Archive for February, 2009

A house unchanged , a house totally changed. I have time, lots of time to sort through a lifetime of possessions and I move at the speed of one with a long, lazy road before her. There is no hurry to eradicate the past, to decide what is important and not. No hurry, yet it begins to happen naturally, and what is important surprises. Of all the items piled in the corner of the table the largest is the size of a saltine cracker.  





The worry stone  Hannah slipped quietly into my hand as the memorial service began. “Hold this, Ahmaw, ” my granddaughter said, “It will keep you calm.”



His wallet. You have to open these things that have always been  a place you do not go. But you are there–a tiny picture from long ago.







His wedding ring. So it was the third in a line of replacements, the others lost who knows where.






The ubiquitous golf balls. 





Oh yeah, and the Mile High Club pin.

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Thin mints on thin ice? Maybe, maybe not. I know you are reading sales of Girl Scout cookies are down this year. Perhaps they are, but not everywhere.

Each year a different Girl Scout appears at a friend’s door, but the friend’s response never changes: “I’ll buy your Girl Scout cookies if you can answer one question for me. Otherwise, no sale.”

 There is always surprised hesitation before the question every Girl Scout ought to know.

  “Who is Juliette Gordon Low?”

 For a correct answer, the order is always the same, a case of each variety—a caseof each! This year there were ten or eleven varieties, in case you are counting.

 I cannot believe word has not spread and that Daisies, Brownies and Girl Scouts aren’t trampling each other to get to that house first. I would never divulge information about this philanthropist, lest the house become marked with a small “GS” on the curb, following the lead of Depression era hobos. This is my single hint: the person has never been a Girl Scout. Well, I have, as well as my sister and daughter.  Presently my granddaughters are in Daisies and Girl Scouts, my daughter-in-law a scout leader, so I want to say a big public thank you to a nameless, very generous supporter. 

 I’m honored to know this person, and thrilled to know where the cookies are stashed.

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The alienated at Valentines Day are immediately thought to be those without partners. Right? Well, that’s only half the picture. If you don’t salivate at the word “chocolate”, you are on the outs on the biggest lovers’ day of the year. You could have a dozen  lovers lauding you with gifts, but if you aren’t into chocolate, you are just not “in.”

 I feel someone has speared me with a toothpick and held me under cascading chocolate sauce spilling over a gurgling fountain. I can’t escape the barrage of advertising and recipes, approaching Valentine’s Day. “Chocolate Crusted Sea Scallops?”P-l-e-a-s-e! Until I read today’s food section in the paper I had been craving scallops. The thought of them crusted with chocolate was enough to explode that dream.

  Vanilla people cannot escape in a country of women who fuel their energy and sex drive with chocolate. In the past, these addicts harbored a bit of guilt as they indulged in their Devil’s Food cake and Dove Bars. No more. Now they remind everyone of the health benefits to their cholesterol levels. I’m happy for them. I really am. I’m just sick of hearing about their damn CHOCOLATE.  Chew it with your calcium mixed in, rub it into your thighs, slather it on your belly. I don’t care. Just do it behind closed doors as you used to do. Some of us are so sick of chocolate we want to puke.

 I’ll just celebrate Vanillatine’s Day, thank you very much.

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“I’m not a president, but I play one on TV.”

 Do you  have the feeling Obama might end his TV appearances with that disclaimer? He’s just too damn happy to be in the most stressful job in the world. I prematurely dubbed Vice President Biden with the moniker TooDamnHappy, but I’m going to have to wrest that title away from him and pin it on Obama. I thought I would never see anyone as pleased with himself as Ole Joe, certainly not the suave gentleman next to him, handling every word as if it were nitroglycerin. Where did that guy go?

 Just this week he’s smoozing with Anderson, Katie, Brian, Chris and Charlie. Then he goes to a elementary classroom and tells the students he needed to get out of the house. And he talks of puppies and daughters, and by the way, stimulus bill. No doubt the first flight on Air Force One is a thrill, but do we really need to follow Obama’s commutes live?

 Earth to Obama: The election is over. You won. You can stop campaigning. This is a fine line I walk because I’ve complained about presidents who have padlocked themselves behind the oval office door and a Veep who dwelled in “an undisclosed location,” but I really think the public just might be lavished with too much information this time. Mr. President, document your every sneeze, if you must, but save it for a documentary or your future library.  Show us the side of you that will let us know we have a grownup in charge. Please.

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Ed McMahon is on the screen. Someone says Ed is broke because he married everyone he had sex with.

 I said, “You know what? I did, too.”


 Maybe it’s not a mind-bending riddle, and maybe you hadda be there.  If you come here often, you’ll have no problem figuring my number of conquests. 

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