Baggage Claim

When I googled Delta airlines to find what the fallout was from overcharging our soldiers for excess baggage, I was sort of surprised by the amount of people defending Delta.  Delta does have a lot of employees and by now I imagine they have been given the corporate spin on this debacle.  Delta has changed their policy on this and apologized, but what bothers me is that we have been a nation at war for almost ten years.  I would have thought at this point Delta employees would have had a clue as to what the rules were regarding the baggage soldiers HAVE to carry.  Our soldiers are not carrying back superfluous souvenirs to pass out to the kids when they get home.  They are carrying equipment that they have to have to perform their jobs in combat zones.  The government PAYS Delta for allowing our soldiers to carry four bags -- three and one extra.  You would think Delta would have educated their employees on that fact a long time ago.  Yes, some of our soldiers have government credit cards and a reimbursed for this, however they are required to account for the charges on that credit card.  I really wonder how much money Delta has made by charging our soldiers -- and therefore our government -- twice for the same bag?  I think Delta may have some explaining and accounting to do.  If this problem isn't just with Delta, then maybe the entire airline industry needs to be investigated.  Why did it have to take an incident like this for Delta to finally take action?

Our soldiers are not asking for special treatment from the airlines.  They are asking to receive what the American taxpayer has already paid for  four bags.  Our soldiers have to do their jobs, maybe Delta should do theirs.

Delta is Ready...to Take YOUR Money

Recently several soldiers posted videos to "YouTube" because they were charged extra money to bring their baggage on board. In case you were wondering if this was true or not, I am here to tell you is is ABSOLUTELY TRUE. This has been going on for a LONG time. Our soldiers who have given so much are paying to check their extra baggage -- which is usually equipment they are REQUIRED to carry and for which they are financially responsible. Our returning military personnel do not have an option as to what airline they use to travel home. That privilege goes to the lowest bidder and that low bid may not include their extra luggage. Of course that bid is supposed to include their luggage, as long as that luggage is the equivalent of what civilian travelers carry. That's right: Those ultra-patriots at Delta expect a soldier deploying for a year to have the same amount of luggage as someone vacationing for two weeks.

I have had to ship my husband extra stuff at our own expense because he could not take it aboard an airline. When he returns, he will be leaving stuff behind because it is either to expensive, or too much of a hassle to try to take it home on an airline. His nickname is the Bulldog and he is not shy about arguing with an airline, it is just that big of a hassle. I don't know if Delta is the only airline that does this, but I assure you this incident is not isolated. Usually it is a just a couple of soldiers, a couple bags and a lot less money, but that money adds up. Soldier after soldier is paying out of his or her own pocket to transport equipment they have to carry. Soldiers pay because they think they have to, or they are tired of conflict and just want to get home without further hassle.

So, if you are on your way out of Afghanistan: Thank-you for killing Bin Laden, but make sure you stop by the ATM on your way out. "Delta is ready..." to take your money.

Memorial Day

Every Memorial Day it is the same thing. A soldier writes a touching tribute to a fallen comrade to remind us what this day is about, and someone takes Memorial Day as an opportunity to discuss their anti-war sentiments. War is a horrible thing. No one knows that better than a soldier. To blab your opinions and try to make them front and center on a day that is about honoring the fallen is without a doubt spectacularly selfish. Please feel free to run your mouth all other 364 days of the year, but on this day could you at least try to think of someone besides yourself?

Most of the people who fight in wars are not the people who make the decision to fight. Many of them are just kids -- poor kids who joined the military looking for a way out to make life better for themselves. Certainly, they feel a sense of honor, duty and pride in serving their country, but for the most part, they are not "the haves". These are the people we honor this day. The people who sacrificed and died so that we may live in a nation where less then one percent of the population serves in the military.

HOOAH!

THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU!

Bring Back the Hat!

As an American it is in my nature to never pay too much attention to royalty. Expecially British royalty. We fought a war to get away from them, after all. I was not awake at 0-dark-thirty Eastern time to watch the blessed nuptials. I rarely miss an opportunity to wear a tiara, but since I currently live in Georgia, I spent the greater part of Wednesday night and Thursday morning huddled in a centralized bathroom with three of four bored cats (one is an doofus and cannot be bought with treats) hoping Kelleywood would not be swept off the face of the earth by a rash of violent storms that swept through the South. In short, I was too damn tired to get up to watch a wedding that I knew would be played again, and again, and again all freakin' weekend long.

I had planned on playing it cool, but then my genetic heritage reared it's brightly plummed head. You see, I have a fourth great-grandfather (or perhaps fourth great-uncle. Haven't quite sorted all of that out yet.) who while fighting for the American Colonists found himself captured by Indians, who were league with the Crown, turned him over to the British. Grandpa (or Uncle Who's It) was transported to Canada as a British prisoner. Grandpa, I believe disliking the cold as much as his current kin, is RUMORED to have possibly, maybe, might have also fought for the British in order to secure his release. That combined with the genetic legacy of my German grandmother's pre-WWII hat delivery job in Berlin (which she liked very much, thank you) can explain my viseral reaction to the parade of hats going into that church where those people were getting married. (Note: If you want facts, Google. I was told my blog needed more pictures, less writing. Since people want pictures, why should I trouble myself with the damn facts? Unless you have been living under a rock for the past week, you know what wedding I am talking about.) OMG! I had forgotten all about THE HATS!



Good hats!



Bad hats!




Yellow Hats!



Camilla Hats!



Pink Hats!



Sister Hats!



Beige Hats! Violet Hats!



No Hats!
(Worse than Bad Hats!)



And Blue Hats!

There were SO many fabulous hats! I hope this signals the return of hats to fashionistas across the globe!

What a Girl Wants (What We Really, Really Want)

Ever since Adam and Eve took a bite out of the apple, men and women have spent an inordinate time trying to determine what it is that the opposite sex really wants. I can only speak for my half of the gender equation but part of the problem is that sometimes as women we don't even know what it is we really want. We are bombarded daily with a barrage of images, ideas, advertisements and experts telling us what our heart's desire is, or what should be, to the point of where the truth has been buried under a piled of last year's fashion. No wonder men are confused. We're confused, too. According to the media should want to be thinner, smarter, taller, shorter, smoother, blonder, darker, lighter, curlier, richer, more successful, younger and the list goes on and on and on until we don't know what the hell it is we really want ourselves. Until now -- because I have the answer. (You can thank me at the end of this article.)


Before I divulge this life-altering truth, I must back-track a little while you prepare yourself for a revaluation that is going to rock your world. A couple years ago when the first "Sex And The City" movie was playing, I was visiting my parents in a small town in Illinois. Mom and I indulged in some feminine bonding, and decided to see "Sex and the City." We had to drive to another small town, several cornfields over, to the theatre showing "Sex And The City". What the theatre lacked in modern conveniences in size, it more than made-up for in price and atmosphere. When is the last time you loaded up on popcorn, drinks and tickets FOR TWO under $20? (Not to mention getting a look see at the fine collection of soda pop memorabilia in the lobby.) The seating was maybe one step above folding chairs, but the theatre was filled with women on an estrogen high anxiously awaiting the start of the ultimate chick-flick.



Special note: For guys who have not seen this movie, I want you to go out and get the DVD NOW and pay close attention. This movie tackles the very important question of what it is exactly women want. Amid the breathtaking couture, the glamour of the big city, the hair, the jewelry, the SHOES, lies the answer to the question of what it is women really want. Although the disparity between the big city movie we were watching and the tiny town we were watching it in was abundant, we were soon to discover a universal truth. A collective gasp spontaneously erupted from the crowd, the likes of which I have never heard in a movie theatre big or small. It came when Big showed Carrie the special closet he built for her. Men may try an whole list of romantic gestures, but there is was: THE ULTIMATE way to her heart. Love and sex have their place, but what women really want is: A BIG-ASS CLOSET. There you go. One of life's secrets. (Aren't you happy you stopped by my blog today?).



Before we purchased the house we are currently in, the Army had us do one of those jump-through-your-ass moves that conveniently took place over the holidays. The whole house hunt was a blur of stairs, carpets, wood vs. vinyl, stainless steal, marble, granite and to be truthful, very little stands out about the houses we didn't purchase. There IS one thing I do recall though: The mother of all BIG-ASS CLOSETS. The house was all wrong, but I still envy that woman's closet. It was a thing of beauty. It's what we really, really want.

I Want to Be a Weeki Wachee Mermaid!!!!!

The world has been an awful mess this past month. It wasn't doing really well before, but this month has been a doozy. As I impatiently await the Bulldog's return from the hell-hole he has currently been assigned my thoughts drift to my future move to Florida. There is the real Florida, and then there is the Florida-In-My-Mind (FIMM) which exists somewhere North of Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville and South of the Okefenokee Swamp, on the Gulf coast of Florida nowhere near last year's horrific oil spill, or the excesses of coastal over-development. FIMM is a happy place where the lifeguards don't care if you toss back an alcoholic beverage on the beach as long as you share.

It's a Florida I first turned my sophisticated twenty-something nose up at many long years ago. I was too deep, too artistic to appreciate the tiki-tacky charm of my soon to be native state. No mermaids for me, no waters-ski pyramids, no rides on glass-bottom boats either. Like so many twenty-somethings, I was a pretentious idiot.

There must be some myth that is a metaphorical match to my current state of affairs: Some soul doomed to troll EBay for all eternity in search of the ultimate Florida souvenir, having snubbed the ski-pyramid in her misguided youth.



Then it occurs to me : I WANT TO BE A WEEKI WACHEE MERMAID!!!





I would be SO good!!! I could share my lunch with a fish and dazzle tourists from across the land.



Oh, the glamour of it all. Mermaids have even explored the MOON!!!



Who wouldn't want to be a Weeki Wachee Mermaid?

Sister Wives: Are We Having Fun Yet?

Things I am grateful for today (besides not having myself or any of my loved ones swept away by a tsunami): I am grateful that I have never had the occasion to start a sentence with the following phrase: "The other sister wives and I...". Have you seen this show? I have tried watching it several times, but usually have to stop about mid-way through because I keep wanting at least one of those wives to develop a shred of self-esteem and tell that that surfer-dude Corey the-husband-guy to take a flying friggin' leap. Instead, they cry. EVERY time I watch this show these wives are crying and "dealing with their jealousy issues" Here is how you deal with jealousy issues: Don't let your husband marry other women.



Back in the good-old-days, 2009ish, it was easy to identify a sister wife by that inbred, outer space look, predisposition to pastels, freaky hairdos and over-all bad fashion sense. As disturbing as I found this look, at least you could pick these broads out of crowd. I like to know with whom I am dealing. Enter Corey Brown and the "Sister Wives". Corey Brown looks pretty much like every slightly sunburned beach bartender I ever knew in Florida, minus a few broken capillaries around the nose. I suspect the dude of using "Sun-In" on his hair, although like everything else I say in this article, I could never prove it.



This "normalcy" makes this show uber-creepy. The Browns like to talk about how people are already "prejudiced" against them. As if their pluralistic state of matrimony was thrust upon them unwillingly. Corey is also prone to getting a little defensive when people inquire into their sex lives. Dude, you are married to FOUR different women and you have chosen to TELEVISE your lifestyle -- what do you think people are going to ask you about? Boxers or briefs?

One thing I know about myself for certain is that deep down inside I am very, very selfish. No way in hell could I EVER even remotely consider sharing my husband with some other woman. (The Army gets in the way enough as it is.) I am the center of my husband's universe. In one episode Corey marries wife number 4, and that selfish bastard goes on a honeymoon JUST with her. The other wives, who have been dealing with this tool year-after-year-after-year get left at home. They deal with "their jealousy issues" by going on a picnic where there is more crying. These women cry a lot. I don't cry this much about my husband and he has been in a combat zone for almost a year.

The weird thing is, that the Browns really don't seem horribly religious. Oh, at least once during EVERY show, the Browns huddle together in prayer, as if to to remind us that this is a religious choice, but I get the feeling that they are really just playing to the camera.




Wife number-one Meri, alternates between being seriously pissed-off and crying. One gets the feeling the other wives have kicked her in the metaphorical uterus because Meri has only been able to produce one child. Talk about an underachiever. Meri keeps a lid on her pent-up rage, but every so often she lets a little snippet fly. I think she may just be the one to let loose on Corey one of these days.

Here is my fantasy scenario for the end of Season Two: One night at a prayer meeting Meri announces that she is a Lesbian and is love with one of the other sister-wives. The two remaining sister wives announce that they have been having a clandestine affair and have secretly married in some state where that is legal. Corey is kicked out into the cold and left to contemplate his blonde hightlights. Alone.

Westboro and Other Asses

Since our media has determined that the 24 hour-a-day news coverage of Charlie Sheen's embarrassingly public mental meltdown prevents the coverage of any REAL news, you may have missed that our Supreme Court just made a really dumb ass decision. Long story short, they upheld the rights of those raving lunatics from the Westboro Baptist Church to protest at military funerals. To do otherwise would be to deny these people their First Amendment rights.

It just goes to show you: If you want to say whatever the hell you want to, whenever the hell you want to, just start a religion. How freaking stupid and superstitious is it to believe God is killing soldiers because the United States supports gay rights. WTF???? People who have given the ultimate sacrifice in the defense of this nation can be subjected to the absurd, archaic, backward, ridiculous so-called-religious protests because to do otherwise would violate the Westboro Baptist Church's First Amendment rights? I am disgusted. Beam me up, Scotty. Common sense should have been written into the Constitution. I would like to propose a new amendment to the Constitution that requires our nation's leaders to exercise common sense. I don't care how you feel about war, having a loved one killed in combat is a horrible, terrible thing. It is NOT the place for ANY sort of protest. It isn't appropriate. When did religious tolerance become religious accommodation?

I have a sign on my door that says "No Religious Solicitation". First, I think it is beyond rude for someone to show-up on my porch and presume I am in league with Satan and require "saving". Secondly, this solicitation of converts is not a part of religion and I would prefer not to have MY religious freedom violated by some asshole on my property. Take your self-righteous bullshit somewhere else and DO SOMETHING an actual Christian might do. I have to tolerate your stupid religion. I don't have to agree with it and I shouldn't have to accommodate it at a military funeral. Nor should anyone else.

These people have ALWAYS HAD THE RIGHT to practice their religion. No one has interfered with their right to practice their faith. However, EVERY single time these idiots show-up at a military funeral THEY interfere with the rights of grief-stricken people practicing their own spiritual rituals. The decision made by the Supreme Court is the sort of stupid political correctness our forefathers who framed the Constitution NEVER intended. Furthermore, what Westboro Baptist Church engages in is NOT religious; it is political. I fail to see how preventing Westboro Baptist Church from protesting at military funerals interferes with their right to practice their religion. Our courts intervene if child's welfare is threatened because of a parent's religious belief. Polygamy is illegal in this nation, although that certainly offends the religious beliefs of certain sects. Why then is the court unable to protect the rights of it's citizens from these religious zealots at military funerals?

I am fond of the saying: "The law is not an ass." What this means too me is that although the law can be manipulated to make less than reasonable decisions by obeying the letter of the law and not the spirit, our jurisprudence system usually does not. Except for today. Today the Supreme Court was an ass.

Real Estate Land is Better than Disney!!!!

I've been a little off of the radar lately. It's not that I haven't had anything to say, it's just that the Bulldog informed me that we will be moving. Again. This is something like the fifth time in ten years. This will be number three on how many houses we have bought in six years. If we didn't have to sell one we purchased when the market was sky-high, I'd be a little more excited about the prospects. The Bulldog and I are fairly practical people and we bought our current house because we had to have somewhere to live. Up until that point buying a house had always seemed to be a responsible investment to make in our future. Hell, I was raised on that proposition.

I've become somewhat addicted to searching for real estate online. It's sort of surprising how many people are still trying to scratch out an existence as real estate agents. They must be some serious optimists. Maybe they really do believe what they write in those online real estate ads. A whopping fifty percent of the homes listed in the area we are searching in Florida are either short sales or foreclosures, but Realtors are keeping their heads held high. Realtors are selling a dream:

"Nestled in a lovely cul-de-sac at the end of a peaceful tree-lined street is where you will find the home that you have been searching for. With a private pond view, an abundance of birds, squirrels and egrets, you will never believe that you are only walking distance away from all the conveniences .... [T]op this all off with a sparkling, in ground, screened pool and what more could you ask for? This home really has it all - 4 generous size bedrooms, 2 full baths, gorgeous wood floors, tile and newer carpet."

I WANT THAT HOUSE!!!! I love Real Estate Land, because in Real Estate Land that egret is never taking a dump in your driveway. Those squirrels aren't chewing holes through your screened-in pool, which not only jacked-up your homeowners insurance, but sent your water bill sky-rocketing. (Who knew a pool would cost so much to run?) No one in Real Estate Land will tell you that a "private pond" in Florida (probably a man-made retention pool) will at the very least be a breeding ground for mosquitoes, not to mention the occasional snakes and alligators.

Homes in Real Estate Land are never dinky and small, they are "cute and cozy". No home is ever a dump, instead it is "a fixer upper", "investment property", "has potential" or (when they get really desperate "...is in a desirable school district". (You do love your children, don't you????) Realtors truly believe in that old adage that if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Never mind that the pictures of that "fixer-upper" showed what looked to be major flood damage as well as black mold; the "investment property" was a boarded-up crack house; and "has potential" would require razing the current construction and evicting the next door neighbors. In Real Estate Land, ALL property is valuable. It's like one of those kiddie contests where ALL the kids get a trophy.

Now I don't even want to look at a house that is "...gem in the rough", because in the picture that house has its windows boarded-up. It's not a "...gem in the rough", that's a dump. Ditto any "fixer-uppers", "AS-IS" (They always put that in big capital letters too, what's up with that?)or "...handyman's dream". I am not interested in any houses' future, I am strictly interested in the here and now. If the people who actually own the property aren't interested in fixing it, why should I be interested in fixing it?

One of my favorites:

This gorgeous home is truly one of a kind. This special home was built by a builder for his own personal use. The bedrooms in the main house are massive, easily the size of two normal bedrooms in a house of this age and large enough (and already designed) to be divided into two with separate entrances to the bedroom already in place. The home has a traditional bungalow style layout except for the fact that the rooms are huge in comparison. Also featured in this fantastic home is a stand up attic with stairs going up. This historic residence has patterned red oak hardwood floors which have just been refinished, loads of original built in… cabinets in almost every room and closet, many of the original elements of the kitchen including the original sink. The kitchen is also very large. The home has just received a makeover including paint and all the new landscaping, sod and well sprinkler system. Don't just drive by this home; you have to see the level of original detail in the interior that is still intact to truly appreciate this architectural gem.

It may be an "architectural gem" in Real Estate Land, but if you click on the Google satellite map for a street view to get a good look at the used car lot right next to this "historic residence". What? No "sparkling pool"???

Is Humor On the "Out" List?

I only watched the reports from the red carpet part of the "Golden Globes" this year. It's true, all I truly give a shit about are the clothes. I go that deep in my shallowness. As far as that goes, here is my take: Helena Bonham Carter: I love you for channeling your inner '80's Lauper and wearing two different color shoes.



Perhaps it is the advent of scripted reality shows that has made me truly bored with every freakin' overblown Hollywood scandal that makes its way down the pike. Every week they invent a new one and MOST of them are decidedly lacking in creativity. My problem is that most of these glambots on awards shows take themselves so freakin' seriously. Then some wannabe glambot in charge of production hires some "edgy" comedian to host the damn show. Then the glambots get all pissed off because the comedian makes fun of them at the expense of their over-inflated egos. Next thing you know, Tom Cruise is off suing somebody and Angelina Jolie is off adopting another kid and/or saving the world. Yawn. Yawn. So bored. Next.

Stupid controversy in a nutshell: Ricky Gervais told a joke at the Globes which for my money was actually funny and so obviously true. In case you missed it--like I did-- here it goes:

"Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay – which is the exact opposite of some famous Scientologists ... probably." Gervais added, "My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke." (Courtesy of TMZ and the television).

I think this was about "Phillip Morris" or "Broke-Back Mountain" or some other Hollywood tome that went for straight actors instead of gay actors, because as everyone knows: There is a HUGE shortage of homosexuals in Tinsel Town. Glambots have actually taken to hiring straight females (eg. Rachel Zoe) to do their shopping for them!!! This crisis situation has only been exacerbated by the deportation of what the locals in La-La Land refer to as "the help". To wit (because I just don't get to say that enough since I stopped working for attorneys):

Robert DeNiro (Or was it Al Pacino? I always get them confused.):

"I'm sorry more members of the foreign press aren't with us tonight, but many were deported right before the show along with most of the waiters. And Javier Bardem." (again courtesy of TMZ and the television.)

Get a freakin' grip. As a six-foot blonde woman it is a little difficult to pass myself off as Asian. People DO notice. The only people I can count on to be completely color-blind is airport security who express such equanimity towards my person that they are inclined to pat me down at every given opportunity. It's a wasted effort, but thank-goodness they aren't bigots!!! Like most of us: I HATE bigots. Especially at the airport, and isn't that what flying is all about?

In short, I am reminded of why I don't watch the stupid self-congratulatory award shows. Watching a bunch of over-indulged, over-paid, privileged people enjoying their privileges is just depressing. I only care about the shoes.

Has Anyone Ever Had Figgy Pudding?

Has anybody really ever had figgy pudding? If so, please fill us in on the whole figgy pudding experience. We (as in me) are dying to know. I have had chestnuts roasting on an open fire, but no figgy pudding. You know that line in the carol: "Now bring us some figgy pudding..." and "We won't go until we get some..." leads me to believe that people either don't mean what they sing -- or a hellava' lot more carolers would be camped out on one's front porch holding out for figgy pudding. Perhaps figgy pudding is far more prevalent than I thought, but in my fifty-some years of being dragged through this depressing forced march of seasonal giddiness, no on has EVER offered me a slice, bowl, cup or plate of figgy pudding.

That said: Could someone please fill me in on the whole just who is "Good King Wenslas", what is "the Feast of Stephen" and did the good king indeed only come to town on that day?

I want to know. I could just Google, but where would the fun be in that?

Viva La Ugly Christmas Sweater!!!!

Fashionistas, a notoriously cranky bunch (I blame the shoes. You try being nice in five-inch stilettos). Pick-up any fashionista handbook and you will find the same people who can say "jeggings" with a straight face bemoaning the proliferation of holiday sweaters like it's this year's new flu strain. Word-up you fashion facists: We know the Christmas sweater is bad. That is why we love it. I believe Coco Channel (or was it Diana Vreeland?) said it best: "No taste is worse than bad taste".



A new movement is afoot that promises to enshrine the "Ugly Christmas Sweater" right-up there with the other vestiges of the season, like mistletoe and trying to find parking place at the mall. It now seems so obvious, I still can't believe I didn't think of it myself: "The Ugly Christmas Sweater Party".




Instead of denigrating this beloved icon of the holiday season, we are donning our gay apparel and rocking around the Christmas tree. Hell, yeah!!! It's about time.



What makes a truly fabulous Ugly Christmas sweater? First of all it help if you received it from a relative you only pretend to like.



Donning some stupid headgear will kick-up the effect of your Ugly Christmas Sweater ten-fold. Something about an Ugly Christmas sweater just cries out for festive headgear.



Not finished "Decking the Halls" or the yard? Wrap a little instant festivity around a tree.



Of course, jingle bells, lights or anything you have to use a hot glue gun to adhere is even better. Tights and Christmas boxers??? Whoo-hoo and party-on!!!



So instead of pooh-poohing this fabulous "Fashion Don't", slap on a Santa hat or a mistletoe head-band: We're going caroling.

The Tooth Fairy is a Bitch

Let's get this out of the way right from the get-go so I don't have to listen to any one's inane advice about how to improve my oral hygiene. I brush. I floss. I have the high-speed toothbrush and a water pick. I see the dentist more than I see my own husband, but still I have crappy teeth. Up until Tuesday this week, I was on a roll since I hadn't had a dental crisis in two years. Then the whole house of cards came crashing down on me like a rotten molar on Laffy Taffy. Like a responsible adult I went in for my routine six month cleaning. Everything was fine. I left with a clean bill of health. My mouth was a little sore, but sometimes it is after a cleaning. Then, at 3:30 A.M. I awoke to a ragging, throbbing mother-of-all-toothaches. I would like to say I didn't know what it was, but I had been down this road before, sad to say, and I know a blown root-canal when I feel one. That's right all you happy people with decent teeth, that root-canal you had can GO BAD. The dentist assures me this is a rare thing -- 90% of root-canals are fine. Funny that this is the second one I have had explode on me, but I guess I AM JUST LUCKY!!! Most people think a root-canal is the end of the line for oral torture, but I am here to tell you it ISN'T. There is a WHOLE OTHER RELM OF HURT out there and it is called the endodontist.


Here is the short version of my history with endodontists: I had a root canal. The root canal failed. I had endodonic surgery (They drilled through my jaw! I had a bit of bone GO UP MY NOSE.) then THAT root canal failed. I got talked into a implant by an endodontist who should be the poster boy for medical malpractice, and wound-up with a major infection and bits of bone graft COMING UP THROUGH MY GUM. Did I mention that I have had heart surgery and endocarditis is a major health concern for me? Oral infection is like bad, bad, bad. Thousands of dollars later, I have a permanent bridge that spans one side of my mouth, which is what I was trying to avoid in the first place. Endodontists are all about saving your tooth. I swear sometimes they are more attached to my teeth than I am. That, and telling me, what my insurance covers and what it doesn't. Those people just love to quote the 60%, 40% co-pay crap. I KNOW it is going to cost me, I just don't want them to kill me, but I would still like to be able to chew.

So, if you happen to see the tooth fairy along side the road, flag that bitch down and tell her I want my old teeth back. I NEED THOSE BABY TEETH I SO FOOLISHLY SOLD FOR QUARTERS!!!!

P.S. If this makes no sense it is because they changed my pain medication -- as they no longer make Darvocet -- because apparently it causes heart problems. This does case me some concern that this is the drug they had me taking for pain after open-heart surgery for pain. BUT -- I suppose that it another blog for another time.

Black Friday Blues

There are two types of people: Those who love Black Friday and those who hate Black Friday. I don't think there are many people out there who are indifferent to the event. For some it is the thrill of the hunt, the big kick-off to the wonderful holiday season. Personally, I can't think of any item I want so badly that I would be willing to stand in a parking lot at three-o'clock in the morning waiting for some store to open. I love a bargain as much as the next girl, but Black Friday is pretty much my idea of hell. This year Black Friday is getting an even earlier kick-off with some stores starting on Thanksgiving day. You can actually pull an all-nighter of shopping at Walmart.

All the ads, all the deals, all the bru-ha-ha gives me an anxiety attack -- but the Target woman in the red jogging suit with high heels raises my blood pressure about five points every time I see her. Who came up with this ad? Shout out to Target: That woman makes me want to get as far away from the freakin' store as possible. In fact, she makes me want to hide under the bed AND NEVER GO SHOPPING AGAIN. I thought after last year we'd seen that last of Target woman, but like the Chia Pet, she is back for the holidays in yet another incarnation. She makes the Burger King mascot look loveable and that guy totally gives me the creeps. As if the holidays aren't annoying and stressful enough, we have to watch an endless barrage of ads featuring this completely irritating woman. I guess Target wants to convince us that the real meaning of Christmas is competing with other shoppers for the really great deals, but somehow I doubt snatching that last mark-down out of your neighbor's hands is the true meaning of Christmas. Seriously, it REALLY isn't how I want to spend my holidays.

I worked retail sales on many a Black Friday, I really don't remember that many customers showing-up at these weird hours of the morning. When they did, it was just for the one really great item, which the store was usually taking a loss on. Yet stores insist on these crazy hours. Maybe it is just all be for all of the free media attention because EVERY SINGLE FREAKIN' year, you can depend on the media to run a blitz of stories on holiday mob scenes and the ensuing traffic jams.

There is holiday habit I picked-up from working retail: I finish most of my shopping BEFORE Black Friday. It's not because I am efficient, it is because I hate the shopping lunacy that accompanies the holidays. So, when Black Friday rolls around, I ignore the ads, sit back with a cup of coffee and hope to hell Target isn't running THOSE commercials.

Angels We Have Heard Get High

At an early age I was typecast as an angel for the annual church Christmas pageant. Such is the curse of having naturally blonde hair. I wasn't just blonde, I was a total white blonde, tow-head. So angelic were my looks, I actually circumvented the pageant age qualification for my first stint as an angel. Mom got me in under the wire, but I am sure it was my cute factor that won the role. There is nothing inherently wrong with being an angel it's just I had no hope of being anything other than an angel. Christmas would roll around, they'd announce pageant plans, and I when they would announce angels, I knew was an angel. Oh, I imagine some of the little girls playing livestock or cross-dressing shepherds would have been happy to trade places with me. The truth be told I had received more than one bitter glance from a brown haired angel-wanna-be.

Who could blame them? With me in the room they had no hope of being an angel. Looking back the only costume with any sort of pizazz was the angel. I got to wear a wreath of tinsel on my head and foil wings. We were Congregationalists, so not even the Wise Men got very flashy in our pageant. Congregationalists are just not a very flashy bunch. I guess it was the predictability of it all that annoyed me so much. I longed to be Mary. Everybody knew that aside from the plastic baby-doll Jesus, Mary was the star of the show. I would put a towel over my head and practice looking serene and pious, but I knew it wasn't going to happen. To this day I can recite the whole angel speech. If an angel drops out of the Christmas pageant, I can pick-up the role in a heartbeat. Whether it was church aisle, steps, or even from the balcony, I can do my angel bit. Once I even sang "Silent Night" from the balcony AS an angel.

BUT -- I wanted to be Mary.

The TSA: Terminally Sucking Airports

Just when I thought flying couldn't get any worse, the TSA has managed to raise the bar on airport misery and passive-aggression. I am not sure what I did to make the airlines hate me so much (Whatdya' mean it's not about me?), but now the airlines have managed to make air travel EVEN worse. In order to fly you now have the choice of a full-body scan (provided the machine is working and the airlines are not short on staff that day) or a touchy-feelie pat down that promises to go further than your first boyfriend.

I already HATED flying and now I have serious concerns about ever flying again. In theory, I understand the pat-down and the scan thing. I understand that it is for my safety and blah-blah-blah, but I it kind of makes me want to take a shower. As usual, I fear the airport security's actual execution of the new policies. Although I am not thrilled about some stranger picking-up my boobs and having a look-see and what I could be hiding under there, and I really don't want to see my pubs on a body scan, but I have been hospitalized enough to have arrived at the point of shamelessness.

If the TSA cannot make flying more pleasant, at least maybe they could make it more efficient. Maybe they could combine the full body scan and/or pat down with my yearly physical so we could kill two birds with one stone and get that pesky PAP smear and mammogram out of the way at the airport, not to mention the complex records/ID exchange. I approach the doctor's office and flying with similar levels of dread, so I say we just streamline the whole damn thing.

It's just a thought. Rest assured: The airlines, like your doctor, are only concerned about your well-being. Let's just hope they don't start making us wear those funky backward robes, or the only people flying will be the terrorists. Then we could just solve the whole problem by getting all the terrorists into one place and one time, blowing themselves up, and just put the whole thing to rest. I don't know what the TSA would do then, but for now it seems to me that there is no place like home for the holidays.

I Was a Teenaged Christmas Tree

I am not a Christmas person. I am not sure why. Perhaps it was too, too many years of working retail and having the joy of the season sucked out of me by listening to Elvis on Muzak one too many times. Looking back, it began a long time before that. The very first Christmas that started getting on my nerves was in 1975. I was a senior in high school.

Long before "Glee", I was a "Gleek" - a dancing (not so good), singing (a little better) choir nerd. Little did we know it, but we were THE cutting edge on the whole show choir thing. They didn't have a name for this type of choir then, so we went by "swing choir", but I assure you we were fan-freakin'-tastic. Our official name was "The Modernaires", shortened to "Mods" (How cool were we?). Christmas was a busy time of year for the Mods. We entertained civic group after civic group throughout the Mid-West. If your group wanted us, they had better book us early. I have very little doubt that we set the standard for the show choir craze that now blazes across the nation. The highlight of our year was when we entertained at the Kiwanis Club and they gave EACH of us one of the best damn apples we'd ever had. Yup, we were THAT good!

One year the group did a tune from the musical "Mame" called "We Need a Little Christmas". Big damn dork that I was, I knew my sixties musicals backwards and forwards. To this day, if you need the lyrics to a sixties' musical, I am your girl. (Not surprisingly, I found this to be a completely under appreciated talent in adulthood. Go figure.) In case you spend the sixties listening to stuff like "The Doors" and "Rolling Stones", and completely missed the dazzling musicals of the period (For shame!), I shall provide a brief summary: In the musical, the song "We Need a Little Christmas" occurs sans tree, and instead a person (Agnes Gooch -- Mame's secretary) is decorated. It is one of the highlights of the play. Wishing to share my vast cultural knowledge with the rest of the Mods, I suggested we incorporate this into our own version. Guess who was tapped to portray a tree? Seriously, I am six feet tall -- who the hell else WOULD they have asked?

Of course, I was brilliant. The Mods wrapped garland around me, hung baubles and lights from my lofty boughs, and I daresay, the highlight of the show was when the Christmas lights blinking. It brought down the house. Many an actor is familiar with the acting school exercise of portraying a tree, but few are asked to actually BE A TREE in front of a live audience -- past the fourth grade, any way.

Despite some moron Modernaire consistently hanging ornaments on my ears which really itched, it was a fairly positive experience, but oddly coincides with the year I started hating the holidays. I have wracked my brain trying to find a psychological connection between the two, but have so far been unsuccessful. I do remember it being the year my distaste of the holidays began, as one of my band geek friends bought me a button that said "Bah Humbug". Still, I cannot quite connect the dots. Hopefully by exploring "Christmas Past" this season I can get to the bottom of this disdain.

Stay tuned for my fascinating (ENDLESS) tenure as THE Angel of Annunciation.

Gift Giving for Guys

I turned the television on this morning and not one, but two shopping channels were advertising their deal-of-the-day as a vacuum cleaner. Normally this would be a ho-hum experience for me, and I'd just change the channel. What I found so disturbing was how they were marketing the vacuum cleaners. Each channel had a female host telling EVERYBODY what a great Christmas gift this would make. For all of you guys reading this out there: Listen up and spare yourself from grief. I don't care how much you might like a shop vacuum or some other worthy item for your man cave as a gift, a vacuum is NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER a good gift for a woman. Frankly, that you might be a man and you might be thinking this makes me just want to slap you square upside the head. I don't care how practical and thrifty your spouse is, she does not want a vacuum for Christmas because it is not about the vacuum. When she opens that top-of-the-line suck-o-matic, or whatever brand you got her, she may smile and tell you how much she likes it but take it from me she is lying out her ass because she loves you no matter what kind of dumb gift you give her.

Now there was a time when the Bulldog and I were so poor that a broken vacuum cleaner and a holiday occurring at the same time may have inspired me to say something like: "I know we don't have the money. Let's just buy a vacuum cleaner. I don't need a gift." This is what I would call a BIG LIE. As you may have noticed, I am a woman who says what I mean and does not expect the Bulldog to figure-out what I want without flat out telling him. However, for some reason unknown to humankind, this does not always extend to a financial crisis, a holiday and a broken piece of practicality. However, I am going to let you in on a little piece of information: No woman wants a freakin' vacuum cleaner for Christmas EVER. No matter what we say, do or anything else, we do not want a vacuum cleaner. I don't care WHAT kind of vacuum cleaner it is, we don't want to see it sitting under the tree with a damn bow on it. Make your life easier and happier and don't even think about it. You can thank me later.

Somewhere, in the "Gift Giving Hall of Shame" is a giant poster of the husband of a very dear friend of mine we shall call "Daisy". Even though he should be ashamed, I will spare using his name here and simply refer to him as "Zorro". Long before I had straightened Daisy out on the fact that many (if not most) men suck at gift-giving, and the ones who don't are usually NOT to be trusted, my dear friend had hopes of receiving an inspired anniversary gift from her husband. Imagine Daisy's surprise when he blindfolded her and walked her into their backyard to show her the gift. Imagine the look on Daisy's face when Zorro removed the blindfold and she beheld a goat. That's right: A goat. Zorro got Daisy a goat for their anniversary. Now, unless you live in a third world country, this is generally regarded as a terrible gift. In fact, aside from giving your spouse an STD, it is difficult to imagine a worse gift. Then what did Zorro do to make a bad situation worse? He went and announced that he had named the goat after her.

Yet, Zorro accomplished what many men before him could not accomplish: He made purchasing a vacuum as a gift for a woman look like not such a bad idea.

How I Saved Halloween. Again.

I know I took a poll and fully intended to be a "Zombie Prom Queen", but I was the victim of catastrophic costume failure, which is sort of like a wardrobe malfunction with no publicly displayed private parts. After the blood spray turned brown, I went with red fabric paint to simulate blood. Everyone kept going on about how trick-or-treaters were going to show-up on Saturday, and blah, blah, blah. I thought the least I could do was scare the bejeebus out of them with the zombie make-up. I was doing a dry run prior to Halloween with the special zombie make-up from Mehron, which also failed. The gelatin stuff is supposed to melt under hot water, but I could only get some of it to melt. If I'd actually gotten it hot enough to melt, it would have been to hot to put on my face. I put the little dribble-drabble on my face. The teeny amount I applied to my face immediately started itching. What was I thinking? I am allergic to the tetanus vaccine, and I thought this stuff wouldn't bother me??? I rinsed it off, while wearing my zombie dress andbecause how can you mess up a Zombie dress??? Red paint started coming off everywhere, and by everywhere, I do mean EVERYWHERE. This is supposed to be permanent fabric paint, applied DAYS prior, and it was getting red stuff all over me, the house, the sink, the cats, EVERYWHERE. I gave-up. It was obvious the fates were not going to cooperate with celebrating Halloween on the wrong damn day. So, I drove a stake through the heart of the zombie (or whatever it is you are supposed to do to kill them) and went with Plan B. Listen up: The secret to a successful Halloween is ALWAYS having a Plan B.



Plan B was a devil dress that required only street(walker) make-up and a bundle of sass. I was the hit of the neighborhood. So many parents had their children pose for pictures with me I felt like I was a character at Disney World. Once again the pumpkin hearse was a giant success. Even though it looks pretty much the same way it did last year.



I hauled my new favorite Halloween item, who I call "Broomhilda" out onto the front porch where she cackled and stirred her misting cauldron.






Not to be outdone by Broomhilda (although she kinda' was) also making her Kelleywood debut was the "Flying Witch with Flashing Eyes".



Now you may be thinking: "Wow! You REALLY did save Halloween!" But this is NOT how I saved Halloween. This is how I REALLY saved Halloween (again):

Nine-year old Livy from across the street was dressed as a witch. However, poor Livy was hatless having left her witch hat at school. Guess who just happened to have a witch hat laying around the house, even though she'd already loaned one out already? If you guessed moi, you would be oh-so-correct!!! And THAT is how I saved Halloween (again).

Everyone had a great time. Except for Mildred-the-skeleton, who rumor has it NEVER has a good time. Even when she does have a hat.



Mildred the purple skeleton who NEVER has a good time.