"All I want for Christmas is a new Meniscus!" Part Unus.........(That's Latin for Part One)

Aging.
Can be challenging.
And difficult.
Sure beats the alternative which is, of course, being dead.
But sadly, the hardest thing about getting older is that your brain refuses to acknowledge the fact that you are not 19 anymore.
I always envision this teenage mentality peering out of my 58 year old eyes like a prisoner held captive muttering, "yeah, you can trim that 50 foot hedge by yourself!"
"Just do it!"
"You're amazing!"
Or.......

"Of course you can play soccer with this rowdy band of teenagers one third your age!"
"Excellent idea!"
"Brandish the wheelchair, Hopkins!"
This was apparently my driving force last year when I decided that my new puppies had piddled enough on the aging carpet in my office and that I would "pull it up."
All by myself.
Thus began a four day fiasco of cutting, tearing and gnashing of teeth.
This culminated with me hunkered over, one leg tucked under the other, methodically pulling carpet staples, cleaning and painting the entire floor by hand.
Long process.
Very unwise.
When it was all finished, after I unfolded my creaky frame, I noticed a small, unusual pain in my knee. 
Thus it began.
It started small at first.
Some mornings the inability to bend my knee enough to slip my foot inside my chonies.
Then you have to do that long-arm-toe-snag-aided-by-your-monkey-toes-on -the-good-leg-thing.
All very complicated.
Then noticing that walking around the block would make my knee throb like a big toe being smacked by a giant hammer in a cartoon.

Or getting into the car and having to lift my bad leg over the door jam like a dead weight spiral Honey baked ham.
Eventually I decided that I should probably investigate the problem and went to the doctor.
Now if you have an HMO and you need approval for surgery this process takes approximately four score and seven years to complete.
It starts with a visit to your primary care physician.
This is the person whose name is on your insurance card but who you have never laid eyes on.
Ever....
You could run over his body in the street and never recognize him.
Generally you are assigned to a Nurse Practitioner or an "NP"
This is Latin for, the person who does all of the doctors hard work but gets "No Pay"
Everyone of these people that I have ever met have been delightful, efficient and kind. 
Plus you get to see their actual face every time you go to the office.
First step is a referral for an x-ray of the offending body part.
These are great if you have a fracture the size of a Grand Canyon or something big and clunky rattling around inside your knee.
Like a marble.
For the more subtle junk these usually come back as "negative"
Next comes a referral for Physical Therapy.
This is Latin for "making you do stuff with your body that you couldn't do even before you were injured."
"Just take this giant rubber band and put it around your foot"
"Now pull it until it pops off, flies across the room and pokes that elderly gentleman’s eye out sitting over there in the wheelchair."
"Ma'am, you aren't doing it right!"
"No, you can't eat cookies while you are on the exercise bike!
I don't think they were sorry to see me finish my stint there.
It didn't help that I had to wear shorts.

With the whiteness of my milky flesh they all had to don sunglasses to prevent retinal damage.
All in all these folks do a great, albeit painful job.
My friend calls them "physical terrorists."
When they decided they couldn’t humiliate me any further they ordered an MRI.
After another phone call to the NP, I obtained permission for one of these.
MRI is Latin for "Mighty Roaring Tube They Put You Inside Of."
Not for the faint of heart.
Big, white, cylindrical contraption that resembles a morgue drawer, only much noisier.

Not that I have never been in a morgue drawer but I’m assuming.
For my test they asked me to lie down on this sliding platform and asked me what kind of music I liked.
How sweet, a personal touch!
I soon discovered that this question determined the type of music they will pipe into the headset they place over your head. 
A headset you say?
Why is this?
That's because an MRI involves rolling your supine carcass into a claustrophobic tube which immediately produces sounds that would send a pack of coyotes into a frenzy.
Think of a cross between a jack hammer and a pneumatic lug nut drill.
And it seems to take FOREVER!!
During this seemingly endless process you keep getting headset encouragement from the MRI technicians who are back behind you in a sound proof booth playing checkers and eating pizza. 
"How are you feeling?"
"You are doing fantastic!"
This is Latin for, "the lady before you freaked out, yanked off her headset, tried to scratch our eyes out and ran away screaming, so you are doing way better than she did"
"Would you like a slice of pepperoni?"
Eventually the jack-hammering stopped and they freed me from the morgue drawer.
All in all a fun filled afternoon.
After the NP gets your MRI result they finally refer you to an orthopedic surgeon.
Its like miraculously getting into see The Wizard of Oz, or an audience with the Pope.
It's a big deal.
My ortho guy was a jokester which of course suited me just fine, and started out with, "Can you stand on one foot and hop up and down on your good leg?"
Piece of cake.
Doc, "Now can you do it on the other side?"
Me, "What?" "Are you a sadist?"
"That would be no, Marquis De Sade!"
Doc, "Oh, I was just kiddin', I use that as a diagnostic tool."
"The people who are not really in pain will follow the instructions perfectly!"
"The ones who are look at me like I'm nuts!
"I once had an elderly lady try to kick me with her good leg when I asked her that question."
I told you I loved this guy....

But that didn't keep me from yanking his tiny rubber mallet from his pocket and thwacking him between his bushy eyebrows.

“How does that feel, Jay Leno?”

“Just kiddin!”
Then he ambles to the cupboard and whips out his creepy plastic knee models to show me in living color how jacked up my knee really is.
Doc, "See this part of a normal knee?" 
"You don't have any of that." 
"And this part right here?"
"That’s called a Meniscus."

“That’s Latin for “weird little thing in your knee that hurts like heck if you tear carpet up by yourself for four days in your puppies favorite tinkle room.”
"Yours has tears in it!"
"Plus you have "Bakers Cysts"
These have nothing to do with making biscuits.
After all of his diagnostic fal-da-ra he looks at me and says, "So what do you want to do?"
Me..."Get a Subway sandwich and rent a movie?"
"Oh, about my knee!"
"I don't know, I'm not making the big bucks!"
Doc..."Well, we can do nothing and splint your knee up with Popsicle sticks and hope for the best." 
Ummm, no.
"Or we can do arthroscopic surgery on your Meniscus and repair it!"
"Yes!"
"It will probably be pretty painful and you will have to walk around with a Frankenstein leg for awhile and never shower." 
"Still yes!"
Hence the realization of just what lengths I will go to get time off from work.
Its sad to know that I would apparently saw off my big toe with a butter knife for the chance at a three day weekend.

"Okay doc, I've decided!"

"Let's do it!"

"Cuz all I want for Christmas is a new Meniscus!”

I'm just sayin.....

The Respect of the Blow Up Santy

I love home improvement stores.

I think it’s because they remind me of my Dad.

He was a finishing cabinet maker and wood was his business.

A childhood memory of walking into his workplace surrounded by piles of pine boards, sawdust on the floor and the fresh smell of cut lumber.

He was my hero.

After his passing in 1993, I couldn't go into a Home Depot without tears welling up in my eyes.

Now, 20 years later, it is my place of homage to my Pop.

I love wandering the endless aisles of stuff marveling at the incredible ingenuity in the land of repair.

What the heck is that?

I didn't know they made stuff to fix a leak under water?!

Seems kind of redundant to me.

Anyway, so one Saturday morning I went into the church of color chips and began to meander my way toward my favorite area of the store which is usually the garden shop or anything to do with candles.

I passed by the paint department and heard before I saw, Jacob.

Don’t know how they decided on his name cuz there was nothing biblical about this lad.

Except maybe a Beelzebub reference.

Bout 3 feet tall, spiky dishwater blond bed head, grubby t-shirt, scruffy jeans, untied shoelaces.

Face down on the dusty platform on one of those big, orange flat wood hauling carts with the goal post handles.

Toes barely scraping the floor, spinning the cart in a full circle in the middle of the aisle,.all the while screeching, 

“I WANT TO GO HOME!”

I thought that was an excellent idea.

At this exact moment I again heard, before I saw,

“Grandma.”

“JACOB, STOP THAT!”

I forgot to mention that Grandma was apparently in the midst of some serious repair projects cuz the cart was laden with small hardware bags, cans of paint and the best thing of all, various sizes and lengths of white PVC pipe.

Due to the velocity of Jacobs cart spinning these had now been transformed into spears of Don Quixote-esque magnitude and were zipping in all directions threatening to impale the other shoppers.

I was hiding on the end display, peeking around the corner to avoid being a friendly fire pipe victim.

Immediately sliding into view, in all her glory, “Grandma” now appeared.

A mountainesque, lumbering, no nonsense Granny with Birkenstocks on her feet and piles of spidery, gray hair held in place by some type of bun holder.

If any of you have ever watched “Peewees’ Big Adventure” just picture “Large Marge”

“JACOB!”

“IF I HAVE TO TELL YOU ONE MORE TIME TO STOP SPINNING THAT CART AROUND, I AM GOING TO POUND YOU!”

Again, I thought this was an excellent idea.

If I hadn't been afraid of incurring the wrath of the great Grandma, I would have pulled up an empty orange bucket to sit on and watch this spectacle.

As it was, I hid cowardly behind a display of ornamental Christmas pigs and peered through the twinkly lights.

Whirly, whirly, whirly.

Screech, screech, screech.

 The orange metal cart was now in full Tilt-A-Whirl form with everything on it flying in all directions.

PVC pipes flinging wildly onto the floor, sliding under the counters and zooming into the paint mixing area.

Nimble shoppers jump-roped their way over the white tubes of terror.

Paint cans toppled over as Jacob clawed his scrawny frame farther onto the cart so as not to become a victim of centrifugal force.

He now resembled a raggedy tike splayed onto a medieval torture table.

This was spectacular!

And just think, I had planned on going to the movies for my mornings entertainment!

This was waaaayyy better!

“JAAACOOOOOOBBBBB!!!”

It was apparent that Jacob had no intention of stopping.

He was just coming into the “breaking the sound barrier” phase of cart spinning and he was not looking back.

Guess he figured if he was destined for a whuppin’ anyway, he may as well get his monies worth.

Whirly, whirly, whirly…

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

A crowd had now gathered to view the spectacle of the PVC pandemonium.

Orange apron-clad employees ran to try and diffuse the damage from the Jacobmeister as he whirled his way to Home Depot fame.

I imagine the call went something like this.

“Brat Brigade to aisle three!”

“P.S, bring  a nail gun!”

“MA’AM!” 

“LADY!”

“HE CAN’T RIDE ON THE FLATBED CARTS!” (Uh, too late.)

“MA.AM!”  “MA’AM!”

 “MA’AAAAAMMMMMM!”

Whirly, whirly, whirly,

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Precisely at this moment Grandma decided she would try to reach in and grab one of the metal goal post bars on the car.

Let me just go on record and say that I thought this was a horrible idea.

Like trying to fish a floating candy bar.

Out of a pool of piranhas.

With your fingertips.

While it's spinning.

“JA---COB----STOP----SPINNING----THE----CART!!!” 

(I had wished I had a bucket of popcorn to munch)

She reached in.

Smack!

She missed the handle and it thwacked into her fleshy fingers.

Smack!

“JACOOOOOBBBBBB!”

She tried it again.

Hey, this lady is tough.

After all, Jacob is her grandson!

Meanwhile the cart is now almost entirely empty, except for Jacob and a package of roller covers which Jacob was using for his face rest. (those metal carts can get chilly on the cheeks)

Now Grandma is getting mad.  

(WHAT??) (NOW YOU ARE GETTING MAD?!) (SERIOUSLY?!)

Stomping to the paint counter, she begins to throw all of her stuff down and hoists up her paint stained sweat pants.

“THAT’S IT!”

“NO BURGER KING FOR YOU!”

“I SAID, STOP SPINNING!’

She now proceeds to do something which catapults her up a billion notches on my respect meter.

Running to the paint aisle she grabs an empty paint roller cage and lumbers toward the spinning cart of death.

The next revolution, she plunges her fleshy arm forward, hooks the roller over the metal handle and digs in her heels.

SCREEEEEEEECHHHHHHHH!

The cart shudders to a screeching halt, Jacob takes flight and soars skyward toward the blow up “Santa In The Airplane” display. 

He smacks soundly into the mid-section of Old Saint Nick, which pops loudly and promptly deflates.

“OOOOOWWWWWWWW!”

“GRANDMA, YOU HURT ME!”

He turns to see Granny marching full speed towards him and darts toward the closest exit.

“GET HIM!”

It was like the scene from Shrek when the villagers are grabbing their pitchforks and torches!

Half the employees converged on the little beast and corralled him into a corner till the Grandma could get there and administer her Granny justice.

They didn’t want to touch him in case he was a biter.

The other half of the folks gathered up Grannys’ junk so that they could help her check out as fast as humanly possible.

I was still hiding behind the twinkly pigs.

“THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU WILL EVER GO TO THE STORE WITH ME!”

“AND YOU PROMISED ME IF I TOOK YOU OFF OF THE LEASH YOU WOULD BEHAVE!’

(I really am not making this up)

“NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

“YOU POPPED THE SANTY!”

“I AM GOING TO HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT!”

At this precise moment the head honcho emerged from the crowd and smiled,

“No Ma’am, it‘s perfectly fine. Accidents happen.”

“Just let me ring your purchases up for you.”

(Translation. GET OUT OF MY STORE RIGHT NOW, BEFORE I KILL YOUR GRANDKID!)

She now had an entourage of Home Depot helpers, arms full of merchandise, accompanying her to the check-out.

She was dragging Beelze-Jacob toward the exit by the earlobe and not a soul was complaining that it was child abuse.

I actually think I heard one elderly gentlemen offer to grab the other side.

Jacob, “BUT I WANT BURGER KING!”, “I NEED A CROWN!" ,“BUT YOU PROMISED!!!!!!”

Granny , “THAT’S IT!”, “NEVER AGAIN!”

“NO ONE WHO POPS A SANTY EVER GETS A CROWN!”

“EVER!”

No truer statement was ever spoken….

She certainly gets props from me.

That’s for sure.

A gray haired week-end warrior who still does her own repair work and is brave enough to take Jacob out of his kennel even for a few hours.

And still understands the respect a blow up Santy deserves.

Ya gotta love her.

I’m just sayin’………

Happy Fourth of July!......A serious reflection.....For once.

I spoke to my daughter this morning.

Not that it would normally be any big deal but she is not here.

Not around the corner, or around the block, or even a train ride away.

She is abroad.

In Africa to be precise.

But through the miracle of technology we pushed a few buttons on the tiny telephone and voile’.

There she was.

Her melodic voice threading through the African brush and the airwaves to squeal, “Happy Fourth of July!”

It made me smile.

She is on a mission, both spiritually and professionally to help some of the rural communities in South Africa become more independent. 

To accomplish this she is living in a remote village with a host family and their children.

She spends long days mentoring and teaching others.

Long days of working, walking, talking and living within this remote microcosm of humanity.

Her conversation with us did not last long because of the cost of calling and the time limitations of the day but her first order of business was to introduce us to two members of her “family”.

“Papa Elvis” and “Mama Sisanda”.
“Papa Elvis”, (as in Presley), was the first to get on the line and he busted out a hearty, “Hello!” and assured me in broken English that, “Your daughter is very safe with me.”

This of course choked me up a little because as a Mom, no matter how old your children are, you always worry about their safety.

I told him thank you and that I hoped she was behaving herself.

I am sure he did not understand all that I said, but I heard him chuckle across the miles.

Then I was introduced to “Mama Sisanda”    

My daughter presented her to me by saying, “She’s just like you Mama, she loves to dance and sings while she works!” 

“I am teaching her, I’ll Fly Away!”

Intake of breath.

And through the phone line, crackling across thousands of miles, a familiar refrain.

“Some glad morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away.”

“To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.”

I was transported.

Back through time.

To a wooden church pew.

Ceiling fans lazily spinning above my head on a hot Summers day.

Munching on a saltine to keep me quiet because I was just a child.

Gazing at my beloved, now departed Mama.

Her voice raised in praise.

Eyes closed.

Singing this beautiful hymn in the spirit and the understanding.

I of course, began to weep.

Silently the tears began to flow down my cheeks and yet this woman, this “Mama” to my daughter for even a few months, never stopped her song.

She was unaware if I was listening or even enjoying her melody, she was rejoicing!

My daughter said, “Isn’t that beautiful?’

“I choked back the tears and tried to sound normal, “That is fantastic!”

She exclaimed, “I downloaded the words on the Internet and gave them to her!”

“I remembered that this was Grandmas favorite song and I love it too!”

“It’s perfect”, I said.  “Tell her she is a beautiful singer!”

How amazing that this hymn, this anthem to transformation, would have touched my daughters’ soul so deeply that she would want to share it with this stranger in this exotic land.

So incredible that her “GG” gave her a spiritual gift that she will carry in her heart forever.

I was overwhelmed by all of the different emotions and managed to keep a smile in my voice so she wouldn’t be sad and mistakenly think she had upset me.

As it was, when we finished our brief conversation and I hung up the phone, I was at peace.

It struck me at that moment, on this Fourth of July, when we all celebrate the freedom that we hold so dear, that here, as well as in all corners of the world, freedom must also be in your mind.

That this woman who many would consider poor and impoverished, had the one thing that we all should have, no matter our station or monetary situation or lot in life.

Hope.

Hope for her family.

Hope for peace.

Hope for a relationship with a power higher than herself, whether it be God or Buddha or the Universe.

She was happy!

And she SANG and DANCED while she did her daily chores.

She took care of her family and her home and her greatest blessings were the simplest blessings.

Their safety, their health and their happiness.

So that is my wish for us all on this spectacular day of celebration.

That we all realize that no matter what happens in life,

We should always have hope.

Within ourselves.

For each other.

For our children.

For our nation.

For our planet.

For after all, we are the creators of our own future.

The choice of living in misery or living in happiness is always up to you.

Take a lesson from "Mama Sisanda".

Choose Joy!

……..I’m just sayin’

"Sir,would you like a hamburger with your hamburger?"

One of my Daddy’s favorite expressions was, “I can sure pick ‘em.”

He was known to throw this out this little ditty quite frequently because he usually could. 

As in pick ‘em.

He seemed to him that he always got the inept waiter, the check-out line at the grocery store where the lady had the last can of whatever and they had to dial up India for the price check, or the particularly disgruntled DMV employee on his last day before retirement.
Once he was sent to Jack in The Box to get hamburgers when they were like 5 for $1.00. (Hey, this was a while ago!)
Anyway, he bought a ton of them, hurried home and was shuffling them around to all of us hungry birdies at the table like cards on poker night.
Everybody sat down to eat and when he finally was able to sit down and opened up his burger it was empty! 
Blank.
Nada.
Just bun, no meat, no nothin'.
Not even a hint of ketchup.
We all sat there not knowing whether to laugh or cry or what our proper reaction should be to this missing meat malady.
He looked up from his naked bun and declared, "Deal 'em again, cuz Daddy got the joker." 
Well said, Pop.
As I said, he always did say that he could should sure pick 'em.

So his favorite saying popped into my head the other day as I stood behind a guy in the ATM line.

Now if you Google ATM machines, you will discover that they have been around for a few years.

In other words, they didn’t just sprout up on every corner last weekend.

So anyone over the age of four should be acquainted with this amazing invention by now.

At least you would think so.

But here I was, in a hurry of course, standing behind the Fred Flintstone of finance who couldn’t seem to figure out the whys and wherefores of this electronic banking marvel.

Please insert card into the automatic card sucker. ( how this can be intimidating?!!)
There is a little picture that gives a kindergarten-like slide show of a person performing this procedure you moron!

Please choose which language you prefer. (now we are doomed because there is no choice for “I speak stupid”)

Enter your PIN. (I swear I would not have been shocked if he had whipped out a Bic Clic and tried to jam it into the audio input hole)
Fumbling and mumbling now ensued with him slapping randomly at the keyboard with his sausage fingers trying to extract his dough.
Which apparently there wasn't any because the machine refused to cough up the cash.
At this point in time he turns to me and exclaims, "Its broken, it's not working!"
Now listen to me carefully, Forrest.
If there is no money IN your account you cannot take any money OUT of your account.  Capeesh?
And you can't withdraw change in five cent increments....
He now begins to shake his fist at the heavens proclaiming the injustice of these "new fangled machines" and their stupidity. 
Say, what??
He again turns to me and shrieks, "I say it's broken!!"
Thanks for the heads up junior achievement, now go home and try to figure out how to work the toaster.
But first, GET OUT OF MY WAY SO I CAN GET SOME CASH!!
He then steps to the side so I can do my banking business.
Okay, here is the deal.
There is correct ATM etiquette which they should explain to people when they issue them the little plastic cards.
First, you should move away from the machine when you are finished doing your stuff.
Nobody wants to wait while you sift through your Grand Canyon wallet or purse so you can put your card back in its proper home.
We don't care.
Second, do not get too close when forming a line behind the person at the machine.
I don't want you hovering over my shoulder like a Disney undertaker buzzard and if I can smell your brand of Tic Tac, you are way too close.
People get antsy about these things and you are liable to end up with an elbow to the groin.
As for this piece of work, he shuffled his rotund belly slightly to the side so I could reach the machine but was still close enough where I could see his hairy navel through his threadbare off-white t-shirt.
Not far enough for comfort but hey, I have pepper spray on my keychain.
I put in my card and miracle of miracles, it gives me cash!!!
Shocking....
See sir, this is not a magic money tree.  It will only give you money if you have money in your account! 
As my twenty dollar bill slides into view he now proceeds to bellow, "What???" "That is not possible!" "It's  broken!"
No my portly pal, it is not broken, you just don't have any money.
Hence you can't get any money....
And while we are on the subject, I would seriously hate to be behind this guy at the check-out line at Target or CVS or any other retail spot.
Since when did checking out with a debit card become the final round of Jeopardy?
Can you be asked any more questions during this process?
What form of payment are you using?
Please slide your card.
Please enter your pin.
Please wait for cashier.
Is this amount correct?
Do you want any cash back?
Do you want it all on this card?
Do you want to contribute to the latest charity organization?
Do you want to lose 20 pounds in two weeks?  (just kidding)
YES, YES, YES....for pity sakes,YES!
I'M JUST TRYING TO PAY FOR MY TOILET PAPER AND GUM!
I DIDN'T KNOW THIS WAS THE LSAT'S FOR MEDICAL SCHOOL!
And heaven forbid if during this procedure the little pin pad "yes" button would actually work and not be completely trashed from people jabbing their fingers onto it a thousand times a day!
There you are viciously pounding your digit into the tiny rectangle and eventually the weary check-out clerk mumbles, "Please use the fake pencil hanging from the little plastic string." 
"And Ma'am, don't break our machine."
TOO LATE!
IT'S WAAAY PAST BROKEN!
IT WAS BROKEN TWO YEARS AGO!
NOW IT'S JUST A SHADOW OF ITS FORMER SELF!
"Do you want paper or plastic?"
"And lady, did you bring your own bag with you or are you a frivilous earth hating non-recycler who wants plastic?"
"Of course I brought my bag with me, but it's in the trunk of my car where I always forget it when I come into the store!"
"Which is why I have enough empty plastic bags at home to fashion a personal hot air balloon!"
"Awww, just hand me my gum and put a sticky carrying handle on my toilet paper so the whole world knows what kind of wiper I am!"
"I'm just trying to go home!"
"Well I would, but your card was just declined."
"Apparently you have no money in your account."
"Say, what???"
..............I'm just sayin'

You want milk with that Happy Meal?

The Train.

I love Amtrak.

It is usually peaceful, the scenery is spectacular and you can look 

out the window and press your nose against the glass if you want to.

Plus if you are lucky you will find cool stuff people left behind on 

the seats you can play with on your trip.

Please see below.

Can’t get any cooler than a sticky purple rubber lizard.

Riding the train always makes me happy, I love the train whistle 

and as previous posts can attest to, it seems to always give me a 

great deal of blog material.

Traveled on the train last Saturday to L.A. in the wee hours of the 

morning and it was obvious there was some kind of bulletin posted 

in some loony bin that they were looking for people to accompany 

me on my journey.

Apparently on this trip AMTRAK stood for, “All-maniacal-

travelers-really-are-knuts”

Because of my haste to get to the City of Angels, I boarded the 

earliest train possible which is actually listed on the train schedule 

as the “butt crack of dawn”. 

6:11 A.M. to be exact, and a dear friend of mine was kind enough 

to pick me up and drop me off in one bleary eyed lethargic lump at 

the Old Town Trolley station.

I boarded the train, plopped my carcass into the seat, drug out my 

Ipod shuffle and earplugs, presented my E-ticket to Mr. Train 

Conductor with his coffee can style black hat, and prepared to be 

enchanted by the ocean view as I sped up the California coastline.

It was at this exact moment that I spied Jerry Garcia.

He was sitting right behind me with his hair in a ponytail gazing out the window.

He looked pretty good for a guy that has been dead since 1995.

Or Gratefully Dead as the case may be.  (sorry, I had to say it)

I remained cool and calm and just hoped Bruce Willis wouldn’t sit 

down next to me and tell me I was seeing dead people.

I occasionally peeked around to see if he was whipping out a guitar 

and belting out a tune but he remained stoically mute.

A couple of stops later I look up and striding towards me down the 

aisle is Jason Mraz!

What is this train, the singer Surfliner?

Who’s next, Elvis?

I happened to be listening to him at that exact moment on my Ipod 

and now here he was in front of me!

A vision in denim!

Cool fedora, signature Jason Mraz nose, earthy backpack and what 

appeared to be a Rolex on his wrist.

Jason lowers his lanky frame into a seat directly across the aisle 

from me and thus begins my mission to stare at him without 

actually staring at him.

Difficult.

There is the infamous sideways eye cut.

This just makes you appear cross-eyed.

Then there is the “I’m-just-getting-something-out-of-my-travel-bag” move.

Never fooled a soul.

Eventually you find yourself hanging over the seat like a five year 

old drooling on his Birkenstocks.

“Is that really him?”

“It looks exactly like him!”

“Naaaaa, he wouldn’t take the train!”

“Would he?”

“He is very earth conscious!”

“I’ll just be cool and pretend to read my magazine.”

“Should I offer him a bite of my bagel?”

“That would be neighborly!”

I was just starting to settle into a good stalking position when down 

the aisle a hurricane swept into view.

Mom, Dad, Casey and Emma.

I suspect they had originally been seated downstairs and the 

seniors ran them out of their area with their canes and some pitchforks.

This hypothesis was confirmed a few moments later when they set 

up camp in the “Family Seating” area two rows in front of me.

Two seats facing forward and two facing the opposite direction.

This is so you can keep an eye on each other during the ride.

Please understand, at this wee hour of the morning 99% of the 

people in the train car were asleep.

I emphasize the word, WERE.

The family travel outline must have gone something like this:

1.  Wake the children up at dawn by plying them out of bed with a box of Captain Crunch, 6 Pop Tarts and some shots of Red Bull.

2.  Mommy drinks a Bloody Mary followed up with 2 Ambien.

3.  Pack boxes of crayons, coloring books, juice drinks, fruit roll-ups and toys to amuse the kids.

4.  Forget this stuff on the kitchen counter at home

They piled into the seats, Mom pulled out her satin eye mask which 

sported two huge cartoon-esque eyes with eyelashes.

It appeared as if Miss Piggy was staring me down.

I think this was a ploy to convince the kidlets that even though 

Mommy was snoring, she was actually awake and watching their 

every move.

And then the games began…..

Dad, aka Alex Trebek.

“Casey, what do you see outside?”

“THE OCEAN!”

“RIGHT!”

“Emma, what do you call the car at the end of the train?”

“THE CABOOSE!!”

“RIGHT AGAIN!’

With each subsequent answer their voices got louder.

I didn’t think this was humanly possible.

It was.

To give props to Casey and Emma, they were very bright for 

youngsters their age.

This did not stop me from despising them.

This educational screaming session lasted about 30 minutes when 

Dad finally said, “I know, let’s count!”

“YEAH!”

It was like a pre-school version of, “99 Bottles of Beer on the 

Wall.”

Sesame Street purgatory.

“What comes after seventy nine?”

To which Casey replies, “SEVENTY TEN!”

Gales of laughter…..

Cries of, “You are sooo funny!”, from Dad and an actual grunt of 

acknowledgement from Mom.

Immediately both Casey and Emma began to singsong chant, 

“seventy ten, seventy ten, SEVENTY TEN!!!!”

If I could have snatched Jason Mrazs’ watch, I would have beaten 

them to a pulp with it.

It looked incredibly heavy.

Mercifully, now we were starting to pull into the Los Angeles 

Union Station which if you have never done this, takes awhile.

It is surrounded by acres and acres of what appear to be old repair 

yards and graveyards of train stuff.

Bottom line is, they announce you are arriving long before you 

ever get there.

The minute they announced our arrival, everyone in my car 

whipped up their luggage and ran toward the stairs to disembark.

So I grab my junk and vault down the stairs, only to find that Jerry 

Garcia has beaten me to the punch.

He is the first in line on the bottom step.

As I stand there digging my toe anxiously into the carpet, I realize 

this is a blessing in disguise.

I swing my gaze to the lower level aisle and swaying towards me in 

slow-train motion is a woman.

Shirt completely open.

With what appeared to be a kindergarten age child suckling at her 

enormous pendulous breast!

This child was huge!

Please let me paint you the full visual.

Full length cotton skirt.

Kaftan style button up blouse fluttering in the breeze.

Rustic sandals.

Hair in a tremendous bun with wooden sticks holding it in place.

The one fully exposed bosom sporting a red rose.

Used to be a rose bud.

Now it’s a long stem.

Tremendous muscular arms straining under the weight and the 

difficult hitching up of her knee to enable this giant human the 

ability to belly up to the bar!

Let me just say before anybody gets too preachy on me, I am a big 

fan of breast feeding.

Breast fed all of my kids.

Cheaper than formula, better for the baby and the bottle is always 

warm.

Hence my previous post about bra purchasing hassles.

But come on lady!

Seriously??!!

First of all, if your kid is old enough to order his own Happy Meal 

and pick out the toy, it’s time to close the saloon door.

And secondly, who nurses their humongous toddler when you are 

standing at the door getting ready to jump off of a train?

Anyone with half a brain cell to rub together knows how jerky bus 

and train stops can be!

With all the choppers this kid was sporting, she was just asking for 

an unfortunate areola amputation!

If Junior is that thirsty, take a seat and give him a toke or two.

Or better yet, text him that he has to wait a minute til’ you get in 

the train station.

He was just playing Candy Crush on his phone anyway!

As it is, Jerry will be lucky if you don’t poke out his eye with your 

“Madonna Mountains” when we screech into the station!

Jiminy Cricket Madam, think it through!

This 10 minute cruise into the station seemed like it took an 

eternity.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of Mother Earth and her offspring.

In my defense, it was a self-preservation move.

I had put on my sunglasses to protect my precious orbs from any 

residual flying flesh.

Jerry Garcia was in front of me with his jaw permanently on the 

floor.

The pseudo Jason Mraz was impatiently waiting behind me.

I knew when he pulled out the Cheetos and Snicker bar it wasn’t 

my health conscious vegan idol.

Plus he didn’t have a ukulele.

Above my head, Casey was still screaming, “SEVENTY TEN, 

SEVENTY TEN!”

Let’s just say when the door finally opened I flung myself to the 

platform and began to weep with joy.

It was at that exact moment I overheard the nursing kid mutter to 

his mother as she slowly rearranged her upper quadrant and 

stepped over me,

“Hey Ma, NOW can we get a Happy Meal??!”

“I’m still hungry!”

……I’m just sayin’