaps my arrested development stems from the fact that I grew up the eldest child in a dysfunctional family of functional alcoholics (but a lot of us did - that was our parents' drug - our generation was so much more creative) and was deemed the voice of reason at about the age of 12 or so.  By the time I had reached my majority I realised that responsibility, in any sort of responsible way, was probably not what I wanted to do when I grew up.  House plants required rather more care than I was willing to put up with so I knew early on that pets and/or children were better left to people who would remember to feed and water them.  Just as an aside, the upside to charming alcoholic parents is that I learned to make the perfect martini at four.  Now, that's a skill that will serve one well the rest of one's life.

I grew up wearing a uniform through 13 years of school and over the ensuing years and owing to a complete disinterest in and disregard for fashion, I have developed a uniform of sorts that works for me but that my housemate, John, calls "14 year old boy at Prep School".  Long khaki cargo shorts (oh, but in the rainbow of colours that fall under the khaki umbrella: sand, pebble, putty, beige - well, no need to bore but I have also added a pair of light gray cargos of which I am quite fond), a polo and/or button down shirt and sneakers. I don't own winter clothes and summer clothes - I just have clothes.  In the winter, I simply wear more of them simultaneously and add a sweater and denim jacket.  Voilà!  One can tell when I am "dressed up" because I switch out the Stan Smiths or Sauconys for topsiders, clogs or my beloved Blundstone boots.  Also, I am usually wearing one of my least frayed, faded and safety-pinned shirts.

I discovered over 30 years ago, that for me, music is a great tool in pain management.  While I held out getting one until a couple of years ago, I now think the iPod is fucking magic.  As a consequence of having hundreds of songs at my constant disposal, I now dance in the grocery store aisles (not the major aisles - the smaller side ones).  Why not? I'm actually light on my feet (which along with "jolly" came in the original fat girl package.  All other attributes have been purchased separately.) and have great rhythm.  The singing is probably mildly irritating so I have to watch out for that.

A few weeks ago, in the middle of a crazy day, I needed to eat something so I zoomed by the house, grabbed and nuked a turkey hot dog and then proceeded to eat it over the sink.  As all well-bred Convent girls were brought up to do.  It made me think that I was glad we had cremated mummy because of all of the spinning that would've been going on in that grave.  Probably enough to change the gravitational pull of the earth.  I'm pretty sure.  Seriously.

I find that sticking my fingers in my ears, closing my eyes and singing "la, la, la" either literally or figuratively (and you'd be shocked at how often it is literally) is a perfectly acceptable way to deal with things with which I do not wish to deal.

I spent this afternoon swimming with two of my bffs who happen to be three and a half and one and a half.  How can you not want to hang with small people who scream your name and then fly into your arms?  And why do we, for the most part, stop greeting the people we love in that very same fashion?

I do, in fact, utter "D'oh!" when necessary (or not using many of the other swear words I have perfected over a lifetime).

On the rare occasions anymore that I have cake or pie - I cannot stop myself, I must say, "Mmm...pie" or "Mmm...cake"

I'm pretty sure Homer Simpson is my Reiki Master.

Sanity is Graded on a Curve...

I am fortunate enough to belong to a large extended group of friends in which there are friendships and relationships that span from 20 to 50+ years.  For the most part we have my housemate, John, and our friend, Steve, to thank (and/or blame) for keeping everyone together.  We have "reunions" every four years and sometimes sooner if there is a good reason (or even if there's not).  It really isn't hard to convince people to come to Montana in the summer.

The nucleus of this group comes from the drama department here at The University of Montana some 40 years ago.  Over the years the group has grown exponentially, adding spouses, partners, friends and friends of friends.  Sadly, we've lost a few along the way as well - although they are never too far away since we enjoy telling the old stories over and over again (particularly if we have lured a new person and thus a new audience into our group).

Clearly, we are no longer "new in box" but I fully subscribe to the theory that people remain the same age they were when you met them.  I also think that means that our eyes process some things through our hearts.  Alas, the camera lens does not.  I'll occasionally see a photo and think, "Who are those charming old..wait...oh, FFS it's us!?!"  

Given the people who make up this core group - there are, for the most part, two types of personalities: big and bigger.  The competition for the spotlight is tough and, in fact, constant - whether we are five or 75 in number at any given gathering.  The fact that we remain a people who think that we live in some sort of Judy Garland/Andy Rooney "Come on kids, let's put on a show" movie does not help matters either.  At all.

It started with movie remakes that John & Steve did in the 70's and then for many years, at the reunions, there was a Homecoming Queen Pageant/Contest.  These events lasted 3-4 hours.  The contestants, both male and female, had been announced the night before (from nominations). They were provided with pageant wear and once we got to the talent portion of the evening, unlike most beauty pageants where contestants can choose their own "talent": tossing fiery batons while plate spinning, playing "Rapper's Delight" on the zither, reciting a monologue from Ice Castles or Mother May I Sleep with Danger, etc. our finalists were assigned their talent. In all of the Homecoming Queen Pageants, a girl only won once, the rest were guys; one straight and the rest - gay (big surprise - they're ever so competitive when it comes to pageants plus they take their Queen status much more seriously).  Because there were often elements of danger involved in the assigned talents (tap-dancing on a table top while shooting nerf arrows at a target, for example) and we've reached a stage in life where it's all fun and games until someone breaks a hip, we stick mainly to musical numbers these days. 

We make up games - some of which have rules that constantly change.  Eventually we forget how to play them anyway.

One summer, we produced a play based on a Chekhov adaptation - in our yard (as so many do).

When we sit at large tables and a toast is offered - to those whose glasses we cannot reach, we declare, in our most mature fashion and best stage voices, "Mental clicking!"

And probably the main reason that we have held these relationships so dear for so long: sanity is graded on a curve.
 

Bachmann-Palin Overdrive

If indeed we "ain't seen nothing yet" as far as the upcoming election season - well then, it is patently obvious that I will be upping my valium dosage.

It's not that I object to these women as Tea Bagging Republicans (ok, wait - I can't stop giggling, I really do object to that) BUT that these two poster children for the Willfully Stupid are the best that the Republican sisterhood has to offer is the part I find so objectionable.  I am offended, as a woman, that they too are women.

This would all be very amusing were it a Christopher Guest movie - but it is not.

The fact that Sarah Palin can completely rewrite history and get her supporters riled up enough that they would change the information on the Paul Revere Wikipedia page (repeatedly) to match her misinformation is frightening.  She wants to blame the "lamestream media" as always for that "gotcha question" that got her into such a flusteration in the first place.   As many of you know, the ambush question that had Paul Revere basically committing treason was: "What did you see today and what do you plan to take away from it?".   Yup, that was clearly a trick question posed, no doubt, by the demonic journalistic team of Boris Badenov & Natasha Fatale.  Big trouble for Moose & Squirrel.  And Caribou Barbie.

And Michele Bachmann?!  At the moment every time she opens her mouth it's a fiasco and yet she is building a strong base of like-minded wingnuts. "Pray the gay away"?  Umm, has she met her husband for starters?  "Children born into slavery had a better chance of growing up in a two parent household"?  Are. You. F*cking. Kidding. Me?!?  Having the chutzpah to use and mispronounce the word, "chutzpah"?  Now that's a shonda!

So, let's see, so far they've both alienated: the LGBT community, African-Americans and the Jews.  Oh, and people with brains. And because there are a lot of people who fit into more than one of the above - that leaves a lot, a lot, of people left to follow these two fruitcakes.

Many of them fall into that oxymoronic (and I do mean moronic) group, The Religious Right.  The Religious Right are neither.  How people can espouse such intolerance for people who are, apparently, not created equal to them and then call themselves Christians in the same breath is beyond the pale.  Look, they're the ones that believe in hell so you'd think they'd act a bit better.  But then again I've never believed that fear of eternal damnation should be the reason that keeps people from acting like asshats. I could be wrong.  It happens.

Unfortunately, willful stupidity is my kryptonite. It works my last nerve and tries my otherwise, well, almost saint-like patience so this is going to be a l o n g election season. 

I have already started yelling at my TV way too much. 

I keep thinking that my level of incredulity can go no higher, when just like the volume on the amps in Spinal Tap, it goes to eleven. 

I am already in Bachmann-Palin Overdrive.

By The Hammer Of Thor - Just Sing The One Damn Note!

I don't know when it first happened.  When we lost complete control.  When suddenly, the single notes that compose a line of melody just didn't seem to be quite good enough anymore.  Why sing just the one note as written when a "run" of 73 different notes will do just as well?

I understand the concept of the trill, which has been around for several hundred years and is generally considered to be relegated to two adjacent notes. Two. My housemate, John, has often lamented his inability to trill.  It is second only in his life's regrets to the tragic combination of a desire to become a trapeze artist and, well, acrophobia.  Alas, he knew there could be no future as a low trapeze artist just as he understood that it took skill to trill - still, he soldiers on.  So brave.

If I were to lay blame, and obviously I'm about to, well, Whitney et Celine - j'accuse!  It happened somewhere between "I Will Always Love You" (taking Dolly Parton's sweet & lovely original w a y over the top) and that "Near, Far" crap from The Titanic.  I will give credit to these two women and say that in their primes they could indeed do these runs beautifully, if too often.  The years (and possibly the drugs) have not been kind to Whitney and poor Celine, I can not imagine that beating herself about the head and chest for all of these years hasn't taken its toll on the poor dear.  Oui, pauvre Celine!

In any case, it has left the door open for all sorts of aural assasinations.  There is a reason that trilling, scatting and running are better left to those who have mastered these techniques.  That reason is: the vocally delusional. 

They are everywhere. They are on every reality show, in every rink, ballpark and stadium.  I don't recall reading or seeing or hearing that our national anthem had been tweaked a bit - but clearly it has.  Aside from the fact that this is not an easy song to sing in the first place and we are already stymied by the added syllable in "land" as in "The la-and of the" but WAIT! Now that we have that snazzy "la-and" down let's make the word "free" be 14 minutes long! 

I cannot imagine how this run of 62 notes could have possibly been annotated musically.  Despite my stubborn refusal to read music (piano lessons at age six from the same woman who had taught mummy and at that time was called "God's older sister" so you can imagine how old she was when she taught me) I do know that it must certainly take the combination of something like, dropping a hallucinogen and then shaking your head back and forth really fast to see 57 notes where previously just the one had been written.

And so to you (who are probably not reading this blog anyway), the vocally delusional who insist on running every third word of every song, ever written: stop it, stop it now.  The bleeding ears of a nation implore you: By the hammer of Thor - just sing the one damn note!

Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life...

I make no bones about the fact that I have a large streak of cynicism running through me (but in the name of all things holy with the way things are going these days how can one not?  Even poor old Mother Teresa would have had a bit of an attitude by now).  That said, it doesn't mean that I don't like to give a more positive spin to things when I can.

For example, I'm a little tea pot.  Not the handle and spout part, the first bit - although I prefer to think of it rather more as being vertically challenged.  I have hit a goal weight and now am just hoping that I'll be growing the additional 16 inches I'll need to even things out. 

 I was not always the tea pot I am today though - I was reasonably sized and very athletic as a kid and then the trip began through my first visit to and then through a round vessel used for a hot beverage on to "Oh, dear" and finally settling at what I can only refer to as my "Circus Fat" days.  Just as I have no recollection of getting there nor do I recall making a conscious decision to try to make it go away.  I do think that the calliope music that played in my head whenever I was conscious may have been a catalyst.  Who's to say?  The good news though is that now I can shop in a regular store, like a real girl, and my cargo shorts are no longer confused with that deal that slows the space shuttle down when it lands.

Next, most of us at this point are either beginning to deal with or continuing to deal with physical challenges - what with our body parts literally attacking us, other parts now having things that end in 'itis", other things that are rudely referred to as degenerative and more than a few movements that can only be accomplished by simultaneously emitting some sort of noise, grunt or string of swear words (and on some days all of the above). 

Because I did have a heart attack a couple of years ago (and this was after I had lost enough weight to put me back into clothes shopping at Target range - so, really not the thank-you note from my body for which I was hoping) my "How are you?" is still often met with a concerned "How are you?"  Well, I think (I hope) my heart has sorted itself out but my knees and back started taking a dive over 30 years ago (see athletic childhood above) and my hips have recently joined the party so, "Fine" isn't strictly true but who wants to be dreary so I try to respond with a cheery, "Relatively death-free, thank you." Or a hearty, "Continuing to wake up, so that's good - right?" Other days it might be a bright, "Oh, well my arms and head are just tip-top - how nice of you to ask!" and finally, when all else fails and other words elude me, "I feel just like I'm living in a dream" seems to be just the ticket.

At the end of the day, I am still a short, fat, diabetic, middle-aged lady with six stents in my heart and a gait that each day seems to more vaguely resemble that of Walter Brennan in his star turn as Grandpa McCoy, but I prefer to think of myself as vertically challenged and relatively death-free.  Always look on the bright side of life...

I won't camp, don't ask me.

Although I've lived in Montana now for almost 20 years and lived in the West Indies for a great many years as well - there is just no getting all of the "city" out of this girl.  Had I been born a first generation city-dweller perhaps some of this could have been overcome but my mother also grew up in New York and her mother grew up in Chicago - so you see, it's genetic.

I feel the same way about camping as I do about religion - because there are many people, of whom I am fond, who enjoy one or the other (or both) of these pursuits, I am truly glad that they exist BUT because they are anathema to me, please do not try to involve me.  It's kind of you to think of me though.

My needs in life are fairly simple but indoor plumbing and/or there even being a question about a lack thereof, are not a negotiable point.  Ever.  The very reason I get up every day and go to work is so that I can continue to live in the manner to which I've become accustomed: indoors.  To the genetically urban, camping seems rather more like, oh, I don't know, pretending to be homeless. 

The closest I've ever come to camping is a place we love called Chico Hot Springs.  Great hot (really hot) springs, very good restaurant, delightful bar(s) but no tv/internet/room service.  AND for the most part, the bathrooms are down the hall (down the hall!).  Normally, because we usually only go for a couple of nights (wait, did I mention that they had delightful bars? Plus, because we are a civilized people, we have of course packed in a couple of travelling bars, hors d'oeuvres, various accoutrements and quelque chose as well), so the pools, food and cocktails keep us entertained (and/or napping) most of the time.  This is the closest that the genetically urban come to roughing it.

And so, on this impossibly perfect Montana summer weekend, I am mentally raising a glass and toasting all of my friends who will be sleeping outside, with the bugs, and the bears, maybe mountain lions - we just don't know - and wishing them nothing but the funnest time ever in their faux-homeless (henceforth to be known as "fomeless") games. 

But me?  I won't camp, don't ask me.

I'm afraid I'm a Boxist...

Recently I had the funnest time ever, reuniting with a couple of my bffs from college.  Prior to our arrival, our hostess had requested our cocktail preferences - I'm easy, I've been drinking vodka on the rocks with a Diet Coke back for so long that it used to be vodka rocks with a Tab back.  I was the first to arrive and was asked if our other friend had fallen upon hard times financially and I replied that I couldn't imagine that this could ever even be a possibility and asked why - "Because the wine she asked for comes in a box".  We both looked at each other, our eyes wide with horror  - as if our pal had announced she was becoming Republican. 

I know this wine-in-a-box concept is becoming increasingly popular but I just don't see myself jumping on that bandwagon (although given my knees and body type, I'm pretty sure physics would prevent that from happening.  Ever.).

Wine & I have a somewhat contentious relationship anyway so I tend to stay away BUT in the highly unlikely event that I were to be offered a glass of something like a Pétrus or Châteauneuf-du-Pape, well, then I would be delighted to accept but I can assure you under no circumstance would it be served from a box. 

Coming soon! Château Mouton Rothschild en boite!  Nope, I just don't see it happening. 

Don't get me wrong, I love the newfangled - I couldn't live without my laptop, flat screen, cell phone, iPod, etc. and I can Google info faster than a speeding bullet - especially considering I come from a generation to whom "Google" was the surname of a cartoon character named Barney - but I'm afraid I will never accept wine in a box.  I'm a boxist.

Sorry, Oprah.

Please let me begin by saying that I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for Oprah. She rocks.  I would, however, like to address the concept of the A-ha! moment that she seems to have made so popular. 

Who are these people having A-ha! moments anyway?  I can only imagine that they might be young people, who haven't really yet had the pleasure of having life really screw with them - or, perhaps the preternaturally and insanely wealthy, who can throw money at almost anything (and yes, sister-woman, you would fall into that last category).

I can really only speak for myself, although I am going to go out on a limb here and speak for the many - I don't know anyone who has the luxury of having a genteel A-ha! moment - if we are having a moment at all it is far more likely to be a WTF?! moment.

Like, I am only now coming to grips with the idea of being middle-aged but realistically, what are the odds of me making it to 106. 

It is only now just dawning on me that it may indeed be my ears that are crooked and not the glasses. 

Giving oneself a last quick check in the rearview mirror and seeing the sun reflect off of some errant chin hair. 



So, while both could indeed be seen as "teachable" moments, the A-ha! moment illicits more of a "Huh. What do you know?" response - the WTF?! moment illicits something more akin to a "Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, what in the name of all things holy is going on here!" response.

And so, I just thought, that in the words of the philosopher, Morissette, "You, you, you oughta know".

Sorry, Oprah.

I am Switzerland.

I moved to Montana in 1992 with four friends of mine.  I moved here sight unseen but with the faith of Ruth when she was doing that whole "whither thou goest" thing.  Two of the four had been students in the Drama Department at The University of Montana in the early 70's and while there were a lot of friends who still lived here - it didn't take long for our household to be noticed.

Suzie, the only one who already had a job here before we moved, had an article done on her in our local paper about a week after we got here - she was the first female stockbroker in town. 

John had made a big enough impression twenty years earlier that he was being recognized lo, these many years later.  You see, John and our friend, Steve, had made their own versions/remakes of:  The Godfather, Gone With The Wind, and The Bible so John would meet people at parties who would say, "Hey, I was in your Gone With The Wind. I was one of the dead in the burning of Atlanta!" Or, "I did my dance final at the opening of The Godfather!" - which oddly enough actually had been a possibility.  Also, John loves to entertain and does it magnificently.

Suzie & Mark moved into their first house that fall and since I was only going to be home a little less than half of the year, it seemed to make sense that I would stay here with John & Tony.

John & Tony have been together, unable to marry, for 33 years now and the three of us have made an odd little family for almost 20 years.  We have complimentary strengths (and weaknesses) and make a good team.  Some of my particular areas of responsibility include (but are not limited to): the assembly and disassembly of the pool; the barbecuing and slicing of any cut of beef that requires being sliced thinly and on the bias and the rolling of, let's call them, herbal cigarettes.  There is one further role that I play - the role of Switzerland.

For the first few weeks after we arrived here, Tony had remained in New York to fulfill business obligations.  This was also early in the decade or so of John thinking that he was successfully hiding his smoking from Tony. Although since all of the rest of us smoked back then it was easy enough to hide, I suppose.   It was, in fact, as I was taking a cigarette break and Tony, who was now in Montana and working on his garden asked me, "Has John been smoking"?  I am not a particularly good liar, so I just looked at him and while exhaling said, "Oh honey, I really couldn't say".  Truth be told, I was pleased with my response and momentarily considered a life as a diplomat. 

Many years later, on a rainy Saturday in early May, John and Tony had gone out shopping.  This is an exercise that often ends in tears and this was one of those times.  As soon as they got home, Tony came down to my room and said, "Boy, is John is a mood today".  "Oh honey", I replied, "I am sorry to hear that".  Several hours later, as John & I were on our way to a Derby party, with Tony to follow after a bit, and as John folded himself into my small-ish car, he gathered his jacket about him, straightened up, eyes wide and said, "Tony is being im-possible"!  Stifling the urge to giggle, I busied myself with the buckling of my seatbelt and said, "Oh honey, I am sorry to hear that".

We have now lived together for so long that everything has become short-hand and I am able to read the full meaning into looks that cover a wide array of topics including:

• "He is being such a brat"
• "Why is he singing that song in his Ethel Merman voice?"
• "Where in the fresh hell has he wandered off to now?" 
•  "Did he just call that actor, Christopher Plumbing?" 

I am Switzerland.

Psychopath? Or New Yorker?

One of my BFFs from college recently forwarded a riddle to me in an email.  I answered it correctly but once I scrolled further down the page, was informed that only those with psychopathic tendencies would be able to answer this riddle.  I thought that was a bit unfair since, like all of us, I have many crosses to bear but I am fairly sure that being a psychopath is not one of them.  This has never been professionally corroborated but I'm going to go with the whole "innocent until proven guilty" thing.

I am however, deeply cynical.  I come from it honestly though, partially nature, partially nurture.  My parents liked their humour black, my siblings also possess the same sarcastic streaked black humour and my nieces and nephews seem to be coming along nicely.  I myself have no children - of whom I am aware, at any rate.  Add growing up in New York to the mix and voilà, entry to the fraternity of the cynical and jaded.

But everyone's world view is coloured by where they grew-up.  At the age of about four or so, I began to find the whole Santa Claus, Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy concepts quite unsettling.  It was my understanding that people going about your house at night, when everyone was asleep, was called "breaking & entering".  I also believe this to be the beginning of my life long battle with insomnia.

It was also around that time that my mother discovered that there was something a bit off about my recitation of "The Lord's Prayer".  I mean it made perfect sense to me since, like every other child, I was merely learning by rote and repeating what I had heard.  Or, thought I had heard.  After launching in with a hearty "Our Father who art in heaven - Hello! what's your name" I got most of the rest of it spot on until one of the last lines: "And lead us not into temptation" - it was my firm belief that that line was: "And lead us not into Penn Station".  This was still the old Pennsylvania Station and aside from the hustle and bustle of many hundreds of people, all dressed to the nines, lugging trunks and huge pieces of luggage, creating a sea of claustrophobia for a small child - there were the rickety man-(or certainly child)-eating escalators.  All in all, a fairly hateful place, in my opinion, so it seemed quite logical to me that many others might feel this way as well and asking to be lead not into that sort of chaos seemed to be a perfectly reasonable thing for which to pray. It never even occurred to me that the vast majority of the world, or even our country, had to travel through my private hell, Penn Station. 

So, psychopath? I think not.  Life-long cynic? ¡Absolutamente!

No Degrees of Kevin Bacon

I spent many years living in the West Indies where I worked as Director of Sales & Marketing for one of the 5-star Hotels on the island during the day and then as a musician at night.  Mostly to keep from killing people during the day.  My musical career was, quite frankly, a fluke.  I had picked up the guitar again after several years and switched from 6-string to 12-string but did it only for myself.  That year, when I returned to Anguilla, it was after a devastating hurricane so I brought my guitar with me and it became a form of barter.  A couple of us just brought our guitars with us wherever we went at night and it was at my friend  Laurie's bar, The Pumphouse, that I began to form a musical relationship with the island's most famous musician, Bankie Banx.  We looked like the number 10 when we stood next to each other; he is a 6 foot 2 inch dark-skinned Rasta with like, negative 3% body fat and then, well, me.  But we played together like we were one person and made our two guitars sound like four. I figured, how often does a short, fat, middle-aged, white woman get to be a rock & roll and reggae star?  I  just went with it.  Bankie gave me a stage name and so I became, Montana Pam. 
Every year, as Jamaica had its Reggae Sun Splash, we had Moonsplash.  One year, Richie Havens was our main act - so I can technically say that I have opened for Richie Havens and another year, The Bacon Brothers were the main act.  Kevin and his family really enjoyed the island in those days and loved being down at Bankie's place (there is even a song about it on one of their albums).  On the Thursday night of the weekend of the musical festival, there would be high end tickets sold for a fancy cocktail party and up close meet and greet with and performance by some of the musicians.  We decided that year to do a Wall of Guitars - so Bankie, Jon Pousette-Dart, Kevin and his brother, Michael and I played "The Weight" by The Band - worked out perfectly - five of us, five verses - done deal.  No Degrees Of Kevin Bacon.

I Think His Name Was de Gaulle

I was very fortunate to go to the same school that my mother had attended.  It was, and still is, the best private Catholic girls' school in New York.  In second grade, we had a new girl in our class who had sadly, and very publicly, lost her father the year before.  On a November evening, Mummy came to pick me up from Caroline's 7th birthday party.  She and Daddy actually had a black-tie affair to which they were going as soon as we got back but she didn't want to come and collect me from the party decked out in her party gear - she didn't want Mrs. Kennedy to think that she had considered that to be what one wore to pick-up one's child from the former First Lady's house.  In the end she went with a trench coat over her slip and her penny loafers.  On the block and a half walk home, I was grilled for details (keep in mind that all of our mothers were still really young women - just in their early 30's or so) - "Who was there?" "Oh, ya know, Uncle Bobby & Uncle Teddy." "What kind of presents did Caroline get?" "Oh, Mummy! You know that big Steiff giraffe that is in the window of FAO Schwarz?  Well, she got that."  "How lovely", said Mummy, "Who gave her that?"  I stopped and thought for a moment and said, "Um... a man, I think his name was de Gaulle."

Chet Huntley in a Refrigerator Box

I have been a news junkie and lover of all things popular culture for as long as I can remember.  At the age of four my favourite television shows were:  The Today Show, As The World Turns, The Mickey Mouse Club, and the Evening News with Chet Huntley and David Brinkely - or, The Hunty Binky Show.  Friends of ours who lived down the hall had just had a brand new refrigerator delivered that afternoon and at that age, no toy from FAO Schwarz could beat an empty refrigerator box.  The daughter of the neighbours' and I were playing in the box when a pair of man legs appeared in front of the open end of the box - I looked out and looked up and could not have been more gob-smacked had Mickey Mouse been standing there; "Mr. Hunty?"  Actually, I think he was just as stunned that this tiny child even knew who he was.
As it turned out, Chet Huntley was indeed a friend and dinner guest of our friends with the new fridge.