Now I know better, I really do, so I had no ready excuse when the Oh Shit lights of the California Highway Patrol lit up my rear view mirror. I was not wearing an over-the-shoulder seat belt. In fact, I wasn’t wearing any seat belt at all when I made a left turn around a Highway Patrol car waiting at a traffic light. Less than a minute later I was stopped on a side street, hands on the steering wheel and driver’s side window rolled down when Buford Pusser approached my car.
“Something wrong with your seat belt?” he asked in a concerned, motherly way.
Oh no, not at all, why do you ask? I didn’t say. I just shook my head.
“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”
Highway Patrol cops are always courteous. Even the late Hunter S. Thompson said so. “No matter what they do to you, they’re polite about it,” he wrote in Hell’s Angels - A Strange And Terrible Saga.
That is, they are polite as long as you pass what’s known as The Attitude Test. Indignant protests of innocence and threats to “have your badge” will not get you a passing grade. Neither will whining, groveling and offers to show your tits, even if you have tits worth showing, which I don’t. Best to just keep quiet and mentally wear beige.
It also helps to look at the situation from the cop’s point of view. He or she may have just come from the scene of a horrific accident with eyeballs, teeth and swatches of bloody hair among the twisted metal all over the pavement. This particular cop did not look like a rookie, so he’d probably seen a lot of such accident scenes in the course of his career -- and would probably see more.
Besides, the California taxpayers are keeping him in doughnuts to do exactly what he was doing, which was writing me a ticket for breaking California’s mandatory seat belt law. It even has a catchy slogan prominently displayed on freeway billboards: Click It Or Ticket.
The cop took my license, registration and insurance card back to his car so he could radio the dispatcher and find out if I was a wanted felon or maybe a misdemeanor wiseass with a history of unpaid traffic tickets. Nope.
He returned, noting that I had a commercial license with a passenger endorsement. “What do you drive?”
Limousines, I said, silently telling myself the chances of future employment in that career field had just been reduced to zero. Limo companies and their insurers take a dim view of traffic tickets among the ranks.
“Well, this won’t add any points to your record, “ he said.
Swell, but limo companies are not so tolerant. But that’s okay. I haven’t had a limo gig in months and do not anticipate looking for one. I’ll probably donate my tuxedo drags to Goodwill and find something else to so. Anyway, most limousine work is at night and my night vision is fading fast.
I was not alone in being a seatbelt scofflaw. No less than Governor Jerry Brown was stopped and ticketed for not wearing a seatbelt some years back when he was between political jobs. “California is the nanny state,” he grumbled at the time.
The cop showed me where to sign the ticket, gave me my copy, and that was that. He closed his ticket book and I was very grateful for one thing:
He did not say “Have a nice day.”
Comments?
Mike...I was just at the store today when I realized that I was deliberately NOT wearing a seatbelt, and it was PROBABLY because I looked gorgeous today, and had we been stopped, I would have had someone to talk to. So sorry your experience was not deliberate, and that you had to get the damned fine...is it REALLY so bad that you won't be able to drive limos anymore...uh..is it okay for you to RIDE in em without seatbelts? Your favorite scofflaw and fan -- Amanda
I quit driving limos months ago when I realized how badly my night vision had deteriorated, and I don’t really miss that vocation, and yes, stretch limos are equipped with seat belts for passengers, but in my experience, they are seldom used. I also drove vans dedicated to carrying airline crews. Surprisingly, airline crews never fasten their seat belts in crew vans during runs to and from the airport, even though that short road trip is statistically the most dangerous part of their working day. Only one time in 10 years did a crew fasten their seat belts in my van, and only then at my request. It was after a near miss on the way to the airport on a day that turned out very eventful indeed: 9/11/2001. -- MB
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Sorry about your ticket, Toots. I'm so damn short that my seat belt cuts me right across the carotid...I HATE the stupid thing, but my grand kids absolutely panic if I "forget" to use it. -- Cyn
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Well bummer...but a good article none the less. -- Mary Pat
_____
I had done Palm-Desert to Scottsdale in about 4 hours, while I had been told it would take a bit more than five. So I had decided the return trip wouldn't last more than 3 and a half. And I was just in my schedule when...
It was night, and in my small hired Japanese car, I was doing 110 behind a huge American thing that was speeding like crazy. When a car with more lights than a Xmas tree got between me and him, I thought the poor sucker had been caught. Then I noticed the other Xmas tree flashing its lights behind me. I didn't know what the appropriate attitude is in these circumstances.
In France (where I hardly ever get arrested), I get out of the car and talk to the cops, eyes in the eyes. Equal to equal. So, I lifted my hands high, showing they were empty, then slowly got out of the car.
"Get back to your car, or you'll be dead in 30 seconds!".a metallic voice said.
Minutes later, asked if he had really intended to shoot me, he laughed and explained my life expectancy was less than a minute on the side of an American motorway. He kindly offered to minimize my speed to "close to 90", to spare me major problems and a visit to court.
I produced all sorts of papers with different addresses. A 1969 driving licence with the address of the time; an ID with a 1982 address, and even a Floridia driving license with a 1992 address.
He sighed..."Were are we supposed to mail the ticket?"
I told him to decide by himself, and added that French postmen would be smart enough to deliver it no matter the address.
And guess what? They did! -- Gerard
So much for the rumors about French inefficiency. -- Zur alors! -- MB
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Loved it Mr. Mike. Take care guy! -- Kate
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Ah Geeeezzzzz..... do they have senior discounts on these? -- Lynda
No. The fine for a first offense in California is $142 regardless of age, race, creed or national origin. It’s a truly equal opportunity fine. -- MB
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OOOPS -- Karen S.
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Ahhh loved it. Juli
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I have received in my driving career three tickets - one for going 32 in a 25, one for going 52 in a 35, and one for not having insurance - stopped for a light out and found only an expired insurance card, later proved I had current insurance and the ticket was torn up. I have been stopped twice besides that, both for speeding. Once he just told me he would verbally warn me, and to lighten my foot on the accelerator. The other time the officer walked up to my car, noticed the Arabic tattoo on my wrist and asked me what it meant. I said "It means 'Guardian angel that watches over a woman'". He said..."Hm. I guess one is watching over you today. Just slow down." Nicely written article as always, and enjoyed by me, always. -- Zoey
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Here in New Hampshire they actually allow adults over 18 think for themselves regarding seat belts. Of course we were never exposed to the drift from Hiroshima and Nagasaki and have retained the ability to think for ourselves, something I have always suspected Californians lost along the way. -- Ig Bear
Envy is a terrible thing. -- MB
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Monday, April 30, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
The Unabashed Birthday Blog Of Your Sometime Correspondent
Sunday is my birthday, two years shy of my allotted three-score-and-ten. So, in case you’re thinking of giving me a present, I’m registered with Quik-Stop, 7-11 and K-Mart. Not only that, but already Publishers Clearinghouse assures me that I may already be winner! Imagine!
I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long, considering my diet. I mean, until recently my Four Basic Food Groups consisted of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine and Cheetos. I’ve eliminated alcohol with the encouragement of a superior court judge and some professional scolds in the health care field. The latter want to publish my chest x-rays in the pulmonary trade press as a find-the-funeral-wreath puzzle embedded in a picture.
I’ve also substituted Ruffles potato chips for Cheetos. Ruffles don’t get that sticky orange stuff on my fingers and whatever else I touch, like some kind of junk food Midas. As for coffee, I now cut the caffeinated stuff in half with decaffeinated, which is tantamount to a pot smoker adding oregano to his or her stash, but I sleep a little better. Still, I will not give up coffee entirely until my bean grinder is removed from the my cold dead hands by a mortician with a buzz saw.
As for the nicotine, well, I don’t want to get too pure all of a sudden. That way lies a future of annoying zealotry and maybe even street corner evangelism after I’ve exasperated my friends into shunning me because of my smoke free smugness.
Come to think of it, most of my friends don’t smoke at all, the sissies. In fact, tobacco smokers have become latter day lepers. I’m surprised the obnoxiously health obsessed do-gooding meddlers of the anti-tobacco lobby haven’t bullied lawmakers into mandating that surviving smokers wear black shrouds in public and clang handbells while shouting “Unclean! Unclean!”
Thank goodness the tobacco lobby has more clout with our esteemed legislators than the grim Naderites and fresh air fiends who banish smokers out-of-doors in the nastiest of weather, perhaps hoping that a bolt of righteous lightning will incinerate us into ashtray-sized cinders.
Anwyay, after age sixty birthdays become unwelcome reminders of “Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near,” as Andrew Marvell wrote in the Seventeenth Century when he was trying to get in the knickers of his coy mistress, hoping he would do so before he croaked from old age. But Marvell did not die from old age, unless 57 was considered old at the time. If frustration didn't get him, maybe tobacco did. No word on what became of the coy mistress. Perhaps she went to her final reward with her knees clamped firmly together in prim determination. Bet she was a non-smoker too.
Two people my age I know have birthdays within five days of mine. There was a third, but she died from lung cancer at age 35 (“Remembering Edie,” T-Times, March 4, 2012). Lung cancer nailed three other friends in the past few years as well.
Maybe I should learn to take hints?
Naaah.
_____
Any Comments, Critiques or Anonymous Hate Mail?
Happy Birthday and all that. Not wanting to call attention to your aging and all, but just wanted to say that I'm glad you've survived another trip around the sun. Hope you had a good day! -- RJ
_____
I would send you my heart if it would fit in a prepaid box with stamps included, and someone took care of the bill. Happy birthday DEAR MAN, and terrific writer that you are! That was hilarious. Keep sending these Tomatoman Times things to us. -- Amanda
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I sent a donation in your name to the American Lung Association, in honor of your B-day. Happy Birthday to you Mike. -- Holly
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Unfortunately (4 u; 4 me? fortunately!) I can't think of one. Still, u enjoy -- Leon
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Mike, you are your OWN gift...I hope you recognize that. I love how you show the authentic you in your writing...that's what makes it so attractive. May you live long on the vine, get some rest in the compost and then come back again as a lovely little yellow flower! Forever. -- Love from Diane and RJ
With my karma, I’ll probably come back as a skunk cabbage. -- MB
_____
Your turn, Mike! Happy birthday and many happy returns! Be wholesome, be happy, keep on writing, dearest fellow Aries.. -- Galen
Galen is my senior by one day. -- MB
_____
Happy birthday. I will be 70 in October. I share you enjoyment in writing. -- Ken
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Happy birthday, Mike, from a fellow Aries! -- Ann C
_____
Interesting, I was told that we came from cabbage patches. Now I find out that the Easter Bunny delivered you (in a pretty, woven basket, no doubt). I have no discretionary income at this time which would enable me to send you a birthday gift; however, I expect to shortly receive notice from a bank VP in Burkina Vaso that I have many millions in US dollars left to me by my fifth cousin twice removed who died in a spectacular plane crash several years ago. I shall be happy to forward you a few dollars at that time. -- HM
That’s okay. I’m sure Publishers Clearninghouse will come through. Several Nigerian bankers have also e-mailed me with attractive offers, but thanks anyway -- MB
_____
From Abby McLoughlin, age 6: [re: Abby And Her Locks Of Love, T-Times, March 30]
Dear Mr. Mike,
My mommy says your birthday is tomorrow. Mine is April the 10th So Happy Birthday to you! I had a birthday party at gymnastics yesterday. It was fun and I had an alligator cake! Mommy says that your lungs are sick and it is very hard for you to breathe okay. Please don't smoke cigarettes anymore. They will make you more sicker. If you try really, really hard to stop I will save a cupcake for you and we can eat it at lunch at Panda-era's. 4, 2, 1 (this is our secret code meaning: Forever 2 hearts, 1 love).
Love,
Abby or Abigail whatever you like to call me.
Dear Abby or Abigail (your name, your choice),
That is the nicest birthday greeting I have ever received. Your offer of a cupcake in exchange for my quitting smoking is more than a fair trade. As far as I know cupcakes are healthier than cigarettes and taste better, too. I'm not sure about an alligator cake, though.
421,
Mike
_____
Now, who could refuse an offer like that? You should try, really, really
hard to quit. After all, a cupcake is at stake, along with a lunch at Panda-ears. -- Shannon
_____
Happy Day! Mine's on the 16th...you buy yourself something for $10 and I'll do the same and we'll celebrate "together" ... very funny post, BTW -- Cyn
_____
And I just send you a carton of cigarettes! Damn. I didn't think you'd stopped. Well, Happy Birthday from one of the last smokers in the world. -- Beaty
_____
Wow, I don't know anybody as old as you <WEG>. Have a happy birthday. You point out all the foibles of the over-culture and yet you live on....just goes to show they don't know everything! -- Mary Pat
_____
I remembered in late March and said: do NOT forget to sent greetings. Then I forgot. Happy Birthday, yungin' -- and so far 68 is OK back here. -- Tim
_____
Ordinarily I'd say you really would rather I didn't...even before reading the post...burt since it's you, I figure you're game for anything, and that just creates a challenge for me, so no. But happy birthday! ...but I did have Cheetos for lunch. That's celebratory, right? -- Shag
Certainly! -- MB
_____
I have realms of free advice. Just pick a subject. I am 62 -- Doc
Thanks, Junior. -- MB
_____
Good job Mike: Which 7-11? -- Lowell & Diane
Whichever one accepts promissary notes. -- MB
_____
Damn those wingéd chariots anyway! -- Sum
_____
Happy Birthday Mike!! -- Soy
_____
Wonderful and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! !!! -- Julisari
_____
Happy Birthday, you ol' grouch! Hope you have a great day! -- Shan
_____
Happy Birthday! -- Kan
_____
Sure. I'll send you a present if you send me some money first. Funny article. Happy Birthday/Easter! -- Anneg
That was present a-plenty, thank you. -- MB
_____
No! You never sent me anything for my birthday a few weeks ago! So there!!! BTW, Happy Birthday -- BP
I didn’t you know it was your birthday! Good heavens! I’ll forward my Publishers Clearinghouse packet right away! -- MB
I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long, considering my diet. I mean, until recently my Four Basic Food Groups consisted of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine and Cheetos. I’ve eliminated alcohol with the encouragement of a superior court judge and some professional scolds in the health care field. The latter want to publish my chest x-rays in the pulmonary trade press as a find-the-funeral-wreath puzzle embedded in a picture.
I’ve also substituted Ruffles potato chips for Cheetos. Ruffles don’t get that sticky orange stuff on my fingers and whatever else I touch, like some kind of junk food Midas. As for coffee, I now cut the caffeinated stuff in half with decaffeinated, which is tantamount to a pot smoker adding oregano to his or her stash, but I sleep a little better. Still, I will not give up coffee entirely until my bean grinder is removed from the my cold dead hands by a mortician with a buzz saw.
As for the nicotine, well, I don’t want to get too pure all of a sudden. That way lies a future of annoying zealotry and maybe even street corner evangelism after I’ve exasperated my friends into shunning me because of my smoke free smugness.
Come to think of it, most of my friends don’t smoke at all, the sissies. In fact, tobacco smokers have become latter day lepers. I’m surprised the obnoxiously health obsessed do-gooding meddlers of the anti-tobacco lobby haven’t bullied lawmakers into mandating that surviving smokers wear black shrouds in public and clang handbells while shouting “Unclean! Unclean!”
Thank goodness the tobacco lobby has more clout with our esteemed legislators than the grim Naderites and fresh air fiends who banish smokers out-of-doors in the nastiest of weather, perhaps hoping that a bolt of righteous lightning will incinerate us into ashtray-sized cinders.
Anwyay, after age sixty birthdays become unwelcome reminders of “Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near,” as Andrew Marvell wrote in the Seventeenth Century when he was trying to get in the knickers of his coy mistress, hoping he would do so before he croaked from old age. But Marvell did not die from old age, unless 57 was considered old at the time. If frustration didn't get him, maybe tobacco did. No word on what became of the coy mistress. Perhaps she went to her final reward with her knees clamped firmly together in prim determination. Bet she was a non-smoker too.
Two people my age I know have birthdays within five days of mine. There was a third, but she died from lung cancer at age 35 (“Remembering Edie,” T-Times, March 4, 2012). Lung cancer nailed three other friends in the past few years as well.
Maybe I should learn to take hints?
Naaah.
_____
Any Comments, Critiques or Anonymous Hate Mail?
Happy Birthday and all that. Not wanting to call attention to your aging and all, but just wanted to say that I'm glad you've survived another trip around the sun. Hope you had a good day! -- RJ
_____
I would send you my heart if it would fit in a prepaid box with stamps included, and someone took care of the bill. Happy birthday DEAR MAN, and terrific writer that you are! That was hilarious. Keep sending these Tomatoman Times things to us. -- Amanda
_____
I sent a donation in your name to the American Lung Association, in honor of your B-day. Happy Birthday to you Mike. -- Holly
_____
Unfortunately (4 u; 4 me? fortunately!) I can't think of one. Still, u enjoy -- Leon
_____
Mike, you are your OWN gift...I hope you recognize that. I love how you show the authentic you in your writing...that's what makes it so attractive. May you live long on the vine, get some rest in the compost and then come back again as a lovely little yellow flower! Forever. -- Love from Diane and RJ
With my karma, I’ll probably come back as a skunk cabbage. -- MB
_____
Your turn, Mike! Happy birthday and many happy returns! Be wholesome, be happy, keep on writing, dearest fellow Aries.. -- Galen
Galen is my senior by one day. -- MB
_____
Happy birthday. I will be 70 in October. I share you enjoyment in writing. -- Ken
_____
Happy birthday, Mike, from a fellow Aries! -- Ann C
_____
Interesting, I was told that we came from cabbage patches. Now I find out that the Easter Bunny delivered you (in a pretty, woven basket, no doubt). I have no discretionary income at this time which would enable me to send you a birthday gift; however, I expect to shortly receive notice from a bank VP in Burkina Vaso that I have many millions in US dollars left to me by my fifth cousin twice removed who died in a spectacular plane crash several years ago. I shall be happy to forward you a few dollars at that time. -- HM
That’s okay. I’m sure Publishers Clearninghouse will come through. Several Nigerian bankers have also e-mailed me with attractive offers, but thanks anyway -- MB
_____
From Abby McLoughlin, age 6: [re: Abby And Her Locks Of Love, T-Times, March 30]
Dear Mr. Mike,
My mommy says your birthday is tomorrow. Mine is April the 10th So Happy Birthday to you! I had a birthday party at gymnastics yesterday. It was fun and I had an alligator cake! Mommy says that your lungs are sick and it is very hard for you to breathe okay. Please don't smoke cigarettes anymore. They will make you more sicker. If you try really, really hard to stop I will save a cupcake for you and we can eat it at lunch at Panda-era's. 4, 2, 1 (this is our secret code meaning: Forever 2 hearts, 1 love).
Love,
Abby or Abigail whatever you like to call me.
Dear Abby or Abigail (your name, your choice),
That is the nicest birthday greeting I have ever received. Your offer of a cupcake in exchange for my quitting smoking is more than a fair trade. As far as I know cupcakes are healthier than cigarettes and taste better, too. I'm not sure about an alligator cake, though.
421,
Mike
_____
Now, who could refuse an offer like that? You should try, really, really
hard to quit. After all, a cupcake is at stake, along with a lunch at Panda-ears. -- Shannon
_____
Happy Day! Mine's on the 16th...you buy yourself something for $10 and I'll do the same and we'll celebrate "together" ... very funny post, BTW -- Cyn
_____
And I just send you a carton of cigarettes! Damn. I didn't think you'd stopped. Well, Happy Birthday from one of the last smokers in the world. -- Beaty
_____
Wow, I don't know anybody as old as you <WEG>. Have a happy birthday. You point out all the foibles of the over-culture and yet you live on....just goes to show they don't know everything! -- Mary Pat
_____
I remembered in late March and said: do NOT forget to sent greetings. Then I forgot. Happy Birthday, yungin' -- and so far 68 is OK back here. -- Tim
_____
Ordinarily I'd say you really would rather I didn't...even before reading the post...burt since it's you, I figure you're game for anything, and that just creates a challenge for me, so no. But happy birthday! ...but I did have Cheetos for lunch. That's celebratory, right? -- Shag
Certainly! -- MB
_____
I have realms of free advice. Just pick a subject. I am 62 -- Doc
Thanks, Junior. -- MB
_____
Good job Mike: Which 7-11? -- Lowell & Diane
Whichever one accepts promissary notes. -- MB
_____
Damn those wingéd chariots anyway! -- Sum
_____
Happy Birthday Mike!! -- Soy
_____
Wonderful and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! !!! -- Julisari
_____
Happy Birthday, you ol' grouch! Hope you have a great day! -- Shan
_____
Happy Birthday! -- Kan
_____
Sure. I'll send you a present if you send me some money first. Funny article. Happy Birthday/Easter! -- Anneg
That was present a-plenty, thank you. -- MB
_____
No! You never sent me anything for my birthday a few weeks ago! So there!!! BTW, Happy Birthday -- BP
I didn’t you know it was your birthday! Good heavens! I’ll forward my Publishers Clearinghouse packet right away! -- MB
Friday, March 30, 2012
Abby And Her Locks Of Love
Mountain-Democrat photo - Pat Dollins
Last week I had lunch with six-year-old Abby McGloughlin. Her mother, Bre, was allowed to accompany her as long a Bre promised to behave herself and eat all her veggies. I’ve known Bre for about 15 years, getting acquainted with her on-line when she was quarantined for a year while recuperating from leukemia. Her meds had knocked her immune system down, so her social life was limited to chatting on her computer.
Bre and her husband, Stephen, are both from Ireland and we share a liking for Celtic music. As it happens, Bre had sung Gaelic ballads in a heartbreaking contralto before the leukemia meds took away her singing voice as well as her immune system. She even cut a CD for her church, a Protestant denomination. Seems that Bre cast aside centuries of her family's Irish-Catholic history to become a Baptist. “They seemed to have more fun” she explained when asked why.
For her, church attendance should not be a grimly pious occasion, which she demonstrated by such stunts as putting a motorized shark fin in the baptismal font prior to a service. When the pastor finally noticed, he looked right at Bre. As did the entire congregation. Bre put on a “Who, me?” expression and feigned innocence.
In addition to losing her singing voice and immunity to bacteria, Bre also lost custody of her three daughters and three stepdaughters as a result of the disease, but managed to keep her three legged turtle, Tripod, and formed a circle of new friends and admirers on-line while housebound.
Once her quarantine was over, Bre organized Wednesday Night Pizza at a pizzeria for the eclectic bunch she had befriended via computer. They included a locomotive engineer, a commercial pilot, a computer geek or two, a 15-year-old girl whose sneeze could open a garage door, a few college students and one unemployed writer. All we had in common was an affinity for computers and a deep affection for Bre.
We both moved to different areas but kept in touch now and then over the years. I didn’t know about Abby until recently. We agreed to meet for lunch at a restaurant halfway between Sacramento and her pastoral home in the Sierra foothills where the McLoughlins moved to escape Sacramento's urban sprawl.
We met at the Panera sandwich emporium in Folsom. Bre brought Abby with her. My usual attitude toward children is that they should be locked up until they are 30, but Abby promptly improved my thinking. When we met, she looked at me with eyes as blue as the lake waters of Lough Derravaragh on a clear Erin day, extended a small hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Mike,” with the poise of someone many years her senior. While Bre and I chatted about boring grownup stuff, Abby quietly amused herself by drawing Bre’s initials on a napkin while I quietly fell in love with that kid.
We met at the Panera sandwich emporium in Folsom. Bre brought Abby with her. My usual attitude toward children is that they should be locked up until they are 30, but Abby promptly improved my thinking. When we met, she looked at me with eyes as blue as the lake waters of Lough Derravaragh on a clear Erin day, extended a small hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Mike,” with the poise of someone many years her senior. While Bre and I chatted about boring grownup stuff, Abby quietly amused herself by drawing Bre’s initials on a napkin while I quietly fell in love with that kid.
I’m not the only one, as shown by the following newspaper article from the Placerville Mountain Democrat:
By Rosemary Revell
Mountain Democrat staff writer
February 21, 2010
Abby McGloughlin of Placerville used to have hair that fell like a waterfall down her back to below her bottom, but now she has hair that just reaches her shoulders. Abby, 4 years old, had 12 inches cut off so that she could donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides hairpieces to disadvantaged children suffering from medical hair loss caused by chemotherapy or disease.
Abby is the daughter of Stephen and Bre McGloughlin of Placerville, and she attends Montessori Country Day School. She is quite precise about her age, saying “I’m 4 and three-fourths years old” and equally articulate in explaining why she gave her hair away. “I want to give my hair to someone who doesn’t have any hair,” she said.
Abby’s mother explained that in October, Abby saw a program on the Discovery Health TV channel. “She saw a little girl who was 5 and had Alopecia, a condition where you can’t grow hair. She’s had the idea to donate her hair since then,” although she admitted that she and her husband tried to talk Abby out of her donation.
“Her hair’s been growing since birth. I only trimmed it once when her brother Brendan put bubble gum in it,” said McGloughlin.
Dressed in a red valentine dress, Abby hopped up and down and swung her little purse back and forth on the big day. She appeared excited and happy that the moment had finally arrived when she could give away her hair. Abby was ready for the shearing, but her parents were not.
“My husband couldn’t bear to come today. He’s worse than I am. She’s daddy’s little girl,” said Bre McGloughlin.
McGloughlin herself came bolstered by the presence of two of her friends. The big event took place at Super Cuts on Golden Center Drive in Placerville, “the only salon I found that worked with Locks of Love,” McGloughlin said. Nine people were in the salon, but Abby did not seem to be intimidated by their presence.
Hairstylist and salon manager Laura Winter seated the little girl on the big salon chair, draped her, brushed her hair out, bundled it into a pony tail, and trimmed off 4 3/4 years of hair growth in just seconds. Then she dampened Abby’s hair, trimmed it to be even and blew it dry. The new Abby was revealed as every bit as beautiful as the old Abby - inside as well as out.
“I’m going to grow it out so I can donate it again,” she said, apparently unfazed by the loss of an entire foot of hair.
Abby has two brothers, Matti, 6, and Brendan, 8, and Bre McGloughlin said she and her husband, who is from Ireland, have raised their children to care about others - although McGloughlin admits it backfires from time to time.
“Brendan came home from school one day without his shoes. I asked him what happened to his shoes, and he said, ‘There’s a boy in my class who didn’t have very nice shoes, so I gave him my shoes,’” McGloughlin said.
Wendy von Haesler, one of McGloughlin’s friends who accompanied her to the salon, said, “Their mom and dad are such wonderful people. They are very giving. She is a giver - always giving, giving, giving.”
Comments?
I enjoyed the essay and the story. Chloe, 6, my granddaughter, said something that amused me. I was babysitting her in a motel room in Oklahoma City. I took off my shirt and lay on the bed. I still had a T shirt on. She later told her parents that Pappy had taken off his shirt and lay on the bed, and it was awkward. -- Ken
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Great posting, Mike - very touching! Two of my granddaughters do the hair thing regularly -- they're so spoiled they spend most of their time just growing their hair. -- Cyn
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Well Mike, you're approaching tearjerkers. What a wonderful child. It seems European children are raised a little more thoughtfully on average. Maybe there's no baby talk. -- Wht
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Mike...that was a beautiful article. Such lovely people! Thanks, as always, for sharing. -- SOY
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Great piece, Mike. -- L. G. Vernon
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Love this! -- Juli
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What a beautiful article. -- Pamela
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Mike, this was a lovely story, and how fun that you and Abby and Bre had lunch together. Please give my best regards to Bre and her family next time you see her. -- Shannon
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I'm real glad that you sent me this story. I'm glad you were ready to share it. And perhaps you only suggested we needed tissues because we might be more moved than you, but I doubt it. I wonder if your tears are stuffed into a pocket somewhere or if they can ever been seen. Whatever the case, good on you for the words. And good on you again for knowing that sometimes there are moments that we just watch, wordless, and are amazed. -- Zoey
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Very loving piece, Mike. Would that more of us learned how to give at that age, and did not forget.-- Kent
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That was a beautiful story, Mike. Thanks for sharing it with me. -- Amanda
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Abby is the daughter of Stephen and Bre McGloughlin of Placerville, and she attends Montessori Country Day School. She is quite precise about her age, saying “I’m 4 and three-fourths years old” and equally articulate in explaining why she gave her hair away. “I want to give my hair to someone who doesn’t have any hair,” she said.
Abby’s mother explained that in October, Abby saw a program on the Discovery Health TV channel. “She saw a little girl who was 5 and had Alopecia, a condition where you can’t grow hair. She’s had the idea to donate her hair since then,” although she admitted that she and her husband tried to talk Abby out of her donation.
“Her hair’s been growing since birth. I only trimmed it once when her brother Brendan put bubble gum in it,” said McGloughlin.
Dressed in a red valentine dress, Abby hopped up and down and swung her little purse back and forth on the big day. She appeared excited and happy that the moment had finally arrived when she could give away her hair. Abby was ready for the shearing, but her parents were not.
“My husband couldn’t bear to come today. He’s worse than I am. She’s daddy’s little girl,” said Bre McGloughlin.
McGloughlin herself came bolstered by the presence of two of her friends. The big event took place at Super Cuts on Golden Center Drive in Placerville, “the only salon I found that worked with Locks of Love,” McGloughlin said. Nine people were in the salon, but Abby did not seem to be intimidated by their presence.
Hairstylist and salon manager Laura Winter seated the little girl on the big salon chair, draped her, brushed her hair out, bundled it into a pony tail, and trimmed off 4 3/4 years of hair growth in just seconds. Then she dampened Abby’s hair, trimmed it to be even and blew it dry. The new Abby was revealed as every bit as beautiful as the old Abby - inside as well as out.
“I’m going to grow it out so I can donate it again,” she said, apparently unfazed by the loss of an entire foot of hair.
Abby has two brothers, Matti, 6, and Brendan, 8, and Bre McGloughlin said she and her husband, who is from Ireland, have raised their children to care about others - although McGloughlin admits it backfires from time to time.
“Brendan came home from school one day without his shoes. I asked him what happened to his shoes, and he said, ‘There’s a boy in my class who didn’t have very nice shoes, so I gave him my shoes,’” McGloughlin said.
Wendy von Haesler, one of McGloughlin’s friends who accompanied her to the salon, said, “Their mom and dad are such wonderful people. They are very giving. She is a giver - always giving, giving, giving.”
Comments?
I enjoyed the essay and the story. Chloe, 6, my granddaughter, said something that amused me. I was babysitting her in a motel room in Oklahoma City. I took off my shirt and lay on the bed. I still had a T shirt on. She later told her parents that Pappy had taken off his shirt and lay on the bed, and it was awkward. -- Ken
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Great posting, Mike - very touching! Two of my granddaughters do the hair thing regularly -- they're so spoiled they spend most of their time just growing their hair. -- Cyn
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Well Mike, you're approaching tearjerkers. What a wonderful child. It seems European children are raised a little more thoughtfully on average. Maybe there's no baby talk. -- Wht
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Mike...that was a beautiful article. Such lovely people! Thanks, as always, for sharing. -- SOY
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Great piece, Mike. -- L. G. Vernon
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Love this! -- Juli
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What a beautiful article. -- Pamela
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Mike, this was a lovely story, and how fun that you and Abby and Bre had lunch together. Please give my best regards to Bre and her family next time you see her. -- Shannon
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I'm real glad that you sent me this story. I'm glad you were ready to share it. And perhaps you only suggested we needed tissues because we might be more moved than you, but I doubt it. I wonder if your tears are stuffed into a pocket somewhere or if they can ever been seen. Whatever the case, good on you for the words. And good on you again for knowing that sometimes there are moments that we just watch, wordless, and are amazed. -- Zoey
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Very loving piece, Mike. Would that more of us learned how to give at that age, and did not forget.-- Kent
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That was a beautiful story, Mike. Thanks for sharing it with me. -- Amanda
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Saturday, March 3, 2012
Remembering Edie
Edie and I had a lot in common. Our birthdays were a year and a day apart; we‘d lived in the same Alaska city as kids but didn’t know each other then; we both liked the ballads of Gordon Lightfoot; and we were both majoring in English at the same community college where our British literature instructor took an avid interest in the two of us, although for vastly different reasons.
Edie was also smarter than me. If I got a B on a paper, Edie got an A. If I got an A, Edie got an A+. She was a natural writer. He her prose was concise and uncommonly witty for the turgid style and fussy formats inflicted by English departments on the undergraduate hoi polloi.
I was not intimidated by Edie’s literary superiority, nor envious or sullen in the manner of morbidly sensitive English majors who have all the social graces of poison clams when encountering their intellectual betters. Hell, Edie turned me on, and I let her know it with all the subtlety I was capable of at the age of 24, when my hormones ruled my head.
She let me down gently, explaining that she and our Brit Lit instructor were lovers. She was divorcing her husband, had custody of her six-year-old son, lived in a 3-room cabin built in the 1930s, and subsisted on child support payments and county welfare assistance. In short, she was not available for horizontal fun or even an upright quickie over the kitchen sink. At least not with me, but said she could always use another pal. She was astute enough not the use the phrase “just friends,” when describing any future interaction between us, which is the Alcatraz of male-female relations. Hard to escape.
The Brit Lit instructor was also married, natch, and had three kids and houseful of Welsh Corgis. But he was a handsome devil; half Cherokee with a dark brooding manner and a Van Dyke beard that gave him a menacing Mephistophelian look that many young women with poetic aspirations find irresistible. He completed the ensemble with a closet full of turtleneck shirts, corduroy jackets with leather patch elbows and several pairs of Birkenstock sandals. The Compleat Humanities Professor.
He had discovered poetry as a Marine, of all things, aboard a troop ship bound for Korea, of all places, during the height of American involvement in that stalemated war. After the service, he enrolled in U.C. Santa Barbara where he earned a bachelor’s degree in English, followed by a master’s from Yale. Then he began an itinerant career as a teacher, refining his angry seeker-of-truth-and-beauty act at 11 year junior colleges in 11 years before settling down at our marvelous little campus in the redwood country of California’s north coast.
There were other complications, or course. A large rolling tank of female assertiveness who taught American Lit zeroed in on him as mating material and campaigned relentlessly for his attention. And Edie? She was being wooed by a humorless biology major and poet manqué who’d spent five years in community college to avoid the draft.
Edie would sometimes invite me over for a spaghetti dinner. I’d bring a jug Red Mountain wine and we’d talk about books, poetry and listen to Gordon Lightfoot’s latest release that I’d liberated from the radio station where I worked alone as a DJ five nights a week. She would ask my advice on what she should do about her love life. Even then I knew the last thing she wanted was advice. What she wanted was an accomplice, or at least a confidant. Edie had another male pal for the same purpose, a married middle-aged projectionist at one of the town’s two movie theaters whom she also visited at work.
Edie was definetely not a woman’s woman, yet her closest friend was a woman named Donna who served as surrogate sister and a partner in mischief.
I got snagged into one of their stunts. When Edie was perplexed about being in a pickle between her lover and her suitor, she and Donna put on their shortest skirts and made a cockteasing run at a fleshpot bar that catered to the college crowd. They met two Canadian boys at the bar who were touring America on a motorcycle. One of the boys claimed to know his fellow countryman, Gordon Lightfoot. Hearing that, Edie dialed up her erotic wattage and almost exuded a fog of mating musk. By the time last call was announced, Edie and Donna had decided to continue the party at Donna’s, which was nine miles away, and left the bar with the Canadian lads in tow, everyone piling into Donna’s car.
The night air cooled Edie‘s libido and assailed her with second thoughts. She called me at home and rousted me out of bed. In a panicked voice, she said there were “two men in Donna’s house that we can’t get rid of,” her tone implying that they were about to be raped at knife point by two Hell’s Angels.
I was at banging on Donna’s door within 10 minutes. One of the supposed brutes, who looked about as menacing as a 13-year-old, was dozing on the couch. The other pillaging Visigoth was hiding in the kitchen, trying to squeeze himself into the narrow space between the refrigerator and the wall. I sighed, looked at Edie and Donna in sleep disturbed disgust, and offered to drive the unlaid Canadian lads back to their motorcycle. “You‘re saving the dragons!” Edie wailed as I herded the frightened and bewildered boys out the door. I didn’t speak to her for a month after that.
True to form, the Brit Lit prof quit our college after a year and took a job teaching at a community college in Calgary, Alberta, and wanted Edie to move to the same city and continue to be a friend with benefits. She was still being pursued by the draft dodging perennial student too. She asked me what she should do. Well, I said, you can move to strange cold city where you don’t know anyone, rent a furnished room and wait by the telephone, or you can stay here and give your draft dodger a chance.
What she did not know about the draft dodger was that his mother was a letterhead partner in an accounting firm with offices in San Francisco, New York and London. She also owned a summer home in one of the gated communities of the Sonoma Valley wine country. I did know that, but kept my mouth shut.
Edie stayed put and eventually married the draft dodger, whose mother always wanted a daughter and who showered Edie with presents, including two weeks in London at one of Europe’s grandest hotels, Claridge’s, where visiting kings and presidents rest their weary heads, and where rates begin at $600 USD per night. She wrote to me on Claridge’s stationery reporting that she was seeing places we had only read about: the Tower Of London, Mayfair, the British Museum, and that she could not stop crying. “I was out walking around in tears from just being in London when I saw a small brass plaque on a gate. It identified the house behind the gate as the home of William Blake! That started another crying jag!”
Not bad for former welfare case who'd lived in a three room shack.
She and her husband returned to northern California. He adopted her son, became serious about college, earned a master’s degree in biology, and got a job with the state Department of Fish & Game in the San Jaoquin Valley. Edie was hired as a case worker for the county welfare office, since she knew the system so well, and her mother-in-law bought a house for the new family about 35 miles from where I had moved. I’d stop by now and then. The year was 1978.
Edie did not look well at all the last time I visited. Her surrogate sister Donna was present and appeared to have moved in. Edie’s actual sister, Bernice, had also taken up residence. A feather of foreboding touched the back of my brain.
“You look like hell,” I said. Mr. Tact.
“I’m sick,” she said.
“How sick?”
“Very.”
“Got the Big C?”
“Yes.”
“Mammary? Cervix?” Mr. Sensitive.
“Lung.”
“How much time?”
“Maybe a month. Maybe three to six months if I take chemo, which I won‘t.”
"God damn it!" I yelled and threw my hat against a wall. Donna and Bernice looked at me sympathetically. Edie had been a light smoker. A pack of her favorite menthols would last her a week, but her susceptibility to lung cancer may have been genetic. Her father had died early from the same disease.
A month later Edie was dead. She was 34 years old. Her husband was with her at the moment she died. "She woke up, smiled at me, closed her eyes, and that was it," he said.
What brought all this on was my recent visit to the VA hospital in Sacramento, where I was diagnosed with emphysema. I was not surprised. I’ve been a heavy smoker for over 50 years. I once asked a cousin of mine, who had been an emergency room doctor for many years, what was the greatest single cause for emergency room visits. Alcohol? Drugs?
“Lifestyle choices, “ he said.
The key word is choices. I seem to have made some poor ones. Well, shoot. The best I can do now is to take it easy and not sweat the petty stuff or pet the sweaty stuff, as another former teacher of mine once said. She died from lung cancer too. Another smoker.
I’ve almost reached my allotted three-score-and-ten of longevity anyway. Like other old farts, I’ve been wondering about an afterlife, in which I don’t really believe. But if there is one, I’ll consider Mark Twain’s counsel: “Heaven for the climate. Hell for the company.”
An easy choice. I’m accustomed to lousy climates and I’ve always been gregarious. I just hope I can go as gently into that good night as my friend Edie did. Even now, she remains a guide.
Comments?
As always, well done, poignant, up, down and around every emotion. Hang in there kiddo, I'm still smoking, 3 score plus 10 and refuse to give in. We will surprise everyone! -- Linda
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I've got a couple of friends here with emphysema, and as long as they follow their doctor's orders, they live pretty well...so, quit smoking, and follow your doctor's orders. -- Shannon
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Mike...lovely piece about Edie but I'm so sorry to hear that you are not well. I hope that with good medical attention you will be able to keep it controlled for many years. -- Soy
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It's never too late. Please, please take better care of yourself. Otherwise, who will send me such evocative stories? My life is made richer from reading what you've written over the years. Your stories, while personal, always touch upon the universal somehow, and what makes us so very human. --Tab A
Will you be my agent? -- MB
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I'm sorry to hear you have emphysema. That is a disease that can be lived with for years. I presume you know that. If you take care of yourself, and do what the doctors tell you, you may have many good moments -- and years -- remaining. -- Ann C.
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Gloomy, schmooomy.....good writin' is good writin'....all the good writers got lung disease...keep writing up til the last breath (pun intended), and never, ever apologize! you are beeeeauuuutiful...never forget that. -- Canny
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Hello Mike, just a quick word here .. 3 score isnt long enough , get greedy , get angry get a few more decades damnit..get a lung . Sorry Im so busy I'd come cheer you up wirth hookers , wine some good cannibis in cookies or brownies. Whatever it takes, buddy -- Nick and Amy in Arkansas
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Please do not leave. I need you living even if you do not write often. -- Fay
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You've never made me cry...before. -- Bach Lennon
Didn’t mean to do that. Just meant to spread a little gloom. -- MB
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Beautifully written, but so sad to hear that you're not well. Hugs, prayers,and warm, healing thoughts. -- Kerry
Appreciate that. -- MB
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Thanks. I needed this. Just posted to Facebook.-- Sum
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Another beautifully written essay, spanning details to the big unknowables. -- Galen
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As I get older, I, too, often think of my mortality, and what lies beyond. Of course, we don't really know unless we embrace the beliefs of the Believers, and, of course, that is at best something I only speculate about and raise my eyebrows. Still, there might be something to it. After all, I fancy thinking that when I go, my father will be waiting for me. I've missed him for eighteen years and I really would like to hug him again on some puffy white cloud. -- Zoey
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Nice, descriptive writing. The college scene was too much for me. That and the drugs! -- Gambatay
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Poignant ..loved it -- Juliari
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Mike, I don't know about an afterlife. I just know that people who face it with dignity are to be admired. God help us all with that. -- Wht
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I enjoyed reading the essay. I am sorry about your illness. I am thinking about writing about some embarrassing experiences for my next newspaper column. Here are two experiences that you might find amusing. When I was a freshman at Yale, I was on the front row in a psychology class. The professor started talking about sex. I fainted and fell on the floor dramatically. The professor asked a student to escort me to the infirmary. Another time I was standing in a bookstore in Grand Central Station. I was reading a passage in a book about the sex habits of French girls, and I fainted again. I later was able to enjoy sex without fainting. I do not remember what the book said about French girls. -- Ken
Gee, Ken, some women mind find that fainting quirk endearing, if it didn’t alarm them. They might even invite some of their girlfriends to watch, which could lead to some intriguing possibilities. MB
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Mike...lovely piece about Edie but I'm so sorry to hear that you are not well. I hope that with good medical attention you will be able to keep it controlled for many years. -- Soy
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It's never too late. Please, please take better care of yourself. Otherwise, who will send me such evocative stories? My life is made richer from reading what you've written over the years. Your stories, while personal, always touch upon the universal somehow, and what makes us so very human. --Tab A
Will you be my agent? -- MB
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I'm sorry to hear you have emphysema. That is a disease that can be lived with for years. I presume you know that. If you take care of yourself, and do what the doctors tell you, you may have many good moments -- and years -- remaining. -- Ann C.
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Gloomy, schmooomy.....good writin' is good writin'....all the good writers got lung disease...keep writing up til the last breath (pun intended), and never, ever apologize! you are beeeeauuuutiful...never forget that. -- Canny
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Hello Mike, just a quick word here .. 3 score isnt long enough , get greedy , get angry get a few more decades damnit..get a lung . Sorry Im so busy I'd come cheer you up wirth hookers , wine some good cannibis in cookies or brownies. Whatever it takes, buddy -- Nick and Amy in Arkansas
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Please do not leave. I need you living even if you do not write often. -- Fay
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You've never made me cry...before. -- Bach Lennon
Didn’t mean to do that. Just meant to spread a little gloom. -- MB
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Beautifully written, but so sad to hear that you're not well. Hugs, prayers,and warm, healing thoughts. -- Kerry
Appreciate that. -- MB
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Thanks. I needed this. Just posted to Facebook.-- Sum
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Another beautifully written essay, spanning details to the big unknowables. -- Galen
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As I get older, I, too, often think of my mortality, and what lies beyond. Of course, we don't really know unless we embrace the beliefs of the Believers, and, of course, that is at best something I only speculate about and raise my eyebrows. Still, there might be something to it. After all, I fancy thinking that when I go, my father will be waiting for me. I've missed him for eighteen years and I really would like to hug him again on some puffy white cloud. -- Zoey
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Nice, descriptive writing. The college scene was too much for me. That and the drugs! -- Gambatay
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Poignant ..loved it -- Juliari
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Mike, I don't know about an afterlife. I just know that people who face it with dignity are to be admired. God help us all with that. -- Wht
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I enjoyed reading the essay. I am sorry about your illness. I am thinking about writing about some embarrassing experiences for my next newspaper column. Here are two experiences that you might find amusing. When I was a freshman at Yale, I was on the front row in a psychology class. The professor started talking about sex. I fainted and fell on the floor dramatically. The professor asked a student to escort me to the infirmary. Another time I was standing in a bookstore in Grand Central Station. I was reading a passage in a book about the sex habits of French girls, and I fainted again. I later was able to enjoy sex without fainting. I do not remember what the book said about French girls. -- Ken
Gee, Ken, some women mind find that fainting quirk endearing, if it didn’t alarm them. They might even invite some of their girlfriends to watch, which could lead to some intriguing possibilities. MB
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Planned Parenthood And The Girl Scout Cookie Conspiracy
It’s about time! At last, a powerful beacon of conservative reason is illuminating the rocks and shoals of corrupt left wing immorality!
I am referring to Rep. Bob Morris (R-Indiana) and his shocking disclosure that those commie pinko Girl Scouts of America are in league with the dark forces of that spawn of Satan, Planned Parenthood, in promoting homosexuality and abortion on demand.
Right thinking Americans have suspected as much for years. “Take those cookies, for example,” said a spokesman for the George W. Bush Liberty And Literacy Foundation, “they are a gateway cookie that could tragically lead to a birth control or morning after pill addiction. We’d then have to divert tax revenues from defense and into addiction recovery programs, which could even lead to financing godless projects like stem cell research.”
As for homosexuality and abortion, the parent of a 12-year-old Girl Scout in Sacramento, California, reported that her daughter summed up, in one word, the consistently uniform sentiments of her pre-teen peers regarding those issues: “Ewwwwwww!” I don’t think Rep. Morris need lose too much sleep over that one.
And what about the Girl Scouts’ connection with Planned Parenthood and its sinister agenda? Well, in 2004, the Blue Bonnet Council of the Girl Scouts in Waco, Texas, endorsed a Planned Parenthood education event without donating money or sending a Girl Scout to hand out pamphlets. Even so, the right thinking citizens of Waco boycotted Girl Scout cookies and formed their own scouting organization, American Heritage Girls. However, their kneejerk commie liberal neighbors retaliated and bought a record amount of mints, samoas and tagalongs, no doubt sending the cookies to their Communist masters in Albania, North Korea, or worse, California.
I had my own brush with the Fascist tactics of Girl Scout storm troopers when I was registering voters in 2010. I was stationed at a supermarket entrance with registration forms on a small table, two folding chairs, and wearing a pleasant expression when a carload of green uniformed Girl Scouts swarmed the place, unpacked their cookies, and began ambushing shoppers like snipers. Of course the little wretches charmed the bejabbers out of everyone, except me, I moved to a different location, only to be told that the Green Pestilence had infected every frapping supermarket in town.
I called the boss about my predicament. “I know, I know,” he said. “They’re everywhere. Do the best you can.”
So, I set up my little operation at a supermarket near my place for a quick getaway, and yes, the little sugar merchants were there, too. If fact, I thought maybe I was in a bad mood because my blood sugar was low. So I bought some thin mints from The Enemy and felt just fine after eating six or maybe a dozen cookies.
Maybe Rep. Morris should do the same. Might give him the strength to combat other Communist threats, like the Visiting Nurses Association and those collective agriculturalists in the radical wing of 4-H. Imagine babies being fed milk from commie cows that graze on grassy knolls! The mind reels!
Comments?
I'm going "armed" to Publix, as soon as I can find a "cookie shooter." Will let you know how the Scouts vs the consumers fracas turns out. You're an inspiration, as always. - Linda B
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I took the liberty of posting this piece on my facebook page--great job! -- Bgrant
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That was wonderful. I haven't laughed so hard in ages. You really pointed a finger (not saying which finger) at the fear based over-culture of our country. Honestly this piece of work should be in the Washington Post and NY Times. -- Mary Pat
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I have 3 boxes coming today -- Lynda
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Poor Tomatoman....You are clever and witty, but you are also a useful idiot of the left. Anyone can twist anything into a tale of stupidity, which you do in fine fashion. Politics are not your bag. I am all for Planned Parenthood, they keep crime down. Don't need to pretend they are all about women's rights. -- Placebodomingo
The political right needs no assistance in fostering stupidity. MB
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You said what needed to be said and ably. I am a former Girl Scout, and this news story made me wish I could rip my Orienteering, Sewing, Abortion, and Cooking badges off my old uniform. I left scouting before obtaining my Lesbian badge, a regret to this day, as it would have greatly expanded the available dating pool now...women live longer. Thanks for another fun read, Mike. -- Linda
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HAHAHAH man yah too much - I love the angle you took in dealing with these people to the right of Darth Vader and their absurd logic nonlogic. Send me more ! -- Goxando
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Mike - this one should be a national editorial. Your best!! -- Diane
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Great piece, Mike. Those girl scout racketeers need to be exposed. -- Sunne
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I'm amazed - and really shouldn't be - that just when I think maybe somebody out there in Twisted Politician Land has a forward-thinking, prioritized-rationally, sensible comment to make backed up by a plan that actually makes sense, something like the Satan and Girl Scout Cookies surfaces as a topic of "important" conversation. Heh...I chuckled at your piece knowing you have it figured out as well.
I happen to think that the government should keep its rather sticky fingers out of my vagina and anyone else's as well, and as for Girl Scout Cookies....I really could eat a dozen of those chocolate covered mint ones at a sitting. You can't tell me that politicians across this land have not consumed those overpriced little morsels themselves under the cover of Darkness. Fun piece. Always entertaining. -- Zoey
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Hahahahahah!!!!!!! You're such a great writer, Mike. These things need to be in national syndication as a weekly column written by you, in the very LEAST. (yikes, are they?) Well, and of course, books, films, you have all the talent to be an Oscar Winner if you like..sharing this stuff with me is like having Spielberg call me up to say, how you doin? Great work. -- Amanda
Your check is in the mail -- MB
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Driver's Tale - A Valentine's Day Reprise
The limousine's privacy panel was up and I had no idea what the couple in back were doing as I drove them to San Francisco last night. Whatever it was, they were quiet about it as the big, powerful Lincoln whispered along the concrete ribbon of Interstate 80 through the valley towns of Dixon, Vacaville, and Fairfield, then up the gradual slope of the Coast Range.
The couple in back were treating themselves to a limousine for their night in San Francisco. Their destination was the Teatro Zanzinni on the waterfront section known as The Embarcadero, where wharves and warehouses have been converted into restaurants and shops. The Teatro Zanzinni is a dinner theater featuring light opera and Cirque Du Soleil-like performances, and where a waiter may burst into an aria from “Turnadot” as he appears bearing platters of Himalayan red rice paupiettes with tomato ginger coulis.
At four-thirty that afternoon I had eased the stretched Lincoln through the residential streets of Davis, a college town amid the tomato and rice fields of the Sacramento Valley. Kids stopped playing basketball at a curbside hoop to stare and wonder who was going where. Curious neighbors tending their yards looked up and wondered the same thing. I found the address I had been given for this evening’s guests, a beige, two story stucco home. I parked, leaving the engine running with the secondary alternator whirring as it powered the lights, the heater, the stereo and DVD player in back.
Time to make just one more check of the ice bins, the glassware, and set the classical station at low volume on the stereo. Then adjust the temperature and fan settings on the illuminated blue panel over the seats in the back. A quick examination of my personal appearance reflected in the tinted glass of the long side window, and I’m ready for my guests.
The car was reserved in the wife’s name as her treat for the evening. She answered the doorbell. “Thank you for coming,” she said in a warm, gracious manner, and I silently resolved to make my contribution to this couple’s evening especially memorable in the pleasantest way possible, instead of perfunctorily delivering them from A to B, like pizzas or freight. She had a bottle of imported champagne in her hand, which I offered to put on ice in the car.
We had already supplied a bottle of some quick ferment paint remover, which I cannot persuade the young owner of the limousine company not to stock.
“You can’t serve this horse piss,” I say. “People around here know their wines. At least throw in a bottle of Korbel Brut.“ But he sticks with the cheap stuff. A false economy. We’re in the business of providing prestige, however illusory. We should at least serve prestigious bubbly.
My guest signs the contract and credit card slip, then apologizes because her husband is still primping upstairs. “Men,” she sighs with mock resignation. “Never ready on time, always fussing with their makeup and hair.” Her husband emerges a few minutes later. “Thank you for coming,” he says, reinforcing my determination to give these people extra care. “Our reservations are at six,” he says.
Uh oh. We have 72 miles to cover in 90 minutes. We'll be on an older, narrow Interstate on a Friday evening. Only two lanes in each direction. An accident, or an elderly Asian doing 50 in a Toyota, can slow traffic to a crawl for miles. Then there is Bay Area traffic. Not a moment to lose.
Westbound traffic isn’t so bad. Most of the cars are heading east, toward Reno. We ascend the coast grade at American Canyon, then over the crest and down toward the lights of Vallejo on the north shore of San Francisco Bay. I glance at my watch. Forty minutes to the Embarcadero. No way we’ll be there on time. We'll be at least 15 minutes late, but I say nothing, steering the big Lincoln in a gradual weaving pattern between lanes of traffic for optimum speed without attracting the unwelcome attention of the California Highway Patrol, and without causing any champagne spillage in back.
We cross the bridge over the Carquinez Straits at 70, where the Sacramento River flows into San Francisco Bay. We pass the big C&H sugar plant at Crockett on the left, then through the east bay cities to Oakland and to the double decked Bay Bridge, garlanded with a necklace of white lights against the evening sky.
Ten minutes to go. The car is equipped with a state issued transponder. That means we can pass though the Bay Bridge toll gates without stopping and ascend the ramp to the upper level of the two tiered bridge, the view partially obscured by a high steel rail. Then down through the tunnel at Treasure Island, emerging from the tiled tube with a vista of San Francisco, rising in tall, giant blocks of glittering lights from the blackness of the Bay.
We’re five minutes overdue. Silence in back. They’re taking in the view. Look! Look! San Francisco! A city perpetually celebrating, knowing it’s on the brink of destruction from earthquake or ocean and not giving a damn. San Francisco, a city named for a sinner turned saint, and where most of the sinners and saints wear smiles of amused tolerance toward any and all who visit. Port cities welcome the world.
I take the first exit off the Bay Bridge, Fremont Street, a narrow, sharply curved channel of cement. Then an immediate left, followed by a quick right onto Howard Street, doubling back toward the Bay to The Embarcadero. My attention is on amber alert for tourists in rental cars given to sudden moves: “Turn here, Mustafa!” Crunch.
Unscathed, we make a left on The Embarcadero and slide past warehouse docks where clipper ships once moored. Nowadays most Bay Area bound cargo is handled at the huge container port on the Oakland side, so the warehouses have been renovated into shops, parking garages and restaurants, like the Teatro Zanzinni. I stop in a no stopping, no parking, no nothing zone and open the curbside rear door.
“We’re 15 minutes past your reservation time,” I tell my guests. They seem surprised. Mrs. Guest looks at her watch. “No, we’re early,” she says. “Our reservations are at six-thirty. Did I say six? I’m sorry. I meant six-thirty. Oh, and that was a very nice ride. Very enjoyable. Thank you.”
I inwardly sigh and hand her my card with my cell phone number printed in a very large font, one easily read by inebriated guests. I suggest that she call me just after the server brings the dinner check. “I’ll be parked about five minutes away, “ I say, wondering if that’s at all possible at this hour. The stretched Lincoln needs a lot of parking space, something as rare in San Francisco as tent revivals for evangelicals.
But I get lucky. I find an almost empty street in a warehouse section above The Embarcadero and park. I fish a book out of my valise, Joan Didion’s The Year Of Magical Thinking. The book is Ms. Didion’s account of dealing with the deaths of her husband, author John Gregory Dunne, and their daughter, Quintana Roo, within two months of each other. She writes: “Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.”
Thoughts of death, my own and those of my friends, have been humming quietly in the back of my mind for several years now, but one never expects death to be sudden. Or messy. Often, it’s both, and we know that, but we hope to simply drift away, as if going to sleep.
I also think we instinctively know when death becomes imminent. Our desire to savor life at its fullest diminishes. Some of us become cranky, Others gradually become patient as the ailments of age emerge. Still others start backfires of physical activity to ward off the shadows of depression and lethargy. But such strenuous exercise which may jar something loose internally and hasten an untimely demise.
I put the book aside and doze in the limousine until my cell phone rings. Mr. and Mrs. Guest are ready now. I check the back of the car for litter. The bottle of cheap wine is unopened. I told the boss not to serve that stuff. If there was a wino or a market basket recycler around, I’d give him the bottle. I’ve done that with bottles of liquor prom kids thought they’d hidden, not realizing that I know all the hiding places in the car, and that I was once an underage drinker myself.
But that was an eternity and the blink of an eye ago.
Comments? Critques? Threats Of Litigation?
This Valentine's Day piece is the best...I felt like i was there. --Angel
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You have captured the mood of the job and as usual give insight into a situation. Of course the main thing is you made it entertaining. -- Wht
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Lovely post, Mike -- Cyn
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Wonderful story Mike...thanks so much for sharing it. If it hasn't already been brought to your attention, I came across a typo you might like to correct.... I think you meant "through" [then though the east bay cities to Oakland] ….Thanks again Mike. -- Soy
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I can almost see the passing scenery, dimmed somewhat by the tinted windows, 'Materman...lovely stuff, as usual. -- Shan
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Loved this! Happy Valentine's Day! -- Juli
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A day late but not a dollar short. Great story. I could almost see the area I visited only once, but now would love to visit again. Thanks, as always. -- Linda
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Thanks. I know San Francisco. Walked that Embarcadero all the way to the Golden Gate and back- 5 or 6 miles. Great stuff! -- Gambatay
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I recall this one...liked it then: still great! Here's a reprise of one of mine, first published in 1991:
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I can almost see the passing scenery, dimmed somewhat by the tinted windows, 'Materman...lovely stuff, as usual. -- Shan
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Loved this! Happy Valentine's Day! -- Juli
_____
A day late but not a dollar short. Great story. I could almost see the area I visited only once, but now would love to visit again. Thanks, as always. -- Linda
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Thanks. I know San Francisco. Walked that Embarcadero all the way to the Golden Gate and back- 5 or 6 miles. Great stuff! -- Gambatay
_____
I recall this one...liked it then: still great! Here's a reprise of one of mine, first published in 1991:
A Valentine's Day Love Story: A Perfect Couple
by Linda Fields
There are some species that mate for life. There are more, I suspect, like Homo sapiens, that mate for as long as it is unilaterally convenient. Thus, total commitment today, in a long-term relationship, is both a novelty and a situation deserving of special recognition.
One unique couple with whom I worked closely for many years had such a union. They stood side by side for over twenty-five years. Oddly enough, it was not love at first sight but an arranged marriage. Furthermore, the matchmaker who paired them did so only because they looked right together, nothing more.
Their marriage of convenience endured for a quarter of a century, not because things always went smoothly for them, but despite the everyday annoyances and minor disasters that befell them.
She never worked outside the home but labored hard at domestic chores with nary a day off for reward. When children arrived and added to her work load, she silently and patiently adjusted to the added burden, putting up with nuisances like frogs, snakes, and what have you, with an equanimity that all but defied the three little boys who tried (but failed) to push her past her capacity. She actually hummed as she slogged through seemingly constant agitation. And while much of her life was in a spin, she never allowed the turbulence to upset her balance.
Typical of many relationships in the 1960s, the couple easily slipped into, and assumed, clearly defined and delineated, albeit never equal, roles. As unfair as it seemed, when it came to the division of labor, he seemed to get the less strenuous tasks. But they were so ideally suited to each other that his work seemed to take up where hers left off, perfectly complementing her.
.
He worked with a passion--a heat that seemed to burn within, yet one would never suspect his inner fire from the cool facade he maintained through his rough and tumble life.
And so it went for many years, both dutifully committed to the roles they had contracted to play. Alas, even perfect mates must accept the sad fact that one of them will outlive the other. One steamy August night, while washing a load of towels, a menial though necessary chore, she made the ultimate concession to her advanced age and progressively weakening condition. I believe she died painlessly. Though he valiantly tried to continue without her, he succumbed the following morning.
Did he die of a broken heart? Did he simply lose his will to go on? I'll never know, but I like that rather romantic explanation of the nearly simultaneous demise of my perfectly matched, avocado green, jumbo capacity washer and dryer.
Now that appeals to my overly developed sentimentality coupled with a muscular appreciation for the comic in your surprise conclusion! -- MB
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This would make a good start for a book. A mystery-love story. Or beginning of a script for an episode of "Alcatraz?" Great observation of detail. Everyone who has been to San Francisco loves it, and those who haven't been there want to go.-- Eve
Whew! For a moment I thought you meant Alcatraz. -- MB
_____
This would make a good start for a book. A mystery-love story. Or beginning of a script for an episode of "Alcatraz?" Great observation of detail. Everyone who has been to San Francisco loves it, and those who haven't been there want to go.-- Eve
Whew! For a moment I thought you meant Alcatraz. -- MB
_____
I delighted in the limo ride and in Linda’s story -- Fay
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Dating Quiz
I found this on Craigslist. Author unknown. MB
I had some doubts about meeting someone decent on Craigslist, but I thought I'd check it out. The women4men section yielded nothing worth responding to. Now I did notice someone had a quiz. It was lame so I didn't answer. I made my own:
1. First things first, what's your excuse for being here?
a. Sheer entertainment. But the post was interesting so I had to respond.
b. Sheer entertainment. The post was interesting and I had to respond, but I have no intention of ever meeting you.
c. I can't con anyone into going out with me in real life.
d. I can't find anyone to go out with in real life, because every guy I have run into is the same, typical, sacramento-area asshat.
e. I can't find anyone to go out with in real life because I am a pretentious twit.
f. Who needs an excuse to be here? In fact, once we do meet, I will enthusiastically announce to everyone this is where we met!
2. How long does it take you to get ready for work?
a. Work? As in, a job? Not applicable!
b. 10 minutes. I barely even brush my teeth. Brushing the top row is good enough.
c. 11-90 minutes.
d. 90+ minutes. I have to look good... gotta have SOME way to compensate for my mediocre work performance.
3. What is your educational level?
a. High school
b. GED (Good Enough Diploma!)
c. Bachelors
d. Masters
e. PhD, JD, MD, etc. (but I am not a dork)
f. PhD, JD, MD, etc. (and yes, I am better than you for it.)
4. What is your occupational status?
a. None, still in school.
b. Still in school, but have a job, thus I have no time to actually hang out with you.
c. Still in school, have a job, and still have time to hang out with you because hey, who needs sleep?
d. No more teachers, no more books. I work.
e. I work and it is my life.
f. I have a sugar-daddy. But he's too old to take care of *some* things if you know what I mean, so that's why I'm on Craigslist.
g. I got laid off. Thanks George W. Bush.
h. I'm on welfare and love it. Thanks Bill Clinton.
i. Unemployed trust fund baby!
5. How do you like your job?
a. Eh, It pays the bills, because we don't all have a sugar-daddy, welfare, or trust fund.
b. It sucks, and I will make sure you hear about it every...single...day.
c. It sucks, but it's a means to an end, and how I spend the rest of my time keeps me sane.
d. It's a good job. I think I make the world a better place.
e. It's a good job. Selling cocaine makes the world a better place.
f. It's my dream job.
6. How long does it take you to get ready to go out?
a. Go out? As in, have a social life? Not applicable!
b. 10 minutes. I'm secretly a man.
c. 11-90 minutes.
d. 90+ minutes. And you will wait, and like it, because that is just the beginning of my high maintenance regime. Wait 'til you see the purse I have purchased to carry my fu-fu fluffy ass dog in.
7. On that note, what kind of pets do you have?
a. Pets? No thanks, I'm allergic.
b. None, I live in a place with a totalitarian management regime that prohibits any animal companionship.
c. One cat. That's all I need.
d. One small dog. I have to have something to put in my dog purse.
e. One large dog. Because I have possible underlying insecurity issues.
f. Multiple cats. Cat lady in training, hell yes.
g. Multiple dogs. Because I love spending hours repairing/restoring the furniture the dogs damaged.
8. What are you looking for in a guy?
a. A guy? As in, a male? Sorry, lesbian here. Not applicable!
b. Anyone NOT like my ex.
c. Hmm, not sure, I play things by ear and determine compatibility as I meet people.
d. I have a long list of requirements for a guy. See above answer about my being a pretentious twit.
9. What is your ideal vacation?
a. Who needs a vacation when you don't have a job!
b. Vacation? Who has time for a vacation?
c. My job is a vacation.
d. Going to Grandma's in Altoona.
e. Going to the beach to catch up on reading and catch some melanoma.
f. Going to another country.
g. Going on some outdoor expedition trip. I like vacations that leave me more exhausted than I was before I left.
h. Going on a humanitarian mission because someone, somewhere needs 1000 pairs of shoes dropped off in their village.
10. What kind of music do you like?
a. Music? Who has time for music?
b. Stuff you have never heard of. Because I'm on the cutting edge of what's good.
c. Stuff you have never heard of. I make sure to listen to that, because it makes me feel like I'm better than everyone else.
d. Whatever's on the radio. I'm not picky.
e. Whatever I can download illicitly for free.
f. I MAKE music. And I'm damn good.
g. I make music, and I'm not that good, but I can definitely rock it with a didgeridoo.
11. What do you do to keep healthy?
a. Ummm what?
b. Work out incessantly. I vill break you.
c. Work out enough, but definitely don't have veins popping out of my forearms.
d. Who needs to work out when you have these genes!
e. Who needs to work out when you never eat?
f. I don't have time for that crap.
g. I have a gym membership, and I will start using it soon. I know that was my New Year resolution in 2008, but I mean it this time.
12. What are your thoughts on religion?
a. It's a crutch for people who can't think for themselves.
b. It's something I was raised with, but don't give a damn about now. Pun intended.
c. I go to church every week. Sometimes more than once. In fact, I'm late for it right now. Praise tha lawd.
d. I only go to church on major holidays, because I know "God" will forgive me for not going more often, so why bother?
e. I am spiritual but not religious, because I have things figured out and don't need someone preaching it.
f. I belong to a religion you've never heard of. But we did have a compound in Waco, Texas a while back.
13. You and I take a trip to BeverageLand. It's 5 p.m. What do you get?
a. Water. I'm a square.
b. A sports drink. Because I don't realize that those are only for physical activity lasting 45 minutes or longer.
c. Juice.
d. Tea. Honest Tea.
e. Coffee. Caffeine addicts, unite!
f. A pint of pilsner. I was Bavarian in a past life.
g. A pint of Guinness. I was Irish in a past life.
h. A half gallon of vodka. I was Russian in a past life.
i. A glass of Absinthe. I just watched Eurotrip and just have to see what all the fuss is about.
j. A fruity, girl drink that contains more sugar than alcohol.
14. Can you cook?
a. Do ramen noodles count?
b. No, but I will do the dishes if you do.
c. No. Cooking would mean getting my hands dirty. Ew.
d. Yes. But I'm terrible, though you will be expected to pretend to like it.
e. Yes, it's my job!
f. Yes, but I can only bake desserts. I realize that does you no good except having something to bring to holiday office parties.
g. Yes, and I would make that Rachael Ray tramp cower in fear of my casseroles.
I had some doubts about meeting someone decent on Craigslist, but I thought I'd check it out. The women4men section yielded nothing worth responding to. Now I did notice someone had a quiz. It was lame so I didn't answer. I made my own:
1. First things first, what's your excuse for being here?
a. Sheer entertainment. But the post was interesting so I had to respond.
b. Sheer entertainment. The post was interesting and I had to respond, but I have no intention of ever meeting you.
c. I can't con anyone into going out with me in real life.
d. I can't find anyone to go out with in real life, because every guy I have run into is the same, typical, sacramento-area asshat.
e. I can't find anyone to go out with in real life because I am a pretentious twit.
f. Who needs an excuse to be here? In fact, once we do meet, I will enthusiastically announce to everyone this is where we met!
2. How long does it take you to get ready for work?
a. Work? As in, a job? Not applicable!
b. 10 minutes. I barely even brush my teeth. Brushing the top row is good enough.
c. 11-90 minutes.
d. 90+ minutes. I have to look good... gotta have SOME way to compensate for my mediocre work performance.
3. What is your educational level?
a. High school
b. GED (Good Enough Diploma!)
c. Bachelors
d. Masters
e. PhD, JD, MD, etc. (but I am not a dork)
f. PhD, JD, MD, etc. (and yes, I am better than you for it.)
4. What is your occupational status?
a. None, still in school.
b. Still in school, but have a job, thus I have no time to actually hang out with you.
c. Still in school, have a job, and still have time to hang out with you because hey, who needs sleep?
d. No more teachers, no more books. I work.
e. I work and it is my life.
f. I have a sugar-daddy. But he's too old to take care of *some* things if you know what I mean, so that's why I'm on Craigslist.
g. I got laid off. Thanks George W. Bush.
h. I'm on welfare and love it. Thanks Bill Clinton.
i. Unemployed trust fund baby!
5. How do you like your job?
a. Eh, It pays the bills, because we don't all have a sugar-daddy, welfare, or trust fund.
b. It sucks, and I will make sure you hear about it every...single...day.
c. It sucks, but it's a means to an end, and how I spend the rest of my time keeps me sane.
d. It's a good job. I think I make the world a better place.
e. It's a good job. Selling cocaine makes the world a better place.
f. It's my dream job.
6. How long does it take you to get ready to go out?
a. Go out? As in, have a social life? Not applicable!
b. 10 minutes. I'm secretly a man.
c. 11-90 minutes.
d. 90+ minutes. And you will wait, and like it, because that is just the beginning of my high maintenance regime. Wait 'til you see the purse I have purchased to carry my fu-fu fluffy ass dog in.
7. On that note, what kind of pets do you have?
a. Pets? No thanks, I'm allergic.
b. None, I live in a place with a totalitarian management regime that prohibits any animal companionship.
c. One cat. That's all I need.
d. One small dog. I have to have something to put in my dog purse.
e. One large dog. Because I have possible underlying insecurity issues.
f. Multiple cats. Cat lady in training, hell yes.
g. Multiple dogs. Because I love spending hours repairing/restoring the furniture the dogs damaged.
8. What are you looking for in a guy?
a. A guy? As in, a male? Sorry, lesbian here. Not applicable!
b. Anyone NOT like my ex.
c. Hmm, not sure, I play things by ear and determine compatibility as I meet people.
d. I have a long list of requirements for a guy. See above answer about my being a pretentious twit.
9. What is your ideal vacation?
a. Who needs a vacation when you don't have a job!
b. Vacation? Who has time for a vacation?
c. My job is a vacation.
d. Going to Grandma's in Altoona.
e. Going to the beach to catch up on reading and catch some melanoma.
f. Going to another country.
g. Going on some outdoor expedition trip. I like vacations that leave me more exhausted than I was before I left.
h. Going on a humanitarian mission because someone, somewhere needs 1000 pairs of shoes dropped off in their village.
10. What kind of music do you like?
a. Music? Who has time for music?
b. Stuff you have never heard of. Because I'm on the cutting edge of what's good.
c. Stuff you have never heard of. I make sure to listen to that, because it makes me feel like I'm better than everyone else.
d. Whatever's on the radio. I'm not picky.
e. Whatever I can download illicitly for free.
f. I MAKE music. And I'm damn good.
g. I make music, and I'm not that good, but I can definitely rock it with a didgeridoo.
11. What do you do to keep healthy?
a. Ummm what?
b. Work out incessantly. I vill break you.
c. Work out enough, but definitely don't have veins popping out of my forearms.
d. Who needs to work out when you have these genes!
e. Who needs to work out when you never eat?
f. I don't have time for that crap.
g. I have a gym membership, and I will start using it soon. I know that was my New Year resolution in 2008, but I mean it this time.
12. What are your thoughts on religion?
a. It's a crutch for people who can't think for themselves.
b. It's something I was raised with, but don't give a damn about now. Pun intended.
c. I go to church every week. Sometimes more than once. In fact, I'm late for it right now. Praise tha lawd.
d. I only go to church on major holidays, because I know "God" will forgive me for not going more often, so why bother?
e. I am spiritual but not religious, because I have things figured out and don't need someone preaching it.
f. I belong to a religion you've never heard of. But we did have a compound in Waco, Texas a while back.
13. You and I take a trip to BeverageLand. It's 5 p.m. What do you get?
a. Water. I'm a square.
b. A sports drink. Because I don't realize that those are only for physical activity lasting 45 minutes or longer.
c. Juice.
d. Tea. Honest Tea.
e. Coffee. Caffeine addicts, unite!
f. A pint of pilsner. I was Bavarian in a past life.
g. A pint of Guinness. I was Irish in a past life.
h. A half gallon of vodka. I was Russian in a past life.
i. A glass of Absinthe. I just watched Eurotrip and just have to see what all the fuss is about.
j. A fruity, girl drink that contains more sugar than alcohol.
14. Can you cook?
a. Do ramen noodles count?
b. No, but I will do the dishes if you do.
c. No. Cooking would mean getting my hands dirty. Ew.
d. Yes. But I'm terrible, though you will be expected to pretend to like it.
e. Yes, it's my job!
f. Yes, but I can only bake desserts. I realize that does you no good except having something to bring to holiday office parties.
g. Yes, and I would make that Rachael Ray tramp cower in fear of my casseroles.
15. How are you in the bedroom?
a. The way you ride a thouroughbread should be copied by every woman that wants to keep a man.
b. You give the best oral in the world your mouth brings more pleasure than any one man can handle and u like doing it.
c. You give good oral but you dont like to do it only if the guy is lucky.
d. Your nothing but a mammal and you just like to be bent over like they do on the discovery channel.
e. You like girls also and your against the saying that 3 is a crowd
f. You failed kindergarten and you dont want to share.
16. Can you dance?
a. Are you kidding? White girls can't dance!
b. Only when severely intoxicated.
c. Yes, but I only do it when no one is around. Though I admittedly gawk at myself in the mirror while doing it a la Footloose.
d. Yes, especially at raves, while sucking on a glowstick and popping *E.
e. Yes, I would make the cut for Dancing With the Stars, but they once paired me with David Hasselhoff's hairy chest so that was the end of that.
17. What kind of first date is ideal?
a. Anything involving food.
b. A movie, because having an actual conversation is entirely overrated.
c. Coffee. I will have my laptop and sudoku puzzles with me in case things get lame.
d. Beer. Football. Tailgate. What more could one ask for?
e. Anything with an adrenaline rush.
f. None of the above. I answered before that I wasn't meeting you, so get the hint already. For whatever reason I wanted to continue answering this quiz because I have no life.
There. That's all I can think of at the moment. Feel free to add your own creative answers if mine don't work for you.
Comments:
That's hilarious!!!! -- Pam
__________
Very funny, and lots of truth there! -- Debra Lynn
__________
“…90+ minutes. And you will wait, and like it, because that is just the beginning of my high maintenance regime. Wait 'til you see the purse I have purchased to carry my fu-fu fluffy ass dog in.” ---and since it's Cali, this is a guy answering, right? :D -- Shag
Comments:
That's hilarious!!!! -- Pam
__________
Very funny, and lots of truth there! -- Debra Lynn
__________
“…90+ minutes. And you will wait, and like it, because that is just the beginning of my high maintenance regime. Wait 'til you see the purse I have purchased to carry my fu-fu fluffy ass dog in.” ---and since it's Cali, this is a guy answering, right? :D -- Shag
Uh, no. We guys haven’t carried purses since the 70s, not even in California. -- MB
__________
Wish you were closer. We would have a non-date and I would give you lunch or supper. Happy new year. -- Fay
__________
Haaaaa!! Great read:)**** -- Juli
__________
That is cute. Happy Tuesday. -- Cousin Sandy
__________
Wish you were closer. We would have a non-date and I would give you lunch or supper. Happy new year. -- Fay
__________
Haaaaa!! Great read:)**** -- Juli
__________
That is cute. Happy Tuesday. -- Cousin Sandy
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