Point/Counterpoint...

Yesterday Googie, Trouble and I decided to take a car ride half way around the free world. We were in search of some shoes for her size 4/5 miniature feet.

DSW the world's largest shoe warehouse here we come.

She found one pair.

And they were over priced.

Oh, well...we had our backs against the wall, flip flops have no place with a skirt in Googie's new work place.

Back in the car and ready for our big ride home Googie and I started talking "dinner".

"I'm hungry for spaghetti" she said.

"Okay, spaghetti it is" I said.

"I'd like to make a special request" Googie said "can you please PLEASE cut the onions real BIG so they are easier to pick out?"

"I'll put them in the blender" I offered "and you'll never even know they are there."

"NO, NO!!... if you put them in the blender then I'd be eating tons of them" she yelled.

"But you'd never know" I rationalized.

"They'd be all mushed up beyond recognition...you'd never even know they were there" I explained.

"They'd be spread ALL over the spaghetti and I wouldn't be able to get them off" Googie countered.

"I don't like onions MOTHER,

I don't like them, and I don't want to eat them!!!

Iiiiiiiiiiii... doooooooon't.... LIKE .....ONIONS...what don't you get about that?"

Googie was beginning to get a bit hot under the collar.

The debate raged on...and on.

Googie can be a stubborn little thing.

Especially when I am not getting her point of view.

"MOTHER, can't you just CUT the onions in BIG PIECES? Googie asked.

PIECES LARGE ENOUGH FOR ME TO EASILY PLUCK OUT?

Maybe I like the flavor, but I don't like them in my mouth!" Googie ranted on.

"I guess I could just put in some onion powder instead" I offered weakly "but it wouldn't taste the same."

"Or maybe I can just peel an onion and toss it in in one big ball?"

"That would be easy enough for you to pluck out (monkey girl)!!!"

"BUT it wouldn't taste the same, just so you know. The sauce would not be the same!"

"If I put it in the blender, it would be squashed into oblivion and you'd never know it was there" I offer again.

"The blender will turn it into onion water" I continue.

"M-O-T-H-E-R!!!!! Can you please just cut the onions into big pieces and not make onion mush for the sauce? Can you do that, can you make the onions big mother?"

"Big so that they are easily pulled from your sauce?"

"Pulled out so those who don't like eating them don't have to eat them..."

"And no mother, I don't want them turned into onion mush so that I am eating a whole bunch of onions!"

"I don't like onions mother. I don't like them. And even if you mush them up there will be white onion stuff all over the sauce and I will be eating it."

"Can you make the onions big mom, can you do that?"

"Googie, cutting the onions big is like asking me to smear lipstick all around my lips...it just doesn't feel right."

Trouble uncurled himself from the fetal position he'd assumed when our "little discussion" rolled into its 25th minute, he perked up, trying to understand my analogy.

"WHAT!!! Googie screamed " what are you talking about?

How are lipstick and onions at all connected?"

"Eric...do you hear her?" she hollered to Trouble.

"This is what I have to put up with!"

Our verbal tennis match went on and on until we pulled onto our street.

"Wow, I feel invigorated" Googie said as we drove toward our home.

"Me too" I laughed.

Trouble looked feverish.

I made the spaghetti and quartered a large onion.

The onion looked horrible that big.

It looked like floating flower petals.

"How is the sauce Googie?" I asked later at dinner.

"WHY? You mushed one up didn't you? You mashed one up and you tried to trick me ?"

"I respect you too much to do something like that!" I replied.

(Our blender is broken)
 

The grapes of wrath....

How many times do you think of your own death?

Right before you jump, parachuted, out of a plane?

Right before you rush into a burning building?

Right before you eat my mother's cooking?

(Mom, I SWEAR TO GOD, I'M KIDDING)

Of course if you do any of that kind of stuff, you probably think of the death of you more often than the average person.

I on the other hand, am one that doesn't do risky.

I mean I do text and eat a taco (simultaneously) while driving.

But doesn't everyone?

(Mom...put down the phone, I'M STILL KIDDING).

And even though I really try to avoid risky, I'm somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of my own death... (and ways to prevent it).

While pondering my demise I've dreamt up many romantic and exciting endings.

Laying in a beautiful canopy bed, draped in satin and lace curtains surrounded by my huge family and about 1000 of my closest and dearest friends.

A classy exit....

Or, I will be 106 and Daddio 107 and we will go to sleep one night and that will be it.

Just like in the movie "The Notebook".

(Man, I love that movie)

I'd like to think that I'm totally normal in pondering my own death.

But something tells me I'm not.

Lately, in dealing with my own personal war against my own personal terror(ism), and borrowing the National Homeland Security Advisory System I've placed myself at the Warning Level Orange....

Which is HIGH.

The most recent enemy....

an ordinary purple grape.

I've become addicted,

and eat them by the hands full,

every day.

One recently purchased bag had bunches of grapes with really tough skins.

And eating them I became conscious of the possibility (probability...remember the Orange level) that I could choke on one.

Cause one is all it would take...right?

One to block my windpipe.

Then I wondered... could the Heimlich maneuver dislodge a determined grape?

Then I thought about where I might be and who would perform the heroic deed...?

Then I remembered that I heard once that people throw up when they get the Heimlich.

So not only would I suffer the indignity of having the maneuver done in order to save my life....I'd more than likely puke on the table or the floor.

Puke... in front of people.

I'm still eating grapes.

But I chew each one really well.

And I'd advise you to do the same.

(Disclaimer #1: I really am kidding about my mom's cooking, she makes a wicked New England boiled dinner, awesome Spanish Pork Chops, and the best Chocolate Malt Milkshakes the world has ever known, to name a few. Disclaimer #2: I'm not making fun of choking deaths...I've actually very fearful of one.)

My Golden Girls.....

Friday morning usually finds me hanging out with my Old Dolls, a group of women who live in a private senior home close to me.

I go there to do their hair.

So for five years..

for five whole years,

this is my Friday morning....

"HI MISS JOSIE " I say, greeting my first client.

"Oh hi" she stares at me.

"Are you here for me?" she asks.

"YEAH, I'M HERE TO PULL ALL YOUR TEETH" I say "I'M THE DENTIST".

"HUH???...what's wrong with my teeth?" she asks.

"NO, I'M THE HAIRDRESSER, REMEMBER ME, I COME EVERY WEEK TO MAKE YOU BEAUTIFUL". I remind her.

"Oh yeah, where do you want me?"

I begin waving my hands like they do to guide an airplane into the hanger.

She follows my lead, pushing her walker.

"Where do we go? she asks.

"IN HERE, FOLLOW ME, BACK THIS WAY, FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW ME" I wave her toward the shampoo area.

She makes her way into the small room and up onto the big black shampoo chair.

"Do you want my glasses?" she asks, every week for five years.

'YUP" I say.

"My hearing aids?" she asks.

"YUP" I say, holding out my hand.

"My sweater?" she asks.

I let her fumble with the buttons of her sweater, and take it off herself.

She is, after all, a grown up.

"Anything else?" she asks, sounding a bit tired of giving up her things.

"IF YOU'RE NICE, I'LL LET YOU KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR" I tease.

And every week for five years she laughs at this same corny joke.

"This paid for?" she asks before I lay her back to shampoo her pretty white hair.

"YEAH, YOUR SON PAID FOR IT" I answer.

"HE'S A GOOD SON" I add.

"Yeah" she says " a good son."

"This paid for?" she asks while we wait for the water to heat up.

"YEAH, DON, YOUR SON, PAID FOR IT" I answer.

"My son paid for this?" she asks.

"YEAH, DONNIE PAID, YOU'VE GOT A GOOD SON" I answer.

"Yeah" she says "a good son".

"I don't have any money" she says.

"YOU DON'T NEED ANY MONEY" I say.

"This is paid for?" she asks.

YEAH, ALL PAID FOR. YOUR SON PAID ME TO DO YOUR HAIR...BUT HE USED YOUR MONEY" I say (as her family instructed me to).

"He's a good son" she says.

I agree and for a moment she forgets that she forgets that her hairdo is paid for.

"That's enough" she says when I scrub her head a bit too long.

She was an independent woman who did her own hair, she remembers that she doesn't like it being done, but she doesn't remember that she used to do it.

'LOOK HOW NICE YOUR HAIR LOOKS" I say, spinning her around to look in the mirror when I've finished combing it out.

"Yeah, that's nice" she says " but I would like it better if it wasn't so white".

"YOUR HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL" I say "BUT IT WOULD BE EVEN BETTER IF IT WASN'T SO WHITE".

"You took the words right out of my mouth" she says, laughing.

"SEE YOU NEXT WEEK" I say.

"Thank you" she says, then turns back to ask...

"Will I see you next week?"

"YES, I'LL SEE YOU NEXT WEEK. STAY OUTTA TROUBLE, OKAY!"

"That won't be hard to do" she says as she maneuvers her bulky walker around the corner.

Suddenly she stops...

"What do I owe you?" she asks.

"YOU ALREADY PAID ME, IN KISSES...DON'T YOU REMEMBER?" I yell to her.

"Oh good" she says and walks toward the dining room for lunch.

A veggie tale...

Sunday, is a working day for us working folk.


Housecleaning, laundry, cooking, and of course the dreaded grocery shopping.

My God, I hate to grocery shop.

Especially since I've decided that we aren't eating healthy enough around here and I know what that entails.

A closer inspection of every darn thing that goes into my cart.

A closer examination of all the crap I usually feed my loved ones.

Hauling around extra healthy bottled water and a heart filled with guilt makes the trip even worse.

It's sooooo much easier to just throw in a bag of cookies, a couple of boxes of mac and cheese and call it a day.

Anyway, I was feeling out an avacado when I heard someone say something to me.

I looked up and in front of me was a young man who I recognized, but couldn't place.

A friend of Sweet Prince Buttercup's??? Bears??? Someone Googie knew?

"How are you Beth?" he asked me.

Who who who who who the heck are you? I thought.

And where do I know you from?

"I've been doing fine" I said. "how bout you?"

When he began to talk more I suddenly remembered who he was.

A kid from my program.

But wait...something had happened.

This was the face, the voice, the smile I remembered.

But gone was the dingy raggedly cut long black hair.

Gone were the seven (or more) rings that used to hang off his ears.

The stainless steel bolts that pierced his eyebrows, with skin and hair and perpetual redness around them...GONE.

Gone was the thick black ring that he wore in his lip.

He used to twirl it when he got into trouble.

It made my stomach hurt to see it go round and round.

He was always in a lot of trouble.

Gone were the angry chains and spikes that he used to wear around his wrists and neck.

And in a funny twist, gone were the grungy black shorts that he wore all winter, instead in this muggy August heat he wore a pair of light colored jeans.

And an American Eagle tee.

And his hair...my God, you should have seen his hair.

Light brown and cut in the most current "handsome young guy" look.

"Still on probation?" I asked.

He'd been taken out of our program when it was determined that he was not going to cooperate. He was not going to behave. He was not going to stop endangering himself and others.

He was the only kid our visiting chef ever almost laid his hands on.

He caught him eating raw stewing beef off the end of one of our butcher knives and chef came unglued.

He backed him against a wall and yelled like I've never heard him yell.


Jared was good for that kind of stuff.

The shock value of any action was his motivation.

The more outlandish, the more outrageous, the more he liked doing it.

To the other youth he was a Day Treatment hero.

To the staff, he was a mighty thorn in our sides.

A 6'4" inch thorn.

"Yeah, still on probation" he said "for another six months."

Obviously "placement" had been good for him.

"I'm on non reporting" he said.

I asked him about what his court order said and what the judge had him doing.

"Working and eventually going to college" he said.

Awesome, I thought to myself.

We talked for a couple more minutes and then I swear I wanted to reach up and give him a big hug...I was soooo proud of the new and obviously improved him.

Instead I offered a closed fist.

Which he bumped with his own.

"Take care kid" I said "and stop by school when you're in the area. I know the other staff would love to see this transformation you've had."

"We love to see our kids all grown up."

"I will Beth" he said "see ya around."

I don't remember much about the rest of my mundane Sunday grocery shopping.

I do remember catching people looking at me.

Probably wondering why this crazy fool woman was skipping around the fruits and vegetables.

Whistling and giggling.

And shaking her head.

Witnessing a miracle will do that kind of stuff to ya.

EDITED TO ADD....Don't anyone go getting their bloomers in a bunch..I have nothing against long black hair, spikes, piercings, tattoos, grungy clothing, etc etc etc, honestly, I don't...I do have something against angry, self destructing teens who make the world an unsafe place for themselves and others.


I try never judge a book by its cover.

Bear goes to Boston......

"Can I go to Boston?" read the text I received yesterday at 2:45 pm in the middle of my Culinary Arts Class.

Wow, I hoped thought, wrong number.

I once before got a wrong number text.

(Googie told me not to respond, that people screw around with people like that.)

Then my work phone rang.

"Did you get my text?" Bear (my just turned 19 yr old son) asked.

"You want to go to Boston?" I asked

"Boston, as in the state Boston? (my very intelligent co-workers glanced at me kind of funny when I said that..forcing me to clarify..)

"I mean, as in Massachusetts.... You want to go to Boston, Massachusetts????"

Have you been sniffing glue?

"Seriously....you want to go to Boston?"

He gave me the details and I told him I'd call his dad and call him right back.

"He never asked to go on any Girls Gone Totally Wild sex/tattoo/multiple body piercing a thon Spring Break trip" I reminded Daddio.

"And he's never been in one bit of trouble"

What the hell was I doing here??? I was talking Daddio into agreeing to let Bear leave the country.

Fly to the moon.

Be swallowed up by a tesseract...a sort of "wrinkle in time" in space and time, a fifth dimension.

"I will need every one of their full names (including any alias's), phone numbers, addresses, MySpace, Facebook and any YouTube account info" I told Bear about his travel companions.

"I want parent's names too"... (a quick credit check couldn't hurt).

When everyone checked out okay and Bear got the go ahead it was a mad dash to get packed, secure some flow (that will probably be stolen when he is robbed and raped in some filthy germ infested rest stop along the way) and do all the things one does when leaving out of town.

"We don't have a small tube of toothpaste MOMMMMMMMMMMMM" Bear screamed into the phone, it was the 27th call he made to me at work, in the 45 minutes he had to get ready to leave.

This trip on the fly was starting to grate on my nerves.

"I don't know if I want to go" Bear said on call number 29.

And again with call number 32.

"FLIP A FREAKIN ASS COIN AND DO WHATEVER THE FRICK IT TELLS YOU TO DO OKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKAY?" I yelled, when he called again to tell me he wasn't sure.

A second later when a screwdriver stabbed me in the heart (be nice to him you idiot, if you let him go and God forbid something happens.....) I got control of myself....

"Sweeeetheart" I purred "this is an adventure. You are going to have a blast. Make a decision, figure that there are going to be pros and cons, just like every other decision you are ever gonna make. Once you make a decision you will feel better. Just make one, make up your mind and go with whatever it is that you decide. Have some confidence in yourself. GO or DON'T GO, decide. Now, are you going to Boston or not?"

"I don't know" Bear said "should I?"

For cryinoutloud ........

OF COURSE YOU SHOULD NOT GO....an accident could happen, you guys could get so lost that you'd never make it back.

Boston is far kid, really really far.

(One step closer out the door you go.)

I'll miss you Bear, be safe and hurry home.

And don't forget, hide your money in your sock....

(I will age 20 years this weekend...... guaranteed)

Bark at the moon.....

I knew it, I just knew Daddio was wrong when he answered "No" to my question "is the moon full?" a week or so ago.

People act weird when the moon is full, myself included.

I drift into other lanes on the highway.

I forget words.

Except four letter ones.

Which I spit outta my mouth like discarded sunflower seed husks.

And it's all because I'm so aggravated at....um, well, everything.

And it appears as if the entire human race has joined me.

It's like the whole world has pms and dementia combined.

Full moons have me channeling late comedian George Carlin on the highway when I scream at anyone going slower than me calling them assholes "a-holes"  and anyone daring to go faster is certainly a "maniac".

It's a no win situation.

The only one driving properly is, well, actually none of us.

Nothing seems to go right...when it's a full moon phase.

While making dinner, I cut myself.

I run to the garage with a dish cloth tightly wrapped around my bleeding finger Daddio bellows "What did I tell ya? I knew this was gonna happen. You think you are some kind of fancy chef tossing those big knives around..I told you...I TOLD YOU.."

(Just for the record, Daddio has been predicting this exact tragic event for over 27 years, every time I cook and he watches.)

I've done a bit of predicting myself over the years buddy...Predictions like "one-a deeze days Alice...POW to da Moon"....

And speaking of POWS to somebody's kisser.....

As Googie was getting ready to leave the house she leaned in to kiss me goodbye.

She's famous for presenting a cheek for a peck...I often follow suit and we'll give a kiss-kiss in the air like debutantes or old Italians.

Today she decided to give me a real peck on my cheek.

And I decided to give her a real peck on her cheek.

At the same time we puckered up and turned toward each other...

SMACK....right on the old kissers.

"EWWWWWWWWWWWW" we screamed in unison, then wiped our mouths.

It's not everyday your daughter tries to French kiss you....

That damn crazy ass full moon.....

(PS...I later sent Googie a text message saying "I kissed a girl and I liked it"....she probably read it while stopped at a red light, since she'd never read a text whilst driving.)

When da moon hits da sky like a big pizza pie dat'ssssssssssssssss amore.
 

“Misty water colored mem-reeeeees light the corners of my miiiiiiiiind”

Like any mother I don't like to see my babies suffer. Nevermind that my babies are (mostly) grown people who can and do make their own bed decisions and should have to lay in it deal with the consequences.


My step mom likes to tell me that if you do help them too much you rob them of their memories.

Hard times are usually the ones we remember most.

Unless you're like me and like to block all that crap out.

I think my rose colored glasses fit me perfectly.

My sister Susan can always be counted on to jog my memory about our growing up years.

When I complain about a kid of mine skipping out on doing their chores or not getting the concept of saving or paying bills Susan reminds me that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree...

"Don't you remember?" Susan will ask "that whenever you owed mom money you would tell her she couldn't get blood from a rock"

"And when she asked you to clean your room, you'd hide all your junk in the closet or under the bed and then call her in and show her what a wonderful job you did."

"You're lucky mom let you live to see adulthood."

A bit before Daddio and I married my mom made a move to Arizona. We'd all been invited to join her and her husband. When we balked at leaving our "oh so very" established lives she said "you can stay in the house and pay the bills if you don't want to come".

Well that sounded like one hell of an adventure and we took her up on it.

And while we loved the adventure often times were tough....really tough.

A strange thing happened during those times, I came to the realization that sometimes you can get blood from a rock.

So Susan reminds me of a time when a desperate time called for a desperate measure.

We really were dirt poor early in our marriage and for a short time right after our wedding my sister lived with us. One day not long after our wedding she was in the bathroom and started hollering for me to bring her some toilet paper.

We had not one square.

“Ok, how bout some tissue?” she asked.

“Nope” I replied.

”A paper towel?” she pleaded .

“We're out” I reported.

“Wait a minute” I yelled outside the door…I just remembered, I had a whole bag of leftover tissue flowers that you shape like an accordion and puff out, the ones that we’d put on our” Just Married” car.

I banged on the door, it cracked open a bit and her skinny arm poked out, palm up. I placed a couple of the flowers in the center of her hand and closed her fingers around them.

She screamed when she saw what I’d given her.

"Hey" I said "they even have a little string on the bottom to make them easier to hold."

“Freak” she yelled.

We used that bag of flowers to wipe our cans for at least a week…before they ran out my dear sister suggested that they shouldn't be kept in a paper bag on the floor, so she found a pretty basket to put them it.

She always was the classy one.