Refrigerator Management

It’s trash day tomorrow and I am exhausted.

Long day at work and as I peer into the icy depths of my Kenmore I ask myself the age old question.

Do I really need to clean this out tonight?

Unless you are one of those chronically clean people, ( I knew a lady who vacuumed her crisper drawers on a weekly basis......she was nuts), most folks refrigerators tend to be the equivalent of the Mojave Desert of your kitchen.

Some things go in, and are never seen or heard from again.

In my opinion, The Learning Annex should offer a course in Refrigerator Management.

Some of the reading material would include chapters such as:

Are expiration dates merely a suggestion?

How green is too green?

And, Is mold considered a food group?

My parents were raised as children of the depression and as a result were taught that nothing should ever be wasted.

This translated into the practice of promptly storing any leftovers and using them for another meal later in the week.

Unfortunately, they also never wasted money on high falutin’ storage containers that you could actually see through.

This meant things were placed in butter tubs, cottage cheese containers and any other recyclable items we had on hand.

It was not uncommon to be faked out by a big slab of cauliflower masquerading as butter in the Country Crock margarine tub.

Very tough to spread on your Wonder Bread.

So consequently, it is very difficult for me to evaluate heirachy in the leftover department.   

As a result, instead of immediately trashing something after a meal, I usually store it at least a week and then throw it away.

It makes me feel less guilty.

These are some actual items that are currently residing in my freezer and refrigerator.

An ancient bag of broccoli florets from Traders Joes.

I don’t even like broccoli.

These were transported down from my daughters’ apartment when she graduated from college.

That was in 2010.

An opened bag of frost-bitten Chicken Gyoza Potstickers. 

I got nothin’ for this.

A package of Garlic Naan.

What is Naan and is it good when it’s garlic flavored?

A fluid-filled mask for reducing dark under eye circles.

Those of you who know me can testify this has never been used.

A joke ice cube with a fly in it.

You never know when this will come in handy.

And the saddest thing of all.

A massive Ziploc bag of fast food packets.

This blatant reminder of horrific junk food comsumption compelled me to write this letter which I previously posted on Facebook.

Dear persons working at the fast food take-out window,

Thank you so much for your hard work and diligence in dealing with the general public.

I am sure it must be frustrating sorting through the grunts and “hold on just a minutes” of the people who wind their way through your drive-up on a daily basis.  Most of these clowns act like they have never seen the menu of Jack in the Box or McDonalds in their lifetime and peruse the screen as if gazing at a mystical oracle of some kind……

ORDER A CHEESEBURGER FOR PETE’S SAKE AND MOVE ON WITH YOUR LIFE!!!!

My question to you is this.  When you ask me how many packets of taco sauce, butter or ketchup I want, why is it that no matter my answer you always give me approximately 42??   I have a hefty bag of these items in my fridge now and because I was a child of parents raised in the depression cannot bring myself to throw them away!!  (this does NOT apply to Ranch Dressing which is as scarce as Plutonium)

YOU WANT MORE RANCH??..... five dollars please.

You may ask why I ordered any in the first place if I have so many at home and the answer is obvious….

The ones in my fridge are COLD and would make my fries so much less tasty….DUH.

So please help save your manager some money and added grief.  The poor guy bears a strong resemblance to Bruce Willis as it is from scratching his head and wondering why eight cases of ketchup are gone after two days.

Bottom line is, one actually means one.

Thank you so much for listening and please don’t spit in my food the next time you see me at your window.

Your loyal customer

So for now I can't even consider the issue of the crisper drawer, where a small palm tree is growing out of a radish, which is sitting next to a wrinkled bell pepper, that has been in residence since Thanksgiving.

Like I said, it’s late and I just don’t have the energy to make crucial food jettison decisions.

I think I’ll just have a glass of milk with some cookies and go to bed.

Now when the milk folks say “Use by February 14^th”, do you think they really mean it?

Or is that merely a suggestion?

…….I’m just sayin’

C.W.Moss

Once I had an iguana.

His name was C.W Moss, which was a character from the 1967 movie “Bonnie and Clyde” played by Michael J. Pollard.

He looked just like the guy.

Couldn't find a picture of my reptilian pet anywhere so just imagine an iguana with this fellows mug.

I bought him from Woolworths which was a variety store that used to be referred to as a 5 and dime.

They carried tons of stuff from household items to clothing,  candy, fabric and other wacky unnecessary plastic objects.

My favorite section was the pets where they had rows of bubbling aquariums with colorful fish and tanks with lizards and tiny turtles the size of half dollars who would gladly give you salmonella.

They also had a counter where you could sit down and buy food or a malt or an ice cream sundae.

It was AWESOME!

Anyway, I meandered in there one day and saw these cool iguanas for the bargain price of $1.69. (Hey, it was 36 years ago, give me a break!)

They measured about 6 inches long and were funky, gnarly and green. 

So of course I decided to buy two. (I was in my reptile phase)

One of them died the next day.

But C.W. Moss did not.

He grew and grew and grew and grew.

He grew so big that I had to make him a cage that measured 5'x6’ which took up one whole side of my  living room.

Eventually because he was so huge, his daily diet consisted of 2 giant heads of romaine lettuce, a head of iceberg lettuce, big bunches of grapes and whatever produce I had left in the kitchen.

He was fantastic!

Because I am insane, I would let him out and he would climb up my curtains, drape his massive green body along the length of the curtain rod with his prehistoric claws dangling down on either side and just chill out.

As I said, he was fantastic.

Despite his formidable countenance, he was very mild mannered and if left alone would just cruise around the house all day doing his iguana-type chores.

As you can imagine, most people were put off by his earthy Jurassic Park appeal which made for very few houseguests.

Whatever.

But I recall one evening when I had invited a few folks over for dinner and one guy brought a date whom I had never met before.

She flounced in the door all full of herself and yammered endlessly about this and that and nothing all at the same time.

You’ve all met one of these people.

Their motto is: All of you people who think you know everything, annoy those of us who actually do.

She knew EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING!

We listened to her expound on the wonders of her amazing abilities at EVERYTHING until we were all ready to choke her out and bury her in the yard.

Then she spied C.W.

He was in his cage and she squealed with delight and said, “Oh my gosh, what an AAAAWWWWEEEESOME  iguana!”  “Can I hold him?”

Now as I mentioned before, Mr. Moss was a gentle soul when undisturbed, but when provoked could display a vicious temper not unlike the Tazmanian Devil.

Which is why I loved him.

He had these excellent cross body stripes running across his spikey, leathery back which in times of peace were light brown.

But when he was not a happy camper they deepened to dark black and that’s when you knew he was loaded for bear.

I forgot to mention that by this time he measured almost 6 feet long.

Me:  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Miss Know-It-All:  “Oh please?” “ I’m soooo good with animals!” “They LOVE me!”

Me: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Miss Know-It-All:   “Oh, please?” “I’m not afraid of him or anything!” (meanwhile opening the lid of his cage and starting to reach for him)

Me: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”(I have noticed that the stripes on his back are now solid black and is standing on his gnarly clawed feet at full attention)

Now at this point, most rational human beings would be taking note of my demeanor and considering that this was my large pet iguana, actually listen to my words of warning.

That was not gonna happen.

What transpired next was then, and still is, one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed in my life.

She quickly lifted the top off of the cage and poked her well-manicured hand down into the domain of the dinosaur.

At that exact instant, he leaped into action, scurried up the large sunning branch which ran the length of the cage, puffed himself up and promptly thwacked her across the throat with the full strength of his massive 4 foot tail!

She immediately grabbed her neck, stumbled backwards over the coffee table and crashed into a hysterical choking heap on the floor.

C.W. saw his window of opportunity and took it, scurrying up the drapes and smugly retreated to his favorite vantage point high above the living room.

If I could have given him a high five, I would have.

It was spectacular!

Immediately all Hell broke loose with people running to the aid of  “The Neck Slap Queen.” (I didn’t budge)

I think I blurted out an obligatory, “Bummer.”

What I really meant to say was, “You’re absolutely right, all animals DO love you!”

Best night ever.

Let’s just say, she ran screaming into the night and I never saw her again.

So eventually C.W. Moss completely outgrew his cage and I reluctantly donated him to an appreciative biology professor at a community college. 

He told me that he had never seen such a magnificent specimen who had been raised somewhere other than a zoo. 

He planned on buying a harness for him and letting him run around wild in his backyard.

I was happy about that.

Mr. C.W Moss deserved it.

If only for that well-timed, well-deserved neck slap to “Miss Know-It-All”.

……I’m just sayin’

Doggie Detention?

Took the pup on a canine version of a “playdate” this weekend.

I should have known better.

At the ripe old age of 12 weeks she still doesn’t have the sense God gave a goat and therefore doesn’t realize that older dogs do not enjoy having a 4 pound whirlwind ride them like a wee jockey at Del Mar.

The first time we attempted to introduce her to other animals of her species, we decided that my best friend would bring over her feisty Pomeranian to “visit his cousin”.

Now Bennie is a 4 pound Alpha male, who rules the roost at home and normally puts up with no nonsense from other dogs, including his brother Jake who is bigger and younger.

She tried to eat him.

Literally, (please see photo)

Words cannot explain her frenzied joy at the appearance of this adorable dust mop.

Bennie hated her….

As well he should have.

If Bennie was able to produce a thought bubble it would have read,

“So you’ve been raising me all these years only to be sacrificed to Miss Masticate here?” 

“Seriously???”

My friend bore a striking resemblance to Rafiki lifting Simba to the skies as she whirled around saving Bennie from certain mammal mutilation.

Or as I like to call it, "death by lickage."

All the while we were shrieking, “She’s just playing! Be nice! No bites! Nice puppy! Ow,Ow!”

They left after 5 minutes.

Like an Eharmony encounter gone bad.

So this weekend my second attempt at puppy visitation was to the home of my dear brother and sister-in-law who own a 65 pound gentle giant named Iggy. 

Iggy is a pound puppy pit bull who was rescued from sure destruction and shuttled off to the best home a dog could ever hope for.

My phone call to my sibling went like this:

“So I’m taking the pup in for her last series of shots and I thought she could come over and visit Iggy afterwards.”

His reaction was, “That would be fun. Come on by.”

Iggy should have taken that call.

He was blindsided.

In his own home.

Her joy at the sight of this colossal caramel colored canine was again, beyond words.

She hit the ground running and went through his basket of dog toys like a pig in slop.

If she could have friended him on Facebook, it would have been instantaneous.

She loved him....

She adored him.....

He wanted to body slam her like a WFW champion.

I don’t blame him.

The pup has no concept of danger and therefore does not register the logical sequence of.

Big Dog.

Could Eat You.

Back Off.

I think they should make a "Rosetta Stone Course For Dogs" so they can understand the languages of humans and other canine friends.

She would probably eat the CD.

My brother spent the first half an hour wrestling Iggy into submission so they could attempt some bottom sniffage.

It was touch and go.

After a long walk, the best we could do was Iggy on the couch, in my brothers’ lap, on a leash, hating life.

Please see photo.

The caption should read,

Dear Auntie,

Hate your dog.

Please go home.

Love, Iggy

Best quote of the day came from my sweet sister-in-law who suggested so discreetly,

“So you know who has the best dog training classes?  Petco!”  (Hint, Hint)

Translation:  “Drag your mangy mutt to school, you fool!” 

So behavior classes may in our future….

Is there such a thing as Doggie Detention?

Cuz I KNOW I’m getting that phone call.

…….I’m just sayin’

Florida Anyone?

I live next to a swamp.

No, I haven’t been teleported to Florida recently, but I am referring to my swimming pool.

Anyone with a pool knows that during the Winter the job of keeping up with this swirling money pit of pleasure is a daunting task.

My pool is a 1950’s style diving pool.  

So basically it’s a well with a diving board.

Except the diving board was removed years ago.

Sigh….

When I first bought my house the pool was a giant green hole filled with water that reeked of slime and decay.   

Kind of like right now…

My Daddy decided that he should troll the depths to see if he could discover any hidden treasures or at least find out how deep it was.

He procured a giant painters bucket , tied a rope to the handle and proceeded to dredge the length of the pool in search of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio. When this operation failed to uncover any bodies, human or animal, he decided a gaffers hook would be more fun and switched to this fisherman’s tool  of torture to complete this gruesome task.

Nothing…

Nada…

Couple of tree branches and an old tire.

We eventually pumped out all the water, painted the entire thing with pool paint. (whole other story), and refilled the sucker.

Which brings us to today.

If I could I would drain it all out, dump as much junk into it as I could find and fill it in with dirt.

Bet there is some law against that sort of thing.

Whatever…..

As for now, I think I will go try to find some kind of fish to help eat all the algae and the other assorted creatures that live in its murky depths.

They need to be some really BIG fish.

Like Great White Sharks.

Or Beluga Whales.

And I could charge admission so I could buy me a JACUZZI !!

Which would, of course, need someone to clean it so it wouldn’t get nasty…..

It’s a vicious cycle I tell you!

Sigh……

………..I’m just sayin’

Girl Scout Guilt

So here we are plodding our way towards Spring and there are three things that are inevitable.

One:  My Christimas tree is still up in my living room.

Two:  That the famous swallows will be winging their way back to San Juan Capistrano in March.

And Three:  The arrival of Girl Scout cookies!

Every year right about the minute we are looking for an excuse to blow our New Years non-junk eating resolution right out of the water, these lovely little delights show up just in the nick of time!

Tiny uniformed angels flood our doors and store entrances with boxes of scrumptious cookies with delightful names such as Samoas, Savannah Smiles and Do-Si-Dos.

Another offshoot of this yearly ritual is the realization that not only will you be solicited by these little darlings, but by ALL of their mothers as well.

The streets are covered with SUVs and mini-vans, windows adorned with glass paint screaming out, “Girl Scout Cookies for Sale!”  Only $4.00………You best buy them from me!

These Chicas are clever!

My favorite spectacle is the work cookie Olympics where the competition gets fierce for your cookie buying dollar.

I had a co-worker whose goal one year was to have her little princess achieve the “Black Belt” of cookie sales and as a result her locker resembled a jumbo booth at the Swap Meet.

It was filled to the brim with all the assorted flavors and paperwork that would crash onto her pointy little head whenever she opened it up to get dressed.

I told her she should buy a long black trench coat with display hooks that she could just whip open like a Dulce de Leche drug dealer when she was pedaling her wares. 

That would be simpler….

And funny….

We understand after the fund-raiser was over they found her curled in a fetal position in her living room, order forms stuck in her shirt, muttering, “How many Thin Mints did you want?”  “Are you sure you paid me?”  babble babble babble

It wasn’t pretty…

But the hardest part of all this Girl Scout cookie madness is going to the grocery store.

There they are with their shining eager faces, and their little card tables, up since the crack of dawn, Mommy sitting behind them with a cup of Starbucks, freezing to death in the morning fog, adorable hand-made signs in their frozen fingers and you have to make the gut wrenching decision.

Do I have an extra four bucks on me?

Or do I have the nerve to utter the soul crushing words, “No thank you sweetie.”

Brutal…..

Then you have to deal with what I call, Girl Scout Guilt.

This has never been a topic on Dr. Phil but it deserves at least one episode for sure.

So to avoid this phenomenon, just remember.

Around this time of year, always have $4.00 on you whenever you plan on going shopping ANYWHERE.

AND stay away from those Humvees with the big metal bumpers whose windows are inscribed with the words, “You’ll buy Tagalongs from me or you can kiss your new paint job goodbye sister!”

………I’m just sayin’

Turkey leg anyone?

Traveled to Anaheim and visited the Happiest Place on Earth…..

Well maybe….

Sometimes…..

Especially if you’ve just won the Super Bowl…

And have a lot of dough.

Anyone with a pulse knows that a trip to Disneyland will cost you a big bag of shekels.

For your convenience, they now have a booth right near the ticket counter where you can actually surrender the mortgage to your house.

Especially if you are buying a Park Hopper Pass.

And if you want to eat while you are there.

Cuz a family of four can blow about a grand.

And that‘s just  before noon.

We were lucky enough to get some free tix and got up at the crack of dawn so we could get a jump on the crowd.

As you would imagine, we were not the only people who had this earth shattering idea.

We ran in the door and promptly decided to ride Space Mountain,( or Spit-Up Summit as I like to call it), before the lines got too long.

This was a major strategical error on my part as immediately afterwards my scrambled egg with chocolate croissant breakfast came dangerously close to making an encore appearance.

For some reason, right after this debacle, I let them badger me into vaulting over to California Adventure and jumping on a massive roller coaster aptly named “California Screamin’.

Let’s just say that when we emerged from this experience I looked like my hair had been styled with a Sunbeam Mix Master and my face was the color of the big green caterpillar in Bugs Life.

At that exact moment it occurred to me that there comes a time in your life when you stop doing certain things.

One of these things is doing stupid junk like jumping on an amusement ride that will make you call for your Buick or put you in traction for a week.

Just not worth it.

At this point in the day is when my Daddy would have said, “Is this the fun part?”  “Are we having fun yet?’

So after dragging my limp, sweaty body to a bench and fetching me some Agua, the kiddies decided it was time to let up on the old lady and do something more my speed.

That would be sitting down.

Or eating.

Now that’s more like it.

The main benefit of visiting anywhere in the world is always the joy of what kind of food you can consume.

And Disneyland has its share of culinary delights.

But there is one thing that someone has to explain to me.

Who decided that in the midst of the churros, cotton candy, popcorn, fritters, hot dogs, hamburgers, fudge and frozen lemonade, that they should have a booth featuring big, greasy, humongous turkey legs???

Why would they do this??

Was someone walking along one day fresh from the Dumbo ride and suddenly exclaim, “You know I’m hankerin’ for a huge turkey leg right about now!”

Doubtful…..

But there they are.

Right in the middle of Frontierland.

In their steamy glass turkey sauna.

Lined up in a row like the perfect little Henry the Eighth appetizers.

Random…..

All for the low, low price of $9.00 per leg…

What??? What????

Whatever…..

So we spent the rest of the day enjoying the sunshine, riding the gentler rides and watching the hordes of humans in their wacky pursuit of fun and frolic.

But the best quote ever was from a Dad who had just emerged from Splash Mountian and was furiously screaming in the face of his whiny little offspring.

“We are at Disneyland and we are going to have a good time DAMN IT!!!!” 

Whoa there, Sparky!  Don't you know that Mickey don't allow dat here kind of language in dis here Briar Patch??

Mr. Walt will rise from his cryogenic slumber and thump your neck for screaming at your little man that way!!!!

DON’T YOU KNOW THIS IS THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH??????

Unless you happen to be a turkey.

And want to keep all of your legs.

……..I’m just sayin’

Go wash your "spork"

Suffering from P.T.D.D.

That’s Post Traumatic Disneyland Disorder.

What this means is,

1.       I’m Exhausted.

2.       I’m broke.

3.       My house is destroyed cuz I haven’t been home.

4.       I don’t care.

Bottom line is, this morning I ate my cereal out of a measuring cup with a handle and a “spork” from Taco Bell.

Whatever….

So I left the teenage son home with the pup for my fabulous adventure and now I am paying the piper.

He actually “did the dishes” yesterday but they are mightily suspect and require close inspection before I can attempt to use them.

“What do you mean the water has to be hot and I NEED to use soap…..Why is that a requirement?”

“Can’t I just wave them under cold water and wipe them on my right hip?

“You’re so picky.”

For those of you who don’t own teenage sons, their version of clean is not found in any dictionary on the planet.

Organizational skills consist of individual piles of things on the floor and to hear them tell it, “they know where everything is.”

All items removed from any location in their room require rubber gloves and a pair of taco tongs if you know what’s good for you.

And again, I don’t care.

I posted a sign above our sink in the kitchen to alleviate a dish build-up in our household.

IMPORTANT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

PLEASE BE ADVISED!!

The maid died yesterday so do your own dishes..

Oh that’s right, we never had a maid, but if we did,

SHE WOULD HAVE DIED FROM DOING SO MANY DANG DISHES!!!

The Management

You can’t see it cuz it has a pile of plates in front of it.

Whatever….

It’s still amuses me.

Before I go to work I need to go wash my “spork” and my measuring cup.

Wouldn’t want to add to the pile.

That would be unthinkable.....

……….I’m just sayin’

Grab your bag and run!

It’s Monday night.

The last day of my three day weekend…

Need to back to work to REST!

I am on the Amtrak version of the “red-eye” zipping through the night and listening to the guy behind me who is snoring.

REALLY loud.

Not the normal, “that’s kinda buggin’ me” snoring, but hardcore “movin’ the curtains”, “hand him a Breathing Strip”, kind of snoring.

This guy is excellent at it!

Let’s just say if there was a snoring Olympics he would be the Michael Phelps of adenoids.

Anyway, not the point.

So after a long day at Disneyland, (which will require a whole blog entry by itself), I was just able to stumble into the terminal and catch the final train to San Diego.

It leaves Anaheim at 10:48 p.m. and arrives in Old Town at 12:40 a.m.  (For all of you time-impaired folks that translates into, “really freakin’ early”.

On the plus side, at this late hour there are very few folks on board.

Not a wiffle ball in sight. (please see previous post),  which  is a big bonus if you are tired and have to get up at 6:00 a.m. for work the next day.

On the down side, the folks working this late run are frankly tired of the “All Aboard” cheeriness and just want to be done for the day.

What this means to me as a traveler is, they don’t like to stop.

Unless they are forced to.

And when they do, you better be ready to detrain (ridiculous word), or they will choo-choo your tired carcass all the way to the end of the line.

So because I was “detraining” one stop before the final destination, I had to be on my toes.

This meant pulling out one of my earplugs on my IPod and not falling asleep lest I should miss the announcement which would go something like this.

“Next stop Old Town. If this is your final destination , please gather all of your belongings and be ready to exit quickly as this will be a brief  stop.”

What this really means is, “next stop,Old Town, IF this is where your tired rear-end is getting off, you better grab your 40 pound piece of luggage and sprint down the stairs or you’ll miss it and be dumped off at the Downtown terminal instead!

“Cuz we are tired and wanna go home!”

P.S.“Thank you for choosing Amtrak!”

So because I didn’t want to crash in Horton Plaza for the night, I kept vigilant, paid attention, and actually was able to leap off in Old Town before the door closed on my heels!

Of course, I jacked up my back in the process, but that's a minor point!

So off to work this morning looking like something the cat dragged in and counting my blessings.

The first one would be, that I am NOT married to the snoring man.

Cuz I would be spending a kings ransom in ear plugs every month AND eventually I would have to smother him with a pillow.

 And murder is just not nice.

Even for me.

…..I’m just sayin’

You have WHAT in your suitcase?

Hitched an Amtrak to Lalaland for the weekend to visit the kidlets.

I am fascinated by the train!

You don’t have to submit to those annoying body cavity searches they specialize in at the airport, 

AND you can transport an ENTIRE suitcase full of kitchen knives and other various cooking weapons and nobody even bats an eye. (Been there, done that) 

Don’t be judgin’, my girlies needed some cooking junk.....

Never thought what would have happened if they decided to frisk me.

“Yes, Mr. Conductor, I understand the damage that a 5 pound meat tenderizer mallet could do to a human skull.”

‘BUT, I wasn’t planning to use it on anyone, especially you sir.”

“Now my big wooden rollin’ pin, THAT may be another story entirely.”

“What do mean I need to exit the train immediately?”

“You have no sense of humor at all!”

So I purchase my ticket, find my comfy forward-facing seat and immediately tune in to the various and bizarre conversations that are taking place around me.

A well dressed, middle-aged gal in front of me was discussing the details of a funeral she was traveling to attend.  This wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary except for when I heard the sentence. “Well, who is going to pay for the freezer?”

Now I am no stranger to bizarre circumstances but in my mind the words “body” and “freezer” do not belong in the same sentence. 

Except maybe if you are Walt Disney.

I perked up my ears at this interesting tidbit but was distracted by the couple behind me who apparently were in the middle of an argument.

Him: “What’s wrong?”

Her:  “Nothing!” (FYI guys, this a universal red flag answer and you should immediately get up and scurry away.)

Him:  “I know something is wrong, just tell me what it is.”

Her:  “No, I said I’m fine.” 

This plodding repetitive dialogue continued what seemed like forever until I saw myself whipping around and screaming,

“For the love of everything that is holy, are you guys four years old?!”

“IF you are mad, TELL HIM WHAT IS BOTHERING YOU!”

“AND, IF SHE WON’T TELL YOU WHAT IS WRONG, LEAVE HER ALONE AND WORK ON YOUR COMPUTER!”

“I can tell by the look on her pinched little face that you are on her last nerve and we still have a 2 hour joy ride ahead of us!”

“Even if you bought her a Pandora bracelet with a tiny train charm to "remember this special day", she would still wanna bust your chops, so just give it up!”

P.S. I hope you’re not married.

To distract myself from this ridiculous babble, I fished out my IPod, plugged in my earbuds and laid out the breakfast I brought from home.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye a young college dude who kept glancing back at me the entire time I was eating.

Now one glance is no biggy. 

Two glances may mean he is looking for the closest restroom.

But three glances falls into the “what are you lookin’ at?” category.

Yes, I’m eating a Jimmy Dean egg,sausage and cheese biscuit and a big bag of Lays BBQ potato chips for breakfast! 

Is that a problem?

What are you, my cardiologist?

You’re lucky I’m not washing it down with a Margarita!

Sensing  my contempt for his judgmental stare, he turned his fauxhawk head around, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Years ago, I used to ride the train quite often when I would go visit my daughter who was away at college.

On one of these excursions, I was in the same car with a Dad and his two daughters who looked to be about 7 and 9 years old.

As he knew this would be a long train ride, he brought what he figured would amuse his little tikes for the length of their journey.

This was a wiffle ball.

Of course, anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know that this would be an EXCELLENT babysitting tool for a couple of children in a CLOSED train car.

A ball.

Which of course, they would throw.

And roll.

Down the aisles.

Over and over.

Mile after mile.

Under peoples feet.

Over their heads.

And, of course, he would join in this squealing, raucous game to show what a good Dad he was.

We hated him.

And the ball.

And after about 10 minutes, the little girls too.

We couldn’t help it.

They asked for it.

Eventually the entire band of passengers would have turned on them like the Donner Party on a can of Spam until they made one errant throw.....

And magically the ball disappeared....

He stood and announced, “has anyone seen a purple wiffle ball about this big?”(making a circle with his meaty mitts)

crickets......

“It belongs to my little girls.”

crickets.......

Really buddy, we didn't know you guys had a ball?????

What a shocking revelation!!!!!

I’m sure whoever was sittin’ on that frickin’ ball was hoping it didn’t have a squeaker.

Ultimately, he gave up his futile search and force fed them Skittles until they fell into a sugar coma.

When they got off the train, a rousing cheer rose from the masses.

We were not sorry to see them go.

As for the present trip, I never unraveled the mystery of the body in the freezer,

the angry lady was “fine” through the entire journey AND I scarfed down every last one of my chips and didn’t even offer ONE to Mr. Fauxhawk.

Aaaa, the train.

Nothing like it.
I love it.

Now, what DID I ever do with that wiffle ball?

…......I’m just sayin’

Were you raised by a hobo?

So the following is an entry I posted on Facebook pre-blog which I thought some of you might enjoy.

Getting on an Amtrak to visit two of my brood up in HollywoodLand for a 3 day weekend! 

THAT should give me some blog fodder for sure! 

See you on Monday!

As previously discussed, I have a new puppy…..

And being a puppy her goal is to chew anything she can get her pointy little teeth on including my flesh, old nasty leaves and bird feathers. (as of yet, not while still on my bird)!

This is frowned upon by all involved and we have found that the best way to keep her from doing this lovely practice is a little squirt with a spray bottle on the nose with the admonition of “NO bite!"

 It has saved countless socks, ankles, shoes, shoelaces, noses and multiple other fleshy appendages to date.

I just got to thinking what a smashing idea it would be if we could apply this training lesson to humans!

Anyone caught doing stuff that was socially unacceptable we would just whip out our bottle from the 99 cent store and go to town!

The possibilities are endless….If someone takes your parking spot you get out of your car, motion for them to roll down the window and BAM!….right in the kisser with a firm, “NO!”

Littering, passing gas in the elevator, being pushy and loud in the line at the grocery store, taking 2 hours at the ATM machine, cutting in line at Ticketmaster, blowing your nose really loud and sloppily in a restaurant( I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH!)

EVEN if you do it in a handkerchief or Kleenex)

Really people???

Excuse yourself to the bathroom for Pete’s Sake!

Were you raised by a hobo?

And the most disgusting thing in the world, which even though I am not a sexist I have only witnessed men doing,…….

BLOWING YOUR NOSE BY PINCHING DOWN ONE SNOTTY NOSTRIL AND BLOWING OUT THE OTHER!!!!

I have no words for how incredibly foul this is!!!!!

Just don’t do it!!!

ANYWHERE!!!

EVER!!!!

I’m trying to picture a bunch of ladies just strollling out of the club in the Gaslamp with their teeny little skirts on, leaning over on the sidewalk with their little runny noses and just lettin' it fly….

It wouldn’t happen....

Not on this planet anyway……

At least until after 2:00 A.M........

So I’m on my way to the store to pick up another spray bottle, then back home to compile my list of “spray worthy”deeds.

I bet there isn’t even a law against assault with a spray bottle……

Genius idea!.....

.........I'm just sayin’