Warning: Adult (somewhat) Content

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Skewed Views™
An UnBlonde Sheep™

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Sometimes the world looks better upside down ...

I shouldn't have to say this - however, now that the world is upside down, I need to clearly define this as a humor page. There are more dangerously skewed views than I thought possible popping up every day now. Debunking crap and media hype has become almost a full-time job lately, http://www.therealmartha.com/WAR/index.htm. The Whispering Activist Record pages also offer opinions and ideas, mine and from others, that everyone can use to get involved, make a difference and lighten the load. Find timely info, controversy, common sense, commiseration, empathy, household tips, easy recipes, critter stuff, variety links, and a little humor along the way.

Emergency Tofu Gel Chips

or

What to do When the Sky Isn't Gonna Fall
By Beth Goodtree

    The beginning of this week saw a big weatherperson boo-boo. The snow pundits were predicting that "The Storm of the Century" would decimate the East Coast. People would be housebound for days, power lines would be blown down, food supplies wouldn't be able to get through, and worst of all, the kids wouldn't have school. In response to this meteorological version of The Towering Inferno, I decided to go food shopping. (Actually, I was coerced by my teenaged son, Sir Stinky Feet.) He needed several tanker trucks of milk to go with the shipping containers of "Scrunchy Twigs and Sugarcoated Rocks" cereal that he wanted me to lug home to see him through the deluge-to-come. Naturally, I would need some emergency hair coloring in case we had to be rescued by some beefy National Guardsmen with glistening biceps bulging through their perfectly tailored, body-hugging uniforms. We also needed batteries, candles and dog food.

    It was Saturday, not my normal food shopping day, since I like to avoid crowds. However, the storm clouds were gathering, so I put in my second-best set of teeth, poured some perfume on my armpits, squeezed my carcass into a dirty pair of sweats that had turned a fashionable shade of gray, and went galumphing off. The parking lot was more chaotic than a sale day in the girdle department at Macy's, but I wasn't about to succumb to the challenge.

    Let me tell you, I really hate it when some pushy broad will do anything (like stuff an overly-large purse under her coat and pretend she's pregnant) to snatch a parking spot away from those people who are patiently waiting their turn. Luckily for me, I had brought my overly-large purse and so I was able to grab myself a prime spot quite quickly. But finding a shopping cart was going to be (turned out to be) an exercise in futility.

    Apparently, the whole town had come to stock up on supplies and there wasn't even a hand basket to be had. People were approaching other shoppers and offering them money to get the carts as they were leaving the store. Being the cheapskate that I am, I came up with another solution for rounding up one of those precious grocery wagons. I readjusted my "baby" under my coat, staunchly waddled over to the cop directing traffic in the parking lot, and meekly begged his assistance, all the while trying to look like I was going to deliver right there and then. The valiant sergeant immediately commandeered a cart away from some hobbling, little old lady with a pronounced dowager's hump, and I was on my way.

    There was even a line to get into the store, but I bravely bellied a path through the masses and pushed on toward the deli and delicacies counter, sampling my way as I went. What I needed was a good dessert to finish off my meal-on-the-go and fortunately for me, the supermarket was giving away freshly baked cookies from their bakery. This was not their normal practice, but since the store was so mobbed, they had people lining up around the perimeter just to get in the line to get in the line to check out. In order to keep the crowd from rioting; they had the bakery girls going up and down the lines giving out cookies. I got in line three times before I felt revived enough to continue my quest.

    As I was shoving my way down the aisles, I was trying to remember what Sir Stinky Feet had asked me to get. All I remembered was tofu gel chips. Not that I'd ever heard of that, but with kids today, who knows? My Son-of-the-Foot-Odor has decided to go vegetarian this year and some of the stuff he puts in his mouth, I wouldn't necessarily classify as food. He says he won't eat anything with a face, and I tell him that I don't eat the faces, just the juicy prime ribs. (Although my grandmother used to make a really killer chicken's feet and beaks soup, but I haven't had that in eons. Besides, I think you have to come from the "old country" to know how to make it, and there are no babushkas in my closet!) But I digress.

    So I'm trying to find these tofu gel chips, figuring they're some sort of plasticized munchy health food. There are none to be had. "Stinky's gonna have my guts for guitar strings," I think to myself. So, I get a peace offering of non-dairy low fat whipped cream to top off his mocha-hazelnut, imported-from-Long-Island, gourmet instant latte. (Hey, I can be a big spender when I want to be.)

    By the time I got home with my paltry nine items, it was three hours later and the first snowflakes had begun to fall. Wearily I lugged in the one bag, which was immediately grabbed by my son. I thought he wanted to help his poor old mom. "Where are my tofu, gel and chips?" he demanded.

    "Tofu gel, and chips?" I screeched. "What the hell is tofu gel? I go running all over the store looking for tofu gel chips for you, and now you tell me that you wanted tofu gel and chips. At least be grateful that I got you that synthetic non-animal whipped soy byproduct you put on top of your fake almost-coffee!"

    Sir Stinky Feet just gave me one of those particularly withering looks that teenagers reserve for particularly stupid parents. "I wanted some tofu to eat, some gel for my hair, and some chips," he muttered. The dog, on the other hand, was so happy to see me that he immediately pooped in my mukluks. [More about Butchie's habits at end of page.]

    As I was shoving the groceries into the refrigerator, I comforted myself with the thought that at least my ungrateful spawn would be up to his quadriceps in shoveling snow. But nooooo. Those wonderful weather people who had disrupted my normally slothful Saturday had gotten it wrong. There was barely enough snow for the dog to colorize. I've learned my lesson, the next time they warn of an impending "storm of the century," I'm gonna run for my beach chair.

Anti-Gravity in My Future
By Beth Goodtree

    Much has been reported recently on our progress toward achieving anti-gravity and making it practical. So it got me to thinking (which is not necessarily a positive thing). Not about spaceships or fancy, new-fangled cars, but about some everyday uses for anti-gravity and how they would effect yours truly. Because ultimately, that is the only reason I'm interested in new technologies.

    Being a pre-menopausal female facing a dubious future of looking like a prune in 5-inch spike-heeled pumps, my first thoughts naturally turned to my body. What many people would consider a blessing, I have always found to be a curse. Being large-breasted has never been haute couture, and finding suitable support for this overly proud bosom has been perpetually fruitless. Even Buckminster Fuller on his best day couldn't engineer a brassiere to lift these puppies to what I consider to be sexily adequate heights. The idea of them becoming even more difficult to keep upraised is the thing of which my worst nightmares are made.

    Enter the anti-gravity bra. I think I'd call it Up Pups. It would be a simple, strapless affair with three settings. The first, called Natural, would actually be a euphemism for semi-sag. The second setting, called Fashionable, would be for demure and discrete business wear, just high enough to be undistractingly feminine. The third setting could be called Va-Va-Voom! It would raise my mammaries to heights only dreamed of by K-2 climber wannabes. Naturally, there would be spin-off products. One of them might be a panty for droopy derrieres. Let's call it Bottoms Up! again with three settings, Natural, Normal and Come and Get It!

    As I was blithely daydreaming about my newly uplifted carcass, reality set in. My landlord had come to collect the rent. So it got me to thinking again (uh-oh!). Suppose some private person or corporation patents a practical anti-gravity - what then? Geez, they might turn the gravity off!

    Picture it. The year is 2025; the place is any major city. I am apartment hunting and I find a place that, at first perusal, suits my needs, my aesthetic sense, and my pocketbook. Then the landlord tells me that the apartment comes with heat and hot water, but I have to pay for the electricity and gravity. That hurts. Let's take it a step further. Along with property taxes and water bills, everyone will have to pay a gravity tax. Even commercial businesses will find a way to profit off of anti-gravity. When you go to a restaurant, they add a gravity surcharge onto your bill. Pay toilets would make a comeback, but instead of paying for the use of the toilet, you'd be paying for the use of the gravity to make sure that the stuff that is supposed to go down the pipes really does.

    This whole line of thinking was getting me depressed, almost as depressed as watching the snow begin to accumulate on the sidewalk I would eventually have to shovel. Which gave me an idea. How about anti-gravity shovels and umbrellas? In fact, how about an invisible anti-gravity personal shield to repel the individual predestined share of bird poop and water balloons? (Gosh, this is easy! Anybody wanna hire me as an idea woman???)

        Right now, I'll bet you're wondering why I have yet to mention sex in terms of anti-gravity. In truth, it's been so long that I almost forgot. But here, the operant word is ‘almost.' After all, I am thinking about it now. Floating around and having sex could give a whole new meaning to the term ‘mile-high club'. However, you can't just let people indiscriminately bop around the sky in flagrante delicto. What would the keepers of the public morals think? (As if there are any morals left to keep.) What would visiting spaceships think? More to the point, what would I, who am not getting any, think? No, it definitely would not do. There would have to be something like a ‘no nookie zone'. But in thinking about it (there I go again), there would also have to be some sort of police to enforce it. Picture it. Getting paid to fly around looking for illicit sex acts behind passing clouds or among forbidden treetops. Wow, sign me up - twice!

    This whole idea of anti-gravity might not be such a bad thing. In fact, it sounds so good, maybe I'll come up with a sort of ‘son of anti-gravity.' Maybe I'll call it ‘Uncle-Gravity!'

My Neighbor Drinks Sewer Water
By Beth Goodtree

    We have a dog and the pampered beast insists on regular walking. This has been a blessing in disguise, although why a blessing would wear a disguise is beyond me. If I were a blessing I'd be running around naked doing a hootchie dance. Anyway, taking our canine on his self-appointed rounds has introduced me to the idiosyncrasies of the neighborhood. And not incidentally, it has also proven to be somewhat of an ego booster.

    First I usually like to swing past a nearby construction site. It's some kind of government boondoggle that's been going on since the Truman era. It sort of looks like they're trying to build a ski slope out of coffee cups. Or perhaps a Styrofoam courthouse. Either way, it smells like a manure salesman's sample case on a hot July Monday in Newark. Butchie, The-Beast-Who-Can-Poop-in-Five-Languages, loves it. I on the other hand, only tolerate it because of the workers. Nothing makes me feel so feminine, desirable, and ladylike as a semi-naked construction worker making that sucking sound between his teeth when I walk by. I usually respond with a few well-chosen expletives in some dead language like Latin or Etruscan. But first I lick my lips. That's because anything will sound sexy if it's wet enough.

    Our next stop is the local candy store, where I tie the dog up to a post so I can go in to get the paper. This store is situated at the intersection of three major, heavily trafficked streets. Besides eating, watching cars go by is Butchie's favorite pastime. He has a very unique way of waving at the cars. He positions himself at the corner, maneuvering in such a way as to get maximum exposure and visibility. He sits facing the world, his small black body all aquiver, with his large pink masculinity flapping in the breeze for all to admire. Needless to say, there have been many near-accidents from watching Butchie proudly wave his pink ‘flag' of surrender.

    One of the first things I noticed when I got a dog, was that you could tell the income and snob level by the way people dealt with everything involving their pets. The neighborhood I'd come from was mostly upper class yuppies, and so were their dogs. I was the only one who had a mutt. The people in my old neighborhood would dress to walk their dogs. I'm talking full war paint, perfect manicure, and silk sweatsuits with metallic high heels. And that was for the men. (I lived in a very liberal neighborhood.) Even the dogs wore designer collars and leather coats.

    In my case, the world was lucky if I remembered to put in my fake eyeball and wear a bra. On my best days, I looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, and it only went downhill from there. I was definitely out of my element. Why, I even had the nerve to use those vegetable bags you get at the supermarket to pick up poop, instead of those nifty little pink poopie-bags-on-a-stick thingies that the yuppies used.

    So I moved to a neighborhood where I thought I'd blend in. I mean, it looked nice from the outside. Who knew the people here were probably not used to dating outside their immediate family? If anyone around here does walk their dog, they do it in their nightclothes. Most people simply kick their dogs out of the house for a few minutes and let them do what they want, where they want. So watching me strut my stuff with my dog is a novelty to them. I can usually feel them peeping at me through their windows as I pass by.

    Butchie, like most dogs, has certain places that he prefers to target. I make sure he stays on the street side of the sidewalk (as required by law), and I always pick up after him. But one day when we were doing our usual rounds, he stopped at an unfamiliar tree. Maybe it was the drought, in any case, he decided that the tree needed attention. So he tended it. Suddenly a doddering old man came running out of his house yelling. I thought the old geezer was in trouble. But no, he was yelling at me. Apparently he wanted me to pick up what Butch had just deposited. Yeah, right. Figuring he was probably senile, I just ignored him and kept on walking. But he pursued; screaming about the sign that says one should clean up after one's dog. I tried explaining to him that the sign only referred to solid waste. Why did I waste my time? Rather than argue, I just kept going along our usual route, with the old man following and muttering.

    Finally I came to the sewer opening where I normally deposit the poopie bag. I figure it is the most sanitary option since our sewers go directly to a sewage treatment plant in a neighboring town. After all, that's what sewers are for. It's not like they have signs on them that say "For Human Waste Only." In fact, I usually feel proud of myself for being such a good and efficient citizen. But just as I deposited, the old man became apoplectic with rage.

    "How dare you!" He screamed at me. "I drink that water. I'm gonna call the police!"

    I just looked at him in disbelief. Finally, I calmly and quietly told him that the rest of the neighborhood drank the water from our local reservoir.

    "You can't do that," he shouted, full of self-righteous indignation, and knowing that he had caught me in another transgression. "It's against the law. That's where the Injuns live!"

Cel-Ray Tonic is Not a Vegetable
By Beth Goodtree

    My son, Sir Stinky Feet, never liked to eat vegetables. However, as a young child, his body didn't seem to mind and functioned quite well despite the lack of roughage. Now that he is a teenager, he is beginning to find out that there are certain foods he must consume in order to keep everything flowing smoothly and on a regular basis. Actually, it all started when I decided I was going to give him a new nickname.

    Boys are always doing disgusting things and making disgusting noises. That's what makes them boys. That and the fact that they come with their own built-in little "handle" that makes it so easy to lift their little bottoms when powdering them. (Besides, all they gotta do is unzip their fly to count to 21. But I digress.) My son was born with bad smelling feet. When he was a baby they smelled like the inside of a crocodile's mouth after it had eaten a Limburger cheese salesman. As he got older, it only got worse. I could be upstairs and know that my son was home by the stench that came wafting up as he took his shoes off.

    Then he grew up to be 8 or 9 and started to make Bronx cheers, raspberries, armpit farts and other repulsive noises. I found that the more that I objected, the more he'd do it. So we made a deal. He could have one hour a day, at my convenience, to practice his body "symphonies" and I would give him helpful pointers. That seemed to work for a while, and in fact, he thought I was really cool, until he figured out that I was merely doing it to get him to not do it for 23 hours a day. So we went through a period when he'd do it all the time, very apologetically, and I figured it was payback for my being a rotten kid to my parents. He stopped doing it around the time he discovered girls.

    About two years ago, we adopted our dog Butchie who was 9 years old when we got him, and new to this country. Butchie is a very sweet dog, but he had come first from Israel, and then China. When we adopted him, I'm sure that everything we did was new to him, including his food. I first noticed that there might be a problem with his food when I'd walk into Sir Stinky's room and the dog would be there and the room would smell really bad. And I'm not talking foot odor. Stinky would say it was the dog's fault. So I'd change Butchie's food and walk him more often. It got to the point where Butchie was getting walked six times a day and eating a new brand of dog food weekly. Even the vet had no suggestions. Then we moved to a new apartment.

    My Son-of-the-Foot-Odor had gotten older, his room had no visible floor space and he had developed a social life. So the dog stayed mostly with me. While Butchie was lying by my side, I'd never notice any foul smelling odors coming from his hindquarters (unless I gave him pistachio ice cream and beer). But as soon as my son came home and cleared a corner of the floor for the dog to crouch on, his room would stink to high heaven. Sir Stinky Feet would swear it was the dog, but on closer questioning, I'd find out that he had not been sneaking the dog pistachio ice cream or beer. It was all very perplexing. Well, it took me about a month to figure out that the perpetrator of pewiness was, indeed, Sir Stinky himself. (Hey, I'm not a bleached blonde for nothing!) So I assumed he had reverted to some of his old bad habits and threatened to re-nickname him Sir Fartsalot. It was at this point that he told me that he wasn't doing it on purpose. So I inquired about his eating habits.

    Since moving to our new apartment, I had been going to school for 40 hours a week, working for 40 hours a week, and with the commuting time added in, I was out of the house about 95 hours a week. The rest of the time I was blissfully in a coma. Therefore, I was unaware of Stinky's eating habits. Sure, I bought the right foods, but I never actually saw him eat them. And since one of his chores was cleaning out the refrigerator, I never saw how they disappeared. I began by asking him what he had been eating. Breakfast was 2-day-old pizza, but he proudly told me he had eaten vegetables for lunch. Since he had become a vegetarian recently, I figured it was a normal thing to eat, but because he had never liked vegetables, I was curious to see what he was now consuming. He told me that the school cafeteria's idea of food would gag a gnu, so he got potato chips and Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic. After all, he argued, potatoes are vegetables and Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic has celery in it. I decided it was time to have a talk about the birds, the bees, and the broccolis.

    Sir Stinky's idea of the U.S. recommended food pyramid was a stack of pancakes topped with Twinkies and a scoop of Rocky Road ice cream. Where had I gone wrong? I told him that not eating roughage was contributing to his gas problem and that even if I didn't rename him Sir Fartsalot, the girls were going to look elsewhere for male companionship. I asked him how much fruit he ate and he sheepishly told me, "none." However, he did promise that he would switch from Snickers bars to Fruity Skittles and from Cocoa Puffs to Fruit Loops. I guess, in his mind he had the fruit thing covered. Rather than argue with him about his nutrition, I advised him that failure to eat real fruits and vegetables would only make his problems worse, ruin his social life, and have him committed to The Home for the Criminally Constipated.

    The upshot of all this is that whatever he is doing seems to work, as the house no longer smells like it is going to combust if I turn on a light. And there was actually one good thing that came of it. I no longer feel constrained to "contain" myself. I just let loose when Stinky isn't within earshot and walk out of the room. If he goes in there, I immediately follow, sniff the air, and ask him if he's been up to his old tricks. He naturally denies it, and so we both end up agreeing it was the dog. I just wonder how long it's gonna take him to figure what's really going on. So whatever you do, don't show him this article.

I Put the "Mess" in Domestic
By Beth Goodtree

    While this is not the first article I will write about my slovenly habits, it is by no means the last. However, my previous articles merely dealt with cleaning, this one encompasses all things domestic, or, in my case, do-mess-tic. Which is actually an accurate spelling of my habits: I do mess around. What I don't do is cook, clean, or do laundry. I only use the "F-" and "S-" words (food shopping) in self-defense, and pay my bills and accurately record them only when threatened with eviction or disconnection.

    I have an online friend who is disgustingly domestic. She writes cookbooks and has Websites devoted to helpful household hints. Martha is always looking for tips, so I told her about using yarn to tie up plants and then leaving it on the ground at the end of the growing season for the birds to use in their nest-making. She actually accused me of being a closet crocheter! Gee whiz, if I could crochet a closet, I wouldn't have to move to a more spacious apartment.

    I actually use the yarn to tie off the water control lever inside the toilet tank when my son, Sir Stinky Feet (a.k.a. Mr. Bowl-Buster) clogs the toilet. That way, he can use the toilet snake to fix the problem without making a mess on the floor, since I have no intention of cleaning it up. We now go through quite a bit of yarn since I began force-feeding him veggies. And being recycle conscious, I use it to tie off the plants, well, weeds, until they die of neglect. Then the birds get a shot at the yarn. (And Stinky recycles his vegetables on a monthly basis now.)

    I figure my aversion to all things domestic started back when I was a child living in a housing project in New York City. Dad was a commercial artist and part-time beatnik, mom was a Victorian housewife who thought toasters were hi-tech, and that too much TV caused cancer. Dad adored Mom, so he got her a housekeeper named Roz. Roz spent most of her time threatening to throw my thumb out the window if I didn't stop sucking it. So from early on, I began to equate domesticity with loss.

    Fast forward to my preteen years and Girl Scout sleep-away camp. I needed a bra by the time I was 10, so my parents figured I wouldn't be safe unless they sent me to a regimented, unisex camp, without any amenities. Amenities, you say? Just your average luxuries like hot water, electricity, toilets, boys, and a housekeeping staff. Oh yes, and a cook. (There was someone who supposedly was a cook, but there's not much you can do with powdered US Army-surplus meat, cheddar cheese from WWII, and freeze-dried water.) This camp equated cleanliness with satiety. In other words, if we didn't clean, we didn't eat. It was a real catch-22. If I cleaned, I got to eat, but the stuff they gave us would give ptomaine to a pterodactyl. And their idea of cleaning would make Mr. Clean volunteer for a stint as a cross-dresser on a pirate ship. First, there were the lanterns. They were covered with baked on kerosene and suicidal moths. Then came the latrine. You could smell it from the next forest over. Finally, they expected us to wash our grubby clothes by hand in freezing-cold mountain water. Apparently, jumping into the lake with five layers of clothes on and a bar of soap wasn't good enough.

    With this background, is it any wonder that I eschew domesticity in all its aspects? I guess it all boils down to the fact that I am a do-mess-tic goddess in need of a wife!

There's No Problem So Big I Can't Eat My Way Through It
By Beth Goodtree

    Eating as a way of coping with stress is nothing new, people have been doing it since Eve first ate the apple because that nasty snake was teasing her. However, I have raised the ingestion of comestibles during periods of anxiety to a high art form.

    I was born to eat. Although slightly underweight at birth, by the time I was a week old, I had been put on my first diet. How can a baby become obese in one week on a diet of breast milk? You got me. But perhaps a better question would be how can you put a baby on diet breast milk? Find skinny breasts? However it worked, my calorie intake was restricted from the very first, and my parents used food as their system of punishment and reward. If I disobeyed, they took my food away. If I was good, I was given dessert. Thus a pattern was set for the rest of my life.

    Psychologists and doctors may argue that food is a poor way of handling life's problems, but I beg to differ. Food doesn't lie. Food doesn't talk back. Food won't say "I'll call you tomorrow," and doesn't get you pregnant. Food doesn't play mind games. Food is pleasant, comforting, cheaper than a spending spree at Bloomies or a series of head-shrinking sessions, and food doesn‘t grow up to be a pesty teenager. Food is also an easy way of recording one's life history.

    Each lump and fat roll on my body represents some difficulty that I managed to overcome. The wattle under my arms is testimony to the four separate times I was stopped by the police and told to call my mother because she couldn't figure out how to work the TV remote. My second chin sprang into being when my son's school called me in because someone thought they overheard him asking for a gun, when what he really asked for was gum. I grew a second waist when I was arrested for using my property for dumping toxic waste. (The toxic waste was a can of coolant, the property wasn't mine and I hadn't dumped anything.) But that legal fiasco was worth two month of Kit Kats and Snickers bars. Which brings me to Beth's Point System.

    Beth's Point System is my answer to Weight Watchers' point system. You are allowed certain foods and treats proportionate to stress level. This is because stress burns calories. That way, you can indulge, maintain your sanity, and lose weight. My goal is to consume at least 100 points worth of food per day to maintain mental health. Therefore, as long as I'm eating under stress, the points don't go directly to my hips!

    For example: The dog peed on the motorcycle that belongs to your next door neighbor, the Hell's Angel? A bucket of fried chicken with all the trimmings. (Who knows, it could be your last meal!) Definitely a 30-pointer. Your phone company secretly signs you up for their $69.95 monthly special for a cell phone, when you don't even own a cell phone? Hot fudge desserts for at least half a year because it's gonna take you that long to straighten them out. Figure on 12 points per day. The school called to tell you that your son needs counseling and faces suspension for math poem. Math poem?? Seems that he had to write a poem about addition and subtraction. Since he couldn’t find a word to rhyme with subtraction or elimination, and the only word that rhymed (sort of) with minus was anus, he used the word kill. It had at least 10 words that rhymed with it and, to his thinking and the thesaurus, it was synonymous with elimination. The school didn’t see it that way. Apparently they viewed it as a terroristic threat to mathematics in general, and subtraction in particular. If we had stayed with that school system, that fiasco would have been worth a package of M&Ms, (valued at 10 points) before each school-mandated counseling session. However, we didn‘t, so I satisfied myself with an ice cream cone with sprinkles (15 points). Now you have the general idea of how my "Points For Pressure" system works.

    However, if you are one of those lucky people who has very little pressure in your life, or you want to eat more than you can safely worry off, there's a little-known secret which I will now reveal. You can eat anything you want, as long as you are standing up. This is because anything you eat while standing up goes directly to your heels. Of course, if you really overdo it, you'll end up with fat soles. But one person's fat soles are another person's version of free Dr. Scholl's Comfort Shoe Liners. It's just a matter of perspective. (Besides, I know a few short people who wouldn't mind having the bottoms of their feet raised by two or three inches.) Which just goes to show that with enough imagination one can rationalize anything. And for my next trick, I'm gonna try to convince the next cop who stops me for speeding that I was merely trying to get home before I ran out of gas! (You could also try "I needed to get home to check my e-mail ...)

I Thought Dates Were Just Middle Eastern Fruits - Part I
By Beth Goodtree

    The other day my son, Sir Stinky Feet, asked me if I had any dates and I told him they were out of season. He gave me one of those looks that said you-are-so-dumb-you-couldn't-possibly-be-my-parent-because-in-order-to-procreate-you-have-to-have-brains-enough-to-breathe-and-you-don't-even-have-that. Since I was the first one in my family to graduate nursery school, it only took me about 10 minutes to figure out what he meant.

    "You're talking about that thing one does with a potential love interest, right?" I finally piped up smartly. (I was definitely having a brunette moment there.)

    "Yeah, mom," he answered back sarcastically. (Which was actually a good thing. The one sure sign of serious illness among teenaged boys is when they stop being sarcastic.)

    Date. Hmmmmm. Date. It has been so long since I've been on one, I nearly forgot that it didn't just refer to middle eastern fruits, unless one was being politically incorrect and referring to going out Dutch with a gay Arab. Date, hmmmmm ...

    Once upon a time, when the people who couldn't afford those pricey new-fangled calculators had to use slide rules, and when 8-track tapes were the ultimate, I had a date. (Pathetic, huh? Read on ... it gets worse.) Although it wasn't my first date, it was my first blind date. (Actually, my first date was with Mark Schreiner, who, like me, wore braces. At the end of our date, he went to kiss me and I was afraid our braces would lock. Then he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth and I was afraid he would fillet himself. It's no wonder he dumped me for Janet; the girl-whose-hair-was-so-long-she-could-sit-on-it. Mark should have waited for me. I eventually lost the braces, grew breasts and found out what tongues were for.) I was a nubile, vivacious, attractive, outgoing teenager who believed all those cliches, like "a mother is a girl's best friend." Little did I suspect that I was about to have my illusions savagely torn from my naive and trusting soul.

    Mom went to the beauty parlor once a week to get her bubble hairdo re-inflated. She would chat with all the other ladies about what a stud-muffin Richard Nixon was, and how it was a disgrace that the price of gas, at 39 cents a gallon, was rising faster than the hemlines. Mom was quite popular because she was so agreeable and everybody thought she was a good listener. In truth, Mom could never hear a word people were saying over the noise of the hair dryers, so she would just nod and smile. This, I think, is the way she managed to get me fixed up with Elsie Shnozzler's son Egbert. Egbert Shnozzler was several years older than me and named for his parents, Elsie and Bertram. Although Elsie had frequently seen me when I would pick Mom up (having borrowed her car to buy some emergency lip gloss or run some other urgent errand), neither my mother or I had ever seen her son. However, according to Mom, Elsie said Egbert was "every girl's dream." Mom should have realized that Elsie, in her bubble-haired way, was alluding to the fact that Egbert was a nightmare. But Mom, being Mom, was sweet and polite and graciously accepted a date with Egbert on my behalf. (The traitor!)

    The night of my blind date arrived and I was all primped and ready. I had even managed to get Dad to put his pants on. (Dad usually lounged around in his nylon boxer shorts because he said the "boys" had to breathe.) Finally, the doorbell rang, and when I opened the door, I beheld Frankenstein's ugly cousin. I couldn't believe it. Egbert had a distinct hump, one eyeball that pointed to the side, half his face was slack, he drooled out the side of his mouth on the slack side, and his hands were permanently twisted and curled. He was also the "before half" of an ad for pimple cream. To say I was speechless would be like saying Attila The Hun was a persnickety guy with a limp. And while I wanted to run away, I was raised too genteelly for that. But my mind was racing faster than Imelda Marcos toward a shoe sale at Henri Bendel's. So I asked Egbert to wait while I got my driver's license from my car (in case we should go drinking, I'd need proof of age). What I really wanted was the tire gauge. Tire gauge, you say? Yup, tire gauge. It was the integral part of "Operation Dump Egbert."

    As soon as we pulled away from the house, I told Egbert that I felt the zipper on the back of my dress slide open. I asked him if he'd mind stopping at the local drug store and running in to buy me a package of safety pins, since I didn't want to go in there with the whole back of my dress opened up. I gave him a dollar, told him to hurry, and anxiously waited for him to get out of sight (although with that trick eye, I was sure he'd be able to see around corners). As soon as he was gone, I let all the air out of one of his tires. When he got back with the safety pins, I graciously thanked him and pretended to fix my zipper, all the while waiting for him to discover his flat tire. Egbert was no slouch. It only took him eight or 10 blocks to realize that there really was no helicopter hovering directly over the roof of his car, and that the noise we were hearing was his flat tire. That, and the fact that everyone was pointing and honking. (But in all fairness, Egbert was so hideous that it was quite possible that people always honked and pointed at him, so he naturally took no notice.) Since this was before the days of that wonderful product "Inflate-A-Flat," we would have to wait for Triple A. It was at this point that I politely suggested that maybe we were just not meant to go out that night, what with my zipper and his tire. I told him I'd get a ride home and we could try some other time. Then I spent the next eight months avoiding his calls.

    So when Sir Stinky Feet mentioned date, my first thoughts were of that so-long-ago debacle. My next thoughts were of all those awkward first dates that never worked out, were terribly boring, and ended up with me trying to avoid a good night kiss with some nice guy-turned tongue-wagging octopus. My third thought was of those few dates that weren't half-bad. I vaguely remembered a whiff of after-shave and gifts of flowers and candy and corsages. But there was no way I was gonna wear after shave and buy all those presents just for a guy to go out with me this time around. I was definitely gonna have to take my date-snaring techniques out of mothballs and revamp them. (I was also gonna have to get a new truss, a nice set of choppers, and a personality makeover. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)

    So how would I find a date? Back in the bad old days, I'd put on a pair of hot pants, meet up with some girlfriends and hang out in Brookdale Park. However, if I was to wear hot pants today, my varicose veins would get sunburned, and the only thing I would attract with the sound of my thighs flapping together would be a ticket for trying to use public property as a runway! I decided to employ the old method of waking up and smelling the testosterone. However, the only aroma I caught was that of married testosterone. I was getting very depressed. But being a resourceful girl, I decided to do a bit of figuring on my chances of "landing a live one." (Although, I was willing to settle for someone on life support as long as he didn't mind always going to his place.)

    Having worked for Census 2000, (yeah, I was that blonde preppie, picking my way through the shooting galleries of Newark, telling the paranoid druggies that we didn't care what they were doing as long as they told me their race and marital status), I turned to statistics. If I knew approximately how many eligible men were in a geographically desirable area to me, all I'd have to do would be to go out and find them. Now here, the key word is eligible. To me, eligible means anywhere between 40 and dead, and the successful candidate must be taller than a toad, and have hair, teeth, a job and a car. Anything beyond that would be gravy.

    I looked up the statistics for my general area. They were encouraging. It seems that there are approximately 250,000 eligible males within a reasonable distance. Then the thought struck me. If there were a quarter of a million eligible men out there, how come I was alone? Even worse, (and being the mathematical person that I am), it meant that there was 125,000 feet of unattached male member hanging around. So why couldn't I get six inches? Obviously, it was time to pull myself up by my bra straps and come up with a plan. "Operation: Date Me" was about to begin!

    There are only two other categories that are at least as competitive as dating: finding parking spaces and finding apartments. So I decided to first look at my strategies for solving those two problems and see if they were applicable. When I last had to find an apartment, I had tried all the normal venues, but to no avail. Finally, I had a truly inspired idea - I turned to the obituaries. By seeing where someone lived at their time of death, I could be Janey-on-the-spot with the super or the rental agent. It worked beautifully, and I had a nice apartment within a week. Could it work with men?

    Actually, using the obituaries to find men had several advantages. I'd know for a fact that the men I would meet were single, where they lived, and, if I wanted to, I could check them out first by attending the funeral. On the down side, I'd have to find a reasonable way to introduce myself without telling them that I'd found them by reading their wife's obituary. Then too, there was the period of mourning. What was reasonable, and suppose they met someone while I was waiting a discreet amount of time?

    As for parking space-getting techniques, an old tried and true is to sit in an aisle and wait for someone to come along and move their car. However, staking out a man and waiting for his significant other to leave didn't seem like a very good idea. After all, the man might be deluded enough to think that the love of his life wasn't worth leaving for good ol' neurotic, but fun-lovin' me.

    Well, this essay is now long enough to please most editors, so I will stop it here. Tune in for the next installment of "I Thought Dates Were Just Middle Eastern Fruits - Part Deux," where I recount some of my successful and non-successful techniques. And where, if you the reader, and I, the subject, are both lucky, I actually get a date!

Don't Let Anyone Sell You Curtains for Your Computer
By Beth Goodtree

    I'm an old-fashioned kind of gal and I resist all changes in modern technology. It's not that technology scares me, it's just that I'm a cheap bitch. (And no, it's not PMS, I'm always like this.) Also, my worst nightmare is putting the truth to those rumors that blondes with big chests are too dumb to walk and wear gumshoes. So when computers first came out, I studiously avoided them. I figured that pretty soon they'd become blonde-friendly and the price would go down, or that I'd win the lottery and never have to think again. (Now you know why they won't hire me for the Psychic Hotline!) Eventually I realized the folly of my thinking. But by that time, I was probably one of the last Americans between the ages of zero and dead not to have been exposed to computers. So I signed up for an "Intro to Beginners" computer course at some outreach program for behind-the-times sloths like myself.

    I was considering buying a computer before the class started so that I would have something to do my homework on. Being the tightwad that I am, I went to one of those wholesale electronics places that has obnoxious commercials on television with guys in polka dot suits screaming about how low they'll go. I immediately knew I was in the right place when I opened the door and saw that instead of carpeting, they had scraps of cardboard on the floor. The place positively reeked of rock-bottom prices, offensively loud music, and fast-talking foreign salesmen in cheap suits. "Come to Mama, I was home!"

    Going along with the ambiance of the establishment, I shoved my way over to the computer department and snagged myself a sweaty, loudmouthed salesman with a tie that out-shouted him. I told him that I wanted a computer system put together from components and asked him where we should begin. He indicated a sleek looking system and advised me that it was bargain priced. Naturally, I wanted to know why.

    "Try pulling up a program," he said.

    "Pulling???" I asked doubtfully.

    "Yeah, ‘P' on the keyboard," he replied.

    "Pee on the keyboard???" I responded with incredulity. "What are you, some kind of pervert?"

    He just looked at me for a few seconds until it dawned on him that we were discussing two different things. He merely shook his head and pressed the letter ‘P' and nothing happened. Then he grinned. Apparently, this was supposed to be a good thing. Then he went into his super-duper sales spiel, "When most people buy computers, they come fully loaded with every program imaginable. They are factored into the cost of the computer, even though you may not want or use most of them. This way, you save a lot of the cost by only buying the programs you need."

    It sounded reasonable to me, so I asked him what I'd need. He said that I would definitely have to get Windows. It was at this point that I realized he thought he was dealing with a naive patsy, just because I had erroneously thought he had suggested that I urinate on the keyboard. Well, Selma and Lou didn't raise their little girl to be a slouch. I could smell a scam through any amount of perfume and hairspray. And I was about to let this joker know just whom he was dealing with.

    "Windows?" I asked innocently.

    "Yes, you'll definitely need Windows, and a few other things," he responded.

    By this time I knew I had him for the bloodsucking pond scum he was. Windows???? Ha! It was definitely time to show him with whom he was dealing.

    "A few other things like maybe curtains and blinds?" I shot back smartly. "Boy, you guys think that just because I don't know anything about computers, means I don't know anything about computers. For your information, I don't need windows. My apartment has plenty of them!!

Can I Borrow a Cup of Stomach Muscles?
By Beth Goodtree

    From the day I was born, there was always somebody younger and better looking than me. By the time I was six hours old, two considerably more nubile models had arrived. Geez, less than a day old and already I was becoming obsolete! And it has only gone downhill from there. I’m always running late for appointments, so why can’t I run late for wrinkles, sags and bags?

    Way back, when wax lips were popular, wearing red underwear was slutty, and TV shows could only have married couples sleeping in separate beds, looks were not as important as they are today. People in their 20s looked 40, people in their 30s looked 50 and nobody cared. The economy was great, everyone was happy, the crime rate was low, and people still had love lives despite their looks. (That’s how the Baby Boomers exploded into the population scene.) But somewhere along the line, appearances became much more important. And being a shallow person, I have gone along with the trend. However, I am also incredibly lazy and self-indulgent. This had made it necessary for me to come up with strategies for maintaining my appearance while expending the minimal amount of energy, and even less money. (I'm cheap too.)

    When people plan to move, most of them do lots of research. They want to know foremost about the taxes, the school system, convenience to work, the crime rate, town or city services, etc. Not me. Don't get me wrong, eventually I get around to those things; but they are not my primary concern. My first consideration is how a neighborhood will look on me. Look on me, you ask? Yup. In other words, will this neighborhood make me look good. You see, I pick neighborhoods for the same reasons other people pick hairstyles. It’s my slothful, cheapskate method of maintaining my looks without effort.

    When I was a teenager, I discovered that I could improve my appearance merely by altering my environment. If I didn’t want my date to notice the giant zit that had materialized on my chin an hour before we went out, I made sure we only went to dark places. If I wanted to look thinner, I surrounded myself with fatter girlfriends. (At one point, we affectionately called ourselves The Beef Trust.) If I wanted to look even slimmer, I encouraged my hefty girlfriends to wear loud horizontal stripes, while I wore slimming, solid black.

    As I got older, so did my friends and my dates. By that, I mean that hanging around my contemporaries was no longer showing me off to their worst advantage. I had to hang (God, I hate that word these days!) around people older than me just to look good. And considering my age and vanity quotient, that practically puts me in the geriatric ward just to look presentable. So finding a neighborhood that would show me in the best light, was not easy. But I finally did it. And I didn’t even have to move to one of those overpriced, over-hyped retirement villages.

    Everywhere I turned I saw gray and wrinkles. And lots of flab. It was wonderful. These people would make me appear like Ms. Fit & Youthful of the Year. (Okay, there were a few neighbors younger than me, but they were all much shorter and had lots of whining little brats - no competition.) I felt so good about how I looked compared to everybody else, that I was uncharacteristically friendly. Heck, I was downright civil!

    It was in this mood of affable neighborliness that I decided to introduce myself to my next door neighbors. I had seen them before and they were a nice couple who were older enough than me to make me feel comfortable in going over there without first spending an hour trying to fix what Mother Nature had taken away. I was going there barefaced and feeling like I wouldn't scare small children. It was wonderful. Until I rang the doorbell.

    The door was opened by their daughter Malie. Who knew they had a daughter living with them? It wasn't fair! Never mind the fact that she had maroon hair, she was still less than half my age and attractive as all get-out. Nothing on her sagged, not even her pantyhose! When she politely inquired what I wanted, all I could manage to mumble was "Could I please borrow a cup of stomach muscles?"

Clean Up, the Fire Department is Coming
or
Dishwashing Can Be Hazardous to Your Hearing
By Beth Goodtree

    To say the word cleaning is not in my vocabulary would be a gross understatement. The breadth and scope of the subject goes so much farther than that. It goes back so many generations that I think there is a messiness gene carried on the 'x' chromosome. To wit: my son is a slob, I am a slob, my father was a slob, his mother was a slob, and her father was a slob. It seems to be passed on from father to daughter and mother to son for all eternity. It looks like my progeny and I are to be cursed for perpetuity to live in swill and utter disorder. But that doesn't mean we don't occasionally try, albeit in vain, to be neat.

    Way back, when new Keds or PF Flyers were the first sign of incipient spring, and the second sign was commercials for Bonomo's Turkish Taffy, my dad was forced to clean the garage. It was a new way of thinking for us, since we had recently moved from a housing project in New York City. In fact, trees were a new thing for us too (well, me anyway). We had moved 10 miles west to the wild and woolly suburbs of New Jersey. We had sidewalks, sewers, gutters and dense housing with tiny lawns, but I was sure that I was gonna see cows at every turn. My ignorance of life outside of the city had actually won me a contest the previous year. There was a citywide art contest for kids sponsored by the Metropolitan Museum of Art (I think). My painting won first prize because of its content. Having never seen a forest, I painted one complete with pine trees, squirrels, a yellow curb and fire hydrant, and a taxi in the background. Who knew? I had never been west of the Hudson River (except for going to Palisades Amusement Park), and the only nature I had seen (besides Mark Ehrenprise's wee-wee) was at a day camp amidst the subdivisions on Staten Island.

    We had a garage attached to the house and although you couldn't get into it from the house, they did share a common wall. For some reason, the garage had come with real knotty pine paneling. Dad was very proud of it, as if he, personally had given birth to it (ouch, the splinters). But like all garages, it was used for cars and old stuff. Stuff like defunct vacuum cleaners, cribs, holey buckets, old PF Flyers, pieces of half-chewed Bonomo's Turkish Taffy, and eventually, tree toads. The tree toads were my doing. I was so smitten with "country living" and the fact that there was wildlife beyond ants, roaches, water beetles and rats, that when I discovered tree toads in our local park, I took them home as pets. Mom had said that three kids were pets enough, so I had to hide them. The back of our garage was so crowded with junk, that only a small body could get through. It was the perfect place for my tree toads. And luckily, I had found an old, porcelain-lined bucket back there. It was kind of rusted through in a few places, but I didn't think the tree toads would mind. I happily collected them all summer, feeding them and keeping them wet and alive, until their ranks swelled to 17 in number. The day I realized a few had escaped was the day my mom found my little brother trying to eat one that was jumping around the dining room. Apparently they had gotten out through one of the holes in the bucket and found their way into our house via the holes in the knotty pine paneling. I was forced to confess, and my parents weren't even too mad. But they realized they would have to clean out the house and the garage to find all the tree toads before they died in the walls and began to rot. Thus began "The Big Cleanup."

    Dad was a gung-ho sort of guy, so to him, cleaning up meant cleaning everything. I was told to clean the bathroom, but I needed remedial scrubbing lessons since I had never seen it done before. I had dutifully smeared the dirt around the counters, collected the dust bunnies from the corners, washed them off and put them back, and then called my mom to come and see. She was very upset with me. It wasn't just that the wet dust bunnies had lost their shapes, it was the fill lines in the toilet and on the bathtub. Fill lines, you say? Well, in my slovenly ignorance, I thought that the brown lines in the toilet and on the tub were the high water marks, above which things would overflow. So I carefully left them there. Boy, was Mom mad. When she told me I was brought up to know better, I brightly and cheerfully contradicted her. She began yelling and crying, and dad came over and they got into a fight and I thought it was all my fault. After all, if I hadn't hidden the tree toads in the garage, we wouldn't have to clean the house and they wouldn't be fighting. I think it was that incident that permanently traumatized me. [One of the better excuses I've ever heard.]

    Ever since then, I have blithely gone along living in a messy place. When the dirt and garbage get too high, I move. (I got the idea from Lewis Carroll's Mad Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland, a book that has been my role model for coping with the world.) It's been a method that has served me well. Until last night.

    While cleaning the house may be anathema to me, I cannot afford to throw out dirty dishes. However, washing dishes is tantamount to general cleaning and so I try to avoid it. Which is why, I think, I have a son, formally known as Sir Stinky Feet. Whenever he transgresses, which is frequently (being a teenager), I punish him by making him do the dishes. Although this system doesn't please him, it has suited me perfectly. However, the little creep has gone out of his way to be disgustingly obedient recently. We have been reduced to using paper plates since the dishes haven't been done in eons ... up until yesterday. He used the F- and S-words to me; that is, Food Shopping. I nearly lost it. How could I go food shopping if the counters were covered with dirty dishes? I guess he was tired of eating toaster crumbs and dog bowl leavin's so he decided to "clean up."

    How can a kid who remembers every word to every episode of "Son of the Beach" forget how to do the dishes? It must be something in the Oreos. Anyway, Sir Stinky Feet forgot how to do the dishes. He squirted around the dishwashing liquid until everything was covered in it. Then he turned on the water full blast. I was in the next room blissfully watching TV when I thought I saw little bubbles floating across the screen. Since I hadn't been doing any Nyquil shooters, I figured there must really be little green bubbles floating around. Just as I was going to get up to investigate, the smoke alarm went off. Our dog Butchie tried to hide himself in the cracks of the sofa. Since this was impossible, he did the next best thing and tore up the throw pillows, trying to hide under the settling bits of foam rubber.

    Our apartment, which had at least six months of living and messing before we had to move, was now ankle deep in debris mixed with tiny bubbles (and there was no sign of Don Ho). Meanwhile, the smoke detector blared on, while the house smelled eerily clean. Maybe I was having nasal hallucinations, but I could have sworn that I smelled evidence of someone having committed a neatness. I lurched and skidded my way into the kitchen to find Sir Stinky Feet desperately looking for a fire. Common sense took over and I asked him if he'd been cooking anything. When he replied in the negative, I checked to see if any appliances were plugged in. They were not. Nor were any lights on. The only things going on in the kitchen were dish washing and that damned noisy smoke detector. I suggested we try feeling the walls and floors for heat, but again, nothing. Stinky was sure there was a fire and was about to call the Fire Department when I stopped him.

    Patiently I explained to him that the house was too messy to call the Fire Department and that by the time we got it clean enough, if there was a fire, it would have burned down anyway. Instead, I removed the battery from the smoke detector and took everything into the bathroom. We normally keep the door to the bathroom closed, so it had no soap bubbles in the air and no aroma of dishwashing liquid. When I restored the batteries, the smoke detector was wonderfully silent. As soon as I stepped out into the bubble zone, it went off again. It didn't take a brunette to figure out what was going on. The dishwashing liquid set off the smoke detector.

    Sir Stinky Feet was sure I'd been inhaling the mold off the old cheese in the refrigerator again. However, I told him that we would know the truth within two days. Either the house would have burned down or we'd have to wash the dishes again and the same thing would happen. In actuality, it took three days (we ate on paper towels for a while until we found out they don't make good bowls for cereal and milk). Then I blackmailed Stinky into doing the dishes again. Sure enough, the smoke detector went off, the dog destroyed some more pillows, and I was vindicated.

    Stinky took it as a direct sign from The Almighty that he was not meant to wash anything beyond his own hairy body. The dog took it as a signal that it was acceptable to tear into the cushions. And I took it as proof that cleaning was hazardous to my ears. So as of this writing, I have every piece of crockery, cutlery and cookware sitting out on the counter in a state of filth. I am testing the theory that, in a pinch, one can eat off of aluminum foil. And drinking cereal out of a paper cup isn't half bad.

Sinkie: One who occasionally dines over the kitchen sink.
Courtesy of Sinkie.com
The International Association of People Who Dine Over the Kitchen Sink
~
If it has anything to do with having a quick bite, it has everything to do with being a Sinkie.

According to Erma Bombeck, all calories in food eaten over the sink leak on out the elbow, disappearing harmlessly down the disposal.

If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning. - Catherine Aird

Beth's bio: "I disgraced this world June 6, 1954. I come from the only place that has a state smell - New Jersey, which goes along with our state bird, the West-Nile-Virus-carrying-mosquito." Beth will be taking online courses at MIT this fall in physics and electrical engineering so she can retire as a mad scientist. Write Beth: TheUnBlondeSheep@aol.com or BGoodtree@aol.com, please use AltMartha@aol.com or MarthaJones1@aol.com for submissions to be considered for this page.

More Beth (and others): http://www.therealmartha.com/buttments/index.htm

Maybe I am
Courtesy of Aussie

It's occurred to me that maybe I am just a glutton. Or a sybarite. I mean to say, I really do get awfully excited over how good things taste. I'm sitting here eating Orville Redenbacher corn cakes with white Cheddar and thinking, "This tastes sooo good ..." and it's really quite hard to think about anything else as long as the little mylar packet is sitting here containing the remains of the stack of them. Pleasure is within my reach. I can't really be bothered with anything else right now. This is my down to basics thinking. The experience of enjoying something tasty is just too good to me, for me to take the long view. The only ways I've found to escape it is to put the things out of my reach, or acquire them in prepackaged chunks that won't call my name quite so loudly. I mean, basically, sealed packaging muffles the siren call somewhat, freezing something shuts it up pretty good, and the need to either cook or go out and get something makes it dimmer still, although sometimes something specific breaks through all of that and I find that some fried chicken a half mile away has succeeded in dialing me up and crooning a mandate that I have to get off my keister and go get it. Some things call from even farther afield than that. But the thing is, whatever the foodstuff that's doing the talking, I always seem to be listening, and I find it hard to assign anything a higher priority than the downright pleasure of crunching down on something desired and delicious. It's not that I like everything to eat, but I do like a lot. Breads and meats and juicy things and creamy things and sweets and crunchy things and nutty things and chewy things ... it's just all pretty delightful.

I admit, I get downright romantic over certain foods, and think adoringly about how lovely they are to chew upon. Nostalgic over some things, fascinated by others. I start contemplating the zingy taste of ginger in the sauce that comes with the steamed dumplings, and off I go again, over the edge into the land of yearning. Other people do this somewhat, but I gotta face it, the extent to which I get stuck on these thoughts is probably not normal. I think about the molecules of chocolate melting on my tongue. The yeasty smell of warm bread. Melty butter. Refreshing melon. Blueberries squirting between my teeth. The warm chewy crunch of bacon. The subtle mishmash of good tastes in a crabcake, aromas of the holy trinity imbuing the cornbready, crabby melange with ... divine crabcakeyness. This is my problem. We all knew I had one. There's just no limitations on my appetite. It doesn't stop, doesn't really ever go away, it just swivels focus from one delight to the next. Perhaps I should be grateful that the main focus of my life is something so legal, so easy to obtain. I mean, you don't have to court a juicy hamburger. And food is cheap, compared to other things in life. If I coveted vintage automobiles, I'd scarcely be able to indulge myself at all. Hell, I can get a filet mignon for under 10 bucks, and plenty of other tasty things for about 99 cents. I'm failing to see a higher purpose in life than enjoying these things. Perhaps I'm some sort of moral imbecile, but ... well, what is more important than this moment's pleasure? I don't know. I care about people, I have emotions about lots of other issues, but that all seems so complicated compared to the simple love of waffles. I understand waffles. Waffles are easy. Life is hard. Anyway, this is all to the purpose of taking an honest squint at what I am and why. I don't know that these obstacles are insuperable, but I don't know if I'll ever be capable of any long-lasting reform, either. I know that the extent to which I indulge myself in these things is self-destructive, but at any given moment, the choice to enjoy always seems the clear winner. But I do declare one thing: you'll never catch me eating Fig Newtons and boohooing about it. If I'm gonna enjoy it, I'm gonna enjoy it with all my heart.

Veering

Tuesday I veered off The Regime a bit at the end of the day. Here's the problem: they make Slimfast chocolate malts, and Slimfast candy bars, all of which are sound to the taste buds (meaning they really are candy bars and chocolate milk with a bunch of vitamins and crap) - but what they don't have is the essential Slimfast bag of Cheetos. I've been hankering after some kind of cracker or chip or something, and there's just not any in the house - not even a saltine. The bag of Cheetos is calling my name. I am not normally a big salt freak, but I can recognize the symptoms.

Not having crackers and wanting crackers at 2 am is a problem. I wound up with some unsatisfactory raisins and sardines. I mean, we did not have a slice of bread or a chow mein noodles or anything to ring in on the crunchy/salty urge. Maybe I should have had some uncooked Ramen noodle crumbs, which are, actually, pretty tasty and crunchy.

I compared notes on this phenomenon years ago with my pal Thom; when one craves something one can't get, one can consume all sorts of other stuff on the way there, often 10 times what one wanted in the first place. I am terribly guilty about that. I've been known to order entire pizzas just in order to get the guy from Star Pizza to deliver me a brownie. I have gone all kinds of places over the course of months and had any number of vaguely seafood-related meals, all predicated on my yearning for a stuffed shrimp. There's no sense to it.

The thing about food compulsions is, I either have to block it before it ever enters my head, or surrender to it and execute the order as quickly and completely as possible. Once it's on my mind, it's gonna rattle around in there and totally screw up rational thought. So I wind up having raisins, sardines, a bean burrito and a kosher pickle, all because I can't get a bag of Cheetos or a cracker - and mark my words, it's gonna be the first thing I think of in the morning. I may have to roust Bubba out to either go to the convenience store or let me out so that I can.

Oh well, I'll get past it. Life is pretty good otherwise. Nothing terribly glamorous going on, but what the hell.

On the local news, Ben Taub Emergency/Trauma Center is begging people not to act the fool on July 4th, just this once, because the other emergency/trauma center is shut down and they just can't handle much more. So, really, they're just beggin' the locals to not shoot fireworks and pop off guns and drive drunk this year. Not a good time to become a casualty.

Maybe they should initiate a series of PSAs with Moms telling us not to run with scissors and so on. Or tell people to not do dangerous things they don't really like doing anyhow, like mowing the lawn and cleaning the gutters on the roof. Now you're talkin'!

Anyway, have a nice Fourth. [This 4th was the one right after the hurricane mess which several Houston friends described as turning the city into one big garbage dump, with flooded trash out on everyone's lawns, etc. - the plea to not act the fool was based on hospitals still being closed.]

And now we take the sledgehammer and cleave your skull open like a coconut

Bubba fetched the mail and handed me a fat, juicy envelope from the IRS. Clapping my hands with girlish glee, anticipating the news of a shiny $300 check from the dear old Fed, I opened the envelope and what do I see but a letter reading "It appears that you may be liable for self-employment tax on $5,517.75 shown on Schedule C." At this point, Bubba, compelled by god only knows what satanic imp, says "Toldja!"

"Excuse me?"

"Toldja!"

See, this is why it's not a good idea to have firearms in the home. If I had had access to a pistol or even shotgun, near to hand, I'd have happily unloaded it into Bubba, not even for the purpose of snuffing out his obnoxious soul, but merely in order to see him suffer and bleed profusely. Possibly cry out in agony a bit. Let me see. I'm unemployed, barely surviving, and those blighters at the IRS know damn well how pitiful I am, because, DUH, they've seen the numbers. And yet, knowing full well that I'm going to be sitting here expecting my little present from Uncle Sam, they choose to send me this nasty little kick in the head. Bastards. Pissants. Do I have a clue where my tax return for 2000 is? No. I do not. Faugh! I'm in no mood for this.

Visit Aussie's archives for more at woogly.com. The above fit this page perfectly, I've borrowed a lot of her stuff along the way for others. She's quite generous that way - has also been a great help to what I call my progress concerning nifty little html tricks and such. Found her after her site won "Best of" in a Houston contest. I consider it rare good fortune we had the opportunity to meet a few times before I left H-town. Bubba note: Aussie has one, I have one. I often remind mine not to take it personally if I decide to shoot him (must be something in the native Texan gene pool that provokes the he-needed-killin' syllogization). Would only be for a little comic relief anyway, on one "those" days which are happening entirely too often lately. Be that as it may, I would simply plead hormonal insanity - plenty of friends available in kindred stages of disarray to testify in my defense.

Internet Love
by Patti

Strange isn't it, how many of us look for love, acceptance, a place to belong. Chat rooms of all kinds are filled with not just teenagers and those still in their 20s. Profiles of us oldies tell of lives spent and dreams lost with hints of loneliness deep and consuming.

Why? Why are we drawn so strongly at times against our better judgement to share with strangers our need for love, companionship, acceptance, truth and fidelity? I believe that "faceless" is the answer. Faceless people don't judge us with their eyes and mannerisms. As far as we can tell from their typed words they understand us, accept us, embrace us and at times give us hope that our dreams may still become reality.

Of course there are those who for one reason or another feel justified dabbling a bit in the art of "little white lies." The ones oppressed by age decrease theirs from 60 to 47. I don't believe more "professionals" have ever existed in one place at one time. Everyone suddenly loves to walk along a beach hand in hand with their "soulmate." Did all these divorced men walk hand in hand with their wives? What word did we use before soulmate?

It's very easy to agree with a "potential's" taste and lifestyle too.

He: "Oh by the way I love raw oysters with beer and pretzels"
She: "That is so awesome, so do I," thinking ... Yeecchhh, Ugh, Eewwww, Gross!!!!

She: "I love to cuddle and hug in front of a nice warm fire."
He: " That's how it should be," ... not for long baby.

"I wish we lived closer I could pick you up for dinner and a great night on the town," whew! glad she's so far away - I hate spending money on stupid stuff when we could just sit here drinking beer and eating pizza before we screw.

"Oh wouldn't that be wonderful?" whew, glad he lives so far away. I don't have a thing to wear to go out on the town. I couldn't possibly eat in front of him. He's a professional, I am not in his league. Gee never asked him professional what?

"Oh by the way what is it you do for a living?" I wonder if "professional" in his profile means a doctor or a lawyer.

Forgetting his little white lie, "I'm a chef at (insert fast food restaurant)."

"Oops my son needs the puter, bbl, bye."

And then there's, "What do you look like?"

Most men say they are "just a bit overweight, lost just a bit of hair, athletic." OK now the woman is ready for the picture. Here it comes ... heart is in her throat as she downloads. Finally!!! Eeewwwww Oh my God!!!!!!! No, no, he can't look like this. Now what? How does she go back to this guy who anxiously awaits her opinion?

"Oh my, you are very nice looking" ... for a gorilla, the Notre Dame guy whatshisface or the Son of Sam's dog.

"Glad you think so, many women tell me that I look like Sean Connery."

"Well handsome I have to go, my son needs the phone right away. Bye!"

Don't get me wrong - these scenarios could be reversed. All in all, if you use the Internet wisely and believe only one third of what you hear, being online can be lots of fun and very interesting. But do be careful and selective.

Time for a commercial break:

Meet the people you won't find anywhere else!

Selective Singles
http://www.therealmartha.com/Selective%20Singles/index.htm

Free two-week introductory membership, contact MsAtte2ude@aol.com for questionnaire. This is a resurrection of a very successful service I ran in Arizona some years ago - hot stuff going on already!

Ten Things that Set Me Off
by Patti

    Recently a pretty funny "Ten Things" forward that's been making the rounds got me thinking of my own personal stash of irritating, everyday happenings.

    1) My mother-in-law on the phone says, "Oh, you're home?" (Notice the question mark.) "No, I'm still on the bus. I'll call you when I get home."
    2) People who watch TV, sleep, eat, watch TV, eat, sleep, watch more TV and say (during a commercial of course) "You're still on that dumb computer?"
    3) Teenagers ... 15-year-old-male teenagers! Their vocabulary consists of "What?" even though they heard and "I forgot" even though they didn't.
    4) And the way mine dresses - any three of you could fit with him in his pants.
    5) There is something very strange about washing machines and socks. Six pairs go in, one and a half come out. No trace of the other four and a half ... ever.
    6) Men and their inborn need to move their you-know-whats to the other side of their pants. One of these days I am going to make like I am moving mine over.
    7) You are going visiting. You have yourself to dress, the kids to organize, a baby to dress, a diaper bag to prepare, dessert to take, TV to shut off, lights to turn off or on, iron to unplug, doors and windows to check. Where is the hubby? Starting the car.
    8) Banks ... if memory serves me right, it's my money they are charging me for withdrawing. They have fees for fees. What is a fee anyway? Just look at that word ... it's odd. F-e-e! Seems like it's supposed to have more letters. Like the ending fell off.
    9) Have you noticed that most businesses you call have automated answering services now? Try the suicide hotline. "We are sorry, all of our representatives are busy at this time. Please hold for the next available representative who will be with you in approximately ... 38.9 minutes. We are sorry for any inconvenience. If you would like, hang up and try again at another time."
    10) You can safely bet that any grocery cart I choose will have a will of its own. Wheels pull to the left which means that me and the cart go around in circles. Do I leave the cart and try again with another? Nope, not on your life. It becomes a power struggle. I will not allow this cart to defeat me. I will triumph! In the meantime I have been around and around ... in the bread aisle for 16 minutes. Sounds like a great Stephen King novel, "Christine Part II - The Killer Cart."

Patti enjoys writing short stories as well as poetry and at one time wrote a column for the "Daughters without Mothers" newsletter. She lives in upstate New York and is currently working on her next web page. See Just Thoughts - Patti welcomes all responses, opattiann@aol.com.

The following is a special intro insert from a new Real Thinkers section in the works. I'm not big on any kind of organized religion, piety or prayer. Nonetheless, this piece struck me as a view worth sharing.

Prayer Posture

"The only way that one should pray,"
Said deacon I.C. Fleas.
"The only posture God approves
is down on bended knees!"

"Oh, no, that's not the way to pray,"
Said brother U.R. Wise.
"We must stand tall and raise our arms
and hands toward the skies."

"It seems to me, our hands should be
held down and clasped in front,
with thumbs together, pointing down,"
said sister I. M. Blunt.

"One snowy day, I rolled my van,"
Said Marsha with a frown.
Both my feet were stickin' up.
My head was pointin' down.

I yelled a prayer right then and there,
Best prayer I ever said!
Most sincerest prayer I ever prayed
Was standing on my head!
Marsha Jordan

The rest of the story ... "I wrote this after sliding on a patch of icy road and overturning my van one Sunday on my way home from church.

"A friend asked how many times I rolled. I said "I don't know because I couldn't see what was going on. I had my eyes closed. When I started to head for the ditch, I closed my eyes and said a prayer.' Then I added, 'Let me rephrase that. I didn't just 'say' a prayer. I yelled it !!!!' All I could think to do what yell over and over 'Oh, God, please help me!!!!!!!!!'

"I had collected several quilts and afghans from ladies at church that day to deliver to hospitals for sick children. They were in the back of my van along with groceries, boxes of various 'stuff,' a stroller, a car seat and a whole lot of other things. During the rollover, nothing from the back of the van came forward except all the blankets which landed between me and the steering wheel and broken windshield and a card from my secret pal, which landed right next to me opened. Inside it read 'God will be with you, watching over you, and taking care of you.' Isn't that awesome? I still get goosebumps just writing about it!"

Marsha's site is www.hugsandhope.com. "Helping sick children by sending smiles across the miles have a heart for sick kids - send a card and a smile to one today!"

Do not miss Marsha's bio, http://www.hugsandhope.com/aboutme.htm - I suggested she add a warning not to read with food or drink in one's mouth. Makes Bubba nervous when I commence ta spewin' ;-) ... I do mean that in a positive way, as in laughing so hard ... not, "oh yuck" or rambling on as I has just discovered are other translations.

The author of the following certainly deserves recognition, unfortunately it arrived without credit. Identification would be appreciated.

Canine Imitation

    Don't take this the wrong way, but for the longest time now, I have been trying to imitate my dog. Not his look, which is furry and chestnut brown. Not his walk, which, as with most dogs, can be more of a waddle.

    And not his tail. I don't need a tail. I have enough trouble buckling my pants as it is. Also, I can live without his bathroom habits, which can be summed up this way: "Tree or bush? Tree or bush? Aw, how about right here on the grass ..."

    No, what I admire about my dog is his fascination with the simple routine of life. Every day for him is like boarding the space shuttle.

    For example: In the morning, I tumble out of bed, grumble, yawn, open the door, and ta-da! There he is, the canine answer to Richard Simmons. He is so worked up, he doesn't know which way to go, toward me or away from me. So he does both.

    "Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" he seems to pant. "It's morning and I'm gonna eat!" Never mind that he has eaten every morning since he was born. Or that he's had the same food every morning since he was born - and that was 11 years ago. Never mind. He pulls me downstairs and waits breathlessly as I scoop yet another helping of boring brown nuggets into his bowl. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Food, food, food!"

    I yawn.

    Three minutes later, he is off the food thing and into a new obsession: going out. Again, he runs forward and backward. "I'm going out! I'm going out! Is this great or what?" Never mind that going out has not changed one bit since we've lived here. He is so thrilled by the notion of "exit" that he almost bites the doorknob off. He bolts into the backyard as if heading for Tomorrowland with a sack full of "E" tickets.

    I slouch and yawn again. The great indoors.

    Then comes the "bathroom" routine, which I already have described. Humans deal with these functions begrudgingly. Not my dog. It's a real thrill for him. He scouts for the perfect spot as if looking for beachfront real estate. "Tree or bush? Tree or bush?" And I don't have that many trees.

    Then, once his business is taken care of - and I make a mental note where we're going to have to shovel come summer - he is off the going-out obsession and onto a new one: going back in. It doesn't matter that he was in just two minutes ago. "Things have changed! Things have changed!" he seems to pant. "I gotta get in there! I gotta check it out! Hurry up, hurry up!"

    When I open the door, he bolts in, races back and forth - looking for space aliens, I suppose - and when he doesn't find any, he isn't disappointed. Instead, he snarls at some ratty toy he's played with for months, throws it into the air with his teeth, and watches it land. "Look at that!" he seems to say. "It goes up, it comes down!"

    As I make a cup of coffee, he jumps up to watch. "Whatcha doin? Whatcha doin? Coffee, huh? That's amazing!" He then clamps onto my leg and does a dance that, were it the early '50s, I might call the "Hootchie Coo." I am not sure what he gets out of this - "Oh boy, a leg! Oh boy, a leg!"- but he seems to be having a better time than many of the dates I've had.

    When I disengage and disappear behind a door, he lies down outside and waits for me to come out again. If it is only 30 seconds later, he will still react as if I were a released hostage. Now, my dog does not work. He does not pay taxes. But he also doesn't need clothes, doesn't covet cars or jewelry, and doesn't care about houses, as long as he can find a sunny spot on the floor and lie there for a few hours.

    Meanwhile, I am bored with my same routine. Getting up is a drag. I can't get excited about breakfast. And going out then coming back only makes me wonder how many flies I've let in. So I'm trying to imitate my dog. I'm trying to find wonder in the everyday. After all, when you think about it, it is pretty remarkable that you open your eyes each morning. And since every few hours you get to quench your hunger, well, that's a thrill, when you consider the alternative.

    So while I can't match my dog's drool, I am trying to match his zeal. Don't worry. If you come to visit, I will not clamp on your leg and do the Hootchie Coo. On the other hand, that sunny spot on the floor looks pretty tempting ...

Things a True Southerner Knows

  The difference between a hissie and a conniption fit.
   Pretty much how many fish make up a mess.
   What general direction cattywumpus is.
   That "gimme sugar" don't mean pass the sugar.
   When somebody's "fixin'" to do something, it won't be long.
   The difference between Yankees and damn Yankees.
   How good a cold grape Nehi and cheese crackers are at a country store.
   Knows what, "Well I Suwannee!!" means.
   Ain't nobody's biscuits like Grandma's biscuits!
   A good dog is worth its weight in gold.
   Real gravy don't come from the store.
   The War of Northern Aggression was over state rights, not slavery.
   When "by and by" is.  
  How to handle their "pot likker."
   The difference between "pert' near" and "a right far piece."
   The differences between a redneck, a good ol' boy, and trailer trash.
   Never to go snipe huntin' twice.
  What happens when you swallow tobacco juice.
   Never to assume that the other car with the flashing turn signal is actually going to make a turn.
   You may wear long sleeves, but you should always roll 'em up past the elbows.
Never loan your tools, pick-up, or gun to nobody.
   A belt serves a greater purpose than holding Daddy's pants up.
   Rocking chairs and swings are guaranteed stress relievers.
   Rocking chairs and swings with an old person in them are history lessons.

This is dedicated to every woman who ever attempted to get into a regular workout routine.

Dear Diary: For my 50th birthday, my husband (the dear) purchased a week of personal training at the local health club. Although I am still in good shape since playing on my high school softball team, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead with it. I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer I'll call Bruce who identified himself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swimwear. My husband seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started. The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

Monday: Started my day at 6 a.m. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it. I arrived at the club to find Bruce waiting for me. He is something of a Greek god - with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Woo Hoo! Bruce gave me a tour and showed me the machines. He took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to standing next to him in his Lycra aerobic outfit. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his class workout. Very inspiring. Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around. This is going to be a fantastic week!

Tuesday: It took a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door. Bruce had me lay on my back and push a heavy iron bar in the air. Then he put weights on it! My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. Bruce's rewarding smile made it all worthwhile. I feel great. Its a whole new life for me.

Wednesday: The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have hernias in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot. Bruce was impatient with me, insisting my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is very annoying. My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the Stairmonster. Why in the heck would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators? Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other crap too.

Thursday: Bruce was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being a half hour late. It took me that long to tie my shoes. He wanted me to work out with dumbbells. When he wasn't looking, I ran and hid in the men's room. He sent Lars to find me, then as punishment, put me on the rowing machine, which I sank.

Friday: I hate Bruce more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic little cheerleader wanna-be. If there was any part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it. Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't
have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the &@#$ barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. (Which I'm sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and graduated magna cum laude from, you Nazi Creep.) The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama
coach or choir director?

Saturday: Bruce left a message on my answering machine in his grating whining voice. It made me want to smash the machine! However I lack the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up watching 11 straight hours of the $#@% Weather Channel.

Sunday: I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank God that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband will choose a gift for me that is fun - like a root canal or a hysterectomy.

This is an actual (or so said the credit) letter sent to a bank in the United States.

Dear Sir,

I am writing to thank you for bouncing the check with which I endeavored to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations some three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the check, and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honor it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire salary, an arrangement which, I admit, has only been in place for eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account with $50 by way of penalty for the inconvenience I caused to your bank. My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. You have set me on the path of fiscal righteousness. No more will our relationship be blighted by these unpleasant incidents, for I am restructuring my affairs in 2001, taking as my model the procedures, attitudes and conduct of your very bank. I can think of no greater compliment, and I know you will be excited and proud to hear it. To this end, please be advised about the following changes.

I have noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you I am confronted by the impersonal, ever-changing, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become. From now on I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan repayments will, therefore and hereafter, no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee of your branch whom you must nominate. You will be aware that it is an offense under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope. Please find attached an application contact status form which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a justice of the peace, and that the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof. In due course I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in all dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further by introducing you to my new telephone system, which you will notice, is very much like yours. My authorized contact at your bank, the only person with whom I will have any dealings, may call me at any time and will be answered by an automated voice. Press buttons as follows:

1. To make an appointment to see me.
2. To query a missing repayment.
3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there; (Extension of living room to be communicated at the time the call is received).
4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping. (Extension of bedroom to be communicated at the time the call is received.)
5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature. (Extension of toilet to be communicated at the time the call is received.)
6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone in case I am not at home.
7. To leave a message on my computer. To leave a message a password to access my computer is required. Password will be communicated at a later date to the contact.
8. To return to the main menu and listen carefully to options 1 through 9
9. To make a general complaint or inquiry.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may on occasion involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration. This month I've chosen a refrain from The Best of Woody Guthrie "Oh, the banks are made of marble, With a guard at every door, And the vaults are filled with silver, That the miners sweated for." After 20 minutes of that, our mutual contact will probably know it by heart.

On a more serious note, we come to the matter of cost. As your bank has often pointed out, the ongoing drive for greater efficiency comes at a cost which you have always been quick to pass on to me. Let me repay your kindness by passing some costs back. First, there is the matter of advertising material you send me. This I will read for a fee of $20 per page. Inquiries from your nominated contact will be billed at $5 per minute of my time spent in response. Any debits to my account, as, for example, in the matter of the penalty for the dishonored check, will be passed back to you. My new phone service runs at 75 cents a minute. You would be well advised to keep your inquiries brief and to the point. Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement. May I wish you a happy, if ever-so-slightly less prosperous, New Year?

Your humble client, [Name withheld]

Just back from a little chat with the boss ...

Marketing Slogans for Maternity Thongs
Copyright 2001 by Chris White www.Topfive.com

In the third trimester, every pair of underwear becomes a thong anyway.

Appearing in Sisqo's nightmares since 1998.

An ass that big should be flaunted.

Hey, you already look like a sumo wrestler.

Sleek and sexy ... like the string on a baked ham.

The above brought the below to mind. All (and more on the way) are from the Havasu Free Press, the "viewspaper" that used to be "home."

Yes, citrus does grow in the desert ...

This was one of various requests for theme issues, from my editor, non-smoking BTW. To her credit, she never gave me any static. We even used my hand putting out a butt for the cover - gawd, I always wanted to be a famous model ;-)

I will say that piece certainly caused an uproar. That's what views are all about. Wait'll you see some of Miss Liberty's Dog's Eye View columns (note press badge) - appearing here soon ...

We used every opportunity to preach spay/neuter, and here we go again. That is one subject with only one correct view. It's got nothin' to do with politics, however, the PC is "non-gender specific." Reality is: hundreds of thousands of animals die every day because most people plain don't care or are ignorant. No, I take that back, ignorant is too polite a word, stupid expresses the feeling better. Do your part to educate whenever possible. Arguing, in this case, is good for the soul. I promise you'll feel terrific if you can change just one mind.

Some of Lib's columns have been converted to printable pages for distribution, help yourself!
Puppies are so Cute, But ...
Includes Spay/Neuter Myth Busting article

Please check her links for fund-raising ideas too.
Lib Money
LPN, Licensed Practical Noogiest
I forgot to add, on that page, quite often patients' families made donations in appreciation of Lib's visits.

More art and info: The Dog Hause

And: NeuterNeuterLand - promoting spay/neuter with humor

Another project I started after hearing an abuse story so far beyond the beyond I had to do something, Firecracker Dog - do not be afraid to investigate, no gory details or pics were needed. Your help with circulation is needed, either by sending the page around by E or printing it out for distribution.

On behalf of those not able speak for themselves,

Get Thee to a Pit

And stay out of my kitchen! If men would confine themselves to the barbecue pit, life in general would be so much more civilized and sane.

The male propensity for free-will creation (construction/destruction syndrome), has been a fascinating study.

The ex, in true mad scientist form, was able to build a startlingly realistic backdrop for sequels to "The Chili Blob" faster than you can say union wages. I've since learned that no man is truly satisfied until the finale has involved every pan and utensil in the house.

Before I am accused of bashing here (I have five pages for that elsewhere) - it's not that I haven't learned a few things from the species, they do what they do very well. But, they need to do it out there.

And not steal stuff ... husband #1 used a brand new Baker's Secret roasting pan for an oil change. It was a gift from an aunt who evidently was expecting a metamorphosis. At the time I had no intention of using it, we're talking principals here.

Lots of wedding presents found their way into the garage. Men have no regard for the sanctity of a matched set of towels either.

I will always be in awe of the magnitude of intestinal fortitude displayed by a friend who allowed her husband to live after he sold her Tupperware collection. The curse for condemnation he deserved does not exist. An accidental meltdown or alternate mutilation is cause enough for trauma - selling? - despicable! He might as well have thrown in one of the kids as part of the deal.

Another husband was forever butchering the Silverstone with metal utensils. He did a fine job on a decorative cutting board too by actually using it. Banned from that activity, he carved a new pattern in the counter top. Even better - the red hot Western effect achieved by branding with the broiling pan.

I already have a gift in mind for a friend's son's bride whoever the unsuspecting victim turns out to be. The innocence of youth - no clue how long it takes to develop a working relationship with that one special potato peeler. The young man was doing some carpentry work for me and needed something to sharpen his pencil.

His mother gave me permission to kill him upon completion of the job.

From More Halloween.

The Green Beast that will not die

Of course I keep a butcher knife in the refrigerator, doesn't everybody?

No, I haven't completely lost my mind, there's a perfectly good reason. It would have been funny if someone had seen it though.

My sister, who was visiting at the time, would have written it off as part of some weird kitchen ritual I was planning as a surprise, or possibly another of numerous ongoing experimental procedures.

I did read somewhere that chilling a knife makes a neater slice in a meringue pie or was that heating a blade makes an ice cream cake easier to slice? Here's a news flash: a wet knife will slice a hard boiled egg most neatly. If any of that is important to you ... get a life!

Slowly but surely I am murdering the beast, alas, it is hardy ... it lingers.

Avocado green appliances should have the decency to quietly commit suicide. Instead they hum right along, too good to throw away and too ugly to look at when you know full well you can't get two cents for them. However, if there are any landlords out there who wish to subject tenants to mental cruelty, I will pay you two cents to haul away an extremely efficient counter top gas range/oven combo. Be aware though, longevity may be due to forces we have yet to understand (note graphic above).

I'll keep the fridge for it's stress relief value. Nothing like banging away at six inches of frost and damn the dents.

Mopping up is great exercise too. Don't get the pleasure nearly as often since it became the "stepchild," pushed aside in favor of a newer model. Out of sight, out of mind. We visit only on the rare occasions I have planned ahead for a party and need a place to stash the goodies. Or stocked up on staples like candy bars and wine.

I learned my lesson years ago about stocking up on real food. I know, A) my tastes will change, B) I will develop amnesia and/or C) the electricity will go out just long enough to put the food in jeopardy. I also know that the new darling will accede to planned obsolescence and I will need my old friend.

Now about the weapons - that knife is actually a cake slicer. Perfect for the most delicate whacks and persuasion in stubborn tight spots. A hammer's use is obvious; spatula's a snow scraper. Do be careful should you decide to try this. Puncturing the coils will release Freon into the atmosphere - big environmental no-no.

"Don't ask Anna to bake fresh rolls, along with everything else she has to do. Rolls can be of the brown and serve variety or little glazed rolls from the bakery. Frozen vegetables cut down on preparation time. The dessert - even pie or cake - can come from the freezer." From the queen of all things correct, Amy Vanderbilt, circa 1954.

What a hoot! I had blown the dust (darn that Anna) off the etiquette books doing another type of research; like a moth to a flame, could not resist the entertainment/food section. "Pathological condition." The nice doctor hasn't been able to give it a name yet but I'll let you know the minute we have a breakthrough.

More Amy: "In a one servant household, the mistress must face the fact that she cannot expect too much. She must be willing and able to take on some of the extras. Butterball making, silver polishing," you know ...

Poor Amy was mourning the passing of Victorian style. "Very few homes in the land can accommodate the traditional 34 guests at one dinner - or even half that many - in comfort. Who indeed has the space to store all the silver, glassware and china for such parties, and where are all the men trained to serve them?"

I fear dear Amy would succumb straight away with a case of the vapors upon a close encounter with my interpretation of gracious living. (Mind you, this was written years before The UnReal Martha - or StewRat as I like to call her - began her reign of terror.) I regularly commit the most outrageous offenses, the good stuff has appeared with paper napkins; small plastic plates and cups (color-coordinated - what else?) take care of the relishes and dip, bread/butter, etc. About the only thing that is truly tacky is using paper dinner plates or plastic utensils for company. OK for a picnic, not a sit-down, flowers and candle to-do.

Whatever the occasion, give it your best shot and relax. Anyone you cook for is secretly thrilled to be relieved of the duty.

Should you care to help yourself to this logo, or choose another and/or find allegiance declaration certificate details, please go to Bright Spots.

Disasters "R" Us

Several years ago Uncle Sammy announced that the nation was witnessing the first generation of cooking illiterates. Cooking professionals were going to change their instructions to "common terminology presented in clear concise form." Really? Did they do it yet? I suspect my position as interpreter is secure for a while longer.

The experts are never going to get it. They will go on and on with their allusions to tranquil domesticity without ever acknowledging Murphy's Law.

Murphy trains the little people well
before sending them to live in your kitchen.

Have the good sense to recognize them at work. When you find yourself in the middle of a hot messing up streak, that is exactly where you will stay until they get tired and go to bed.

Under no circumstances attempt to repair damage. Congratulate yourself for having the car gassed up and headed in the direction of the nearest restaurant. Forget about trying to revive wilted vegetables too - that is a wide open invitation to spectacle. Do pay attention to anything you come across about keeping things from going bad in the first place, but believe me, dead is dead. Sometimes you can get away with using an onion or head of lettuce that is only slightly wounded with some minor surgery - risky at best.

It is a good idea to have a little speech prepared as in "All I know is those hens must have had a rough night, these eggs are a mess."

I cannot anticipate every disaster that is waiting to befall you, however, I do usually include a few warnings with instructions. If you still screw up, at least you did it according to the book (Lifestyles of the Culinarily Inept).

He had to Stir the Pot

And he burned it too. Ok, it was a full moon. The first mistake was accepting the grocery shopping offer. Extenuating circumstances involved the state of the checkbooks, oddball working hours and a case of seafood deprivation (his).

Fish is Brain food ... so sorry, tiny shrimp caused a complete breakdown of the gray cells. Something smelled sooooo good as I came in the door. The chef was napping soundly in his chair. Thoughts of - too cool, a little nappy for me, danced through my head. But it was alive.

"Try some - my creation."
"What's in it?"
"Just try it."

Repeating the above about six times wore me down.

"It's not bad, need to die for a few minutes ... "
"But did you really like it?"
"It wasn't awful."
"Have some more."
"I'm full."
"But did you really like it ... I forgot the sausage and I couldn't find the seasoning stuff I usually use."

It would not have mattered what he used, it was a tainted pot. The teeniest shrimp I have ever seen were floating in there, innocently unaware of my serious prejudice toward seafood - shrimp in particular. Shrimp is bait - 'nuff said.

Incidentally, should you ever care to experience a new definition of popcorn shrimp, try putting any live ones left over from a day at sea into a pot of water and turn on the heat. Those buggers were flying so fast I missed one that landed behind the dish drainer. Two days later ... oh the stink! Yeccccchhhh.

Check out Fish, if by Land or Sea for more on life with a certifiable fishing nut. The man was liable to show up with anything at anytime (all-purpose recipes included).

OK, back to your views - whatever they may be ...

Original compositions always welcome - with the understanding that I will suggest edits. If you can't handle criticism, let's not waste each other's time. My intention is never to rewrite and I am certainly no expert, however, it's amazing how cutting a few words here and there will "crisp" the points. Since I have been at this a while, I can help with a word track that might have you stuck. In other words, a good start is usually easy to polish up. See Editing, Etc. for more tips. This page exists as one person's opinion that your opinions deserve a place in public print. Eventually, E-books, variety print publishing (including possible syndication) will be options.

Please submit contributions in regular e-mail format, including source/author credit and brief bio. Your graphic choices are also welcome for consideration.

Also, it's tradition here that new readers and contributors send an announcement to their local newspaper stating that you want them to consider weekly columns by The UnBlonde Sheep, and encourage them to pay us at least one million dollars. But seriously folks ... syndication plans are in the works and you can help spread us around a little faster by sending this link to your papers.

TheRealMartha@mindspring.com, AltMartha@aol.com or MsAtte2ude@aol.com

*The UnBlonde Sheep signature was coined while Beth and I were comparing notes on why we saw the world a little differently and choose to hang those opinions out for whatever they're worth. Skewed Views seemed an appropriate title for poking holes while tending to the general shearing of BS.

My true mission in life: the equalization of CR*P
(as much as possible actually but most particularly ... cooking-related propaganda).

www.TheRealMartha.com

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Come back soon, there'll be more ... but wait, you could check out the naughty zone

The Truth about Butchie

Butchie is also known as The-Beast-Who-Only-Has-Wet-Dreams-In-My-Bed. Everything he does that's funny is related to his "elimination" systems. Apparently he doesn't know whether he is coming or going!

I Am Your Worst Nightmare

I am a bad American. I am George Carlin.

(Or so this version is attributed - have seen several others that do not sound like Carlin).

Update: While looking for info on an entirely different subject, one of my favorite hoax busting sites spit out a most interesting review, including a list other celebrities supposedly responsible. Check out http://www.snopes.com/quotes/carlin.htm - if fact, put www.snopes.com on your faves list to check into any scare-mail or otherwise agitating "news flashes" before passing around. There are more dangerously skewed views than I thought possible popping up every day now. Debunking crap and media hype has become almost a full-time job lately, http://www.therealmartha.com/WAR/index.htm. The Whispering Activist Record pages also offer opinions and ideas, mine and from others, that everyone can use to get involved, make a difference and lighten the load. Find timely info, controversy, common sense, commiseration, empathy, household tips, easy recipes, critter stuff, variety links, and a little humor along the way.

More hoax and rumor sites are listed on my Links I Like page, as well as numerous other useful and entertaining sites, http://www.therealmartha.com/Classyfiedlinks/index.htm.

The following, regardless of original author* or whoever tweaked it, still reflects many of my views.

I believe the money I make belongs to me and my family, not some midlevel governmental functionary with a bad comb-over who wants to give it away to crack addicts squirting out babies

I'm not in touch with my feelings and I like it that way, damn it!

I believe no one ever died because of something Ozzy Osbourne, Ice-T or Marilyn Manson sang.

I think owning a gun doesn't make you a killer.

I believe it's called the Boy Scouts for a reason.

I don't think being a minority makes you noble or victimized.

I believe that if you are selling me a Big Mac, you'd better do it in English.

I don't use the excuse, "It's for the children," as a shield for unpopular opinions or actions.

I think fireworks should be legal on the 4th of July.

I think that being a student doesn't give you any more enlightenment than working at Blockbuster. In fact, if your parents are footing the bill to put your pansy ass through 4 to 7 years of college, you haven't begun to be enlightened.

I believe everyone has a right to pray to his or her God.

My heroes are John Wayne, the Simpsons, and whoever canceled Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

I don't hate the rich. I don't pity the poor.

I know wrestling is fake and I don't waste my time arguing about it.

I think global warming is a big lie. Where are all those experts now, when I am freezing my ass through a long winter?

I've never owned a slave, or was a slave, I didn't wander 40 years in the desert after getting chased out of Egypt, I haven't burned any witches or been persecuted by the Turks and neither have you, so shut-the-#$%!-up already.

I want to know which church is it exactly where the Reverend Jesse Jackson preaches. And where does he get his money. And why is he always part of the problem and not the solution.

I think the cops have every right to shoot your sorry ass if  you're running from them

I also think they have the right to pull your ass over if you are breaking the law, regardless of what color you are.

I think if you are too stupid to know how a ballot works, I don't want you deciding who should be running the most powerful nation in the world for the next four years.

I hate those bastards standing in the intersections trying to sell me crap or trying to guilt me into making 'donations' to their cause. These people should be targets.

I think if you are in the passing lane, and not passing, your license should be revoked, and you should be forced to ride the bus until you promise to never delay the rest of us again.

I think beef jerky could quite possibly be the perfect food.

I believe that it doesn't take a village to raise a child, it takes two parents.

I think tattoos and piercing are fine if you want them, but please don't pretend they are a political statement.

I think Dr. Seuss was a genius.

I'm neither angry nor disenfranchised, no matter how desperately the mainstream media would like the world to believe otherwise.

If that makes me a bad American, then yes, I'm a bad American.

*Aha! Update 2: http://www.freerepublic.com/forum/a3b21fbab4b27.htm, real author post and link to original piece. Might have to try link several times, when checking "no file found" message came up.

The following doesn't really belong here but it's a good excuse to link the Joke Department - warning! it's extremely politically incorrect.

Alphabet Speak

Some friends were sitting at the bar talking about their professions.

The first guy says "I'm a Y.U.P.P.I.E, you know ... Young, Urban, Professional, Peaceful, Intelligent, Ecologist."

The second guy says "I'm a D.I.N.K, Double Income, No Kids."

The third guy says, "I'm a R.U.B., Rich, Urban, Biker."

They turn to the woman and ask her, "What are you?"
She replies: "I'm a WIFE, Wash, Iron, F***, Etc."

A second gal answers their question before they even ask it, "BITCH."

"What exactly is a BITCH?!?"

"Babe In Total Control of Herself."

So ladies, next time somebody calls you "Bitch" - smile ... and say "Thank you!"

Skewy Linkers

Computer Features, The below is a sample.

Stressed?
http://www.therealmartha.com/stress/index.htm

Man at Home

Oddments

Diary of a Mad Politically Incorrect Cook

Bubba Gourmet

Shiver Me Timbers

Fish, if by Land or Sea