ANSWERS TO MOST QUESTIONS

1. Chocolate.






2. More sleep.









3. Time.

LATE NIGHT GIGGLES

Everyone needs a couple of things in this life.



I think we all fall in love and gets our hearts broken at least once. It's the only way we can comprehend what love can be.

We lose a friend in some way as we grow to become different people.





All we all need someone we can totally, absolutely, be ourselves with. Someone that accepts that evil, dark side of us without judgement. But also brings out the laughter and high spirits and yes, mania of certain late hours.

I'm very lucky that I have a friend like that.



It's even nicer that she's my daughter.

GRAVITY WORKS, PART TWO

My daughter introduced me to many decorating concepts. Such as using colors which are not complete opposites on the color wheel. Curtains. Throwing away Tupperware containers from 80's.

And cool glass jars from Target.

They do look great on the counter - and make it much easier to remember how much chocolate I have on hand (a critical matter in my life).

But I have also noticed that the level of whatever is in the jar gradually lowers as time goes by.

Both the dogs and the cat have been put through lie-detector tests, and have proven their innocence - although the missing amounts could probably be explained away by cockroaches, if I would allow myself to consider having cockroaches in my house (I will, however, freely acknowledge the huge gopher snake, as well as droves of field mice who have eluded the cat).

So I must blame it on gravity.

Which allows for a complete leap of faith to explain one other matter:

This must be why weight continues to gather right around my midsection - it's gravity, that's all.

So, how many of you are with me on this? And if not, why?

THERE IS A *W*H*A*T* UP MY ASS?!?

WARNING - WARNING - NO ILLUSTRATIONS PROVIDED - If you only like picture books, do not bother reading any further.

"A colonoscopy is used to view the inside of your lower digestive tract (colon and rectum). "

Translation - a CAMERA gets stuck up your BUTT and take PHOTOS which get posted on YouTube, FoxNews and the back of every milk carton in the state of Tennessee.

Okay, maybe not the milk cartons.

But they COULD.

It's suggested that once you hit 50, you should have a colonoscopy done - just to check if cancer is lurking somewhere in your digestive track.

And I have a friend whose father died kinda early from colon cancer, so she has undergone one of these every year since her early forties.

Okay, let's get it over and done with.

My own physician readily agrees, and refers me to the local gastroenterology office (number 1., I can't believe that is a a real word and number 2., yes, I did spell it correctly).

After the first appointment, I should have been smart and simply canceled the whole thing.

Some doctors have a wonderful, welcoming attitude that makes you want to pour out your innermost digestive secrets immediately.

And there are some who don't.

The doctor came into the exam room with an entourage of fluttering nurses surrounding him, wearing a smug face of pure arrogance - was my ass going to be good enough for him to stick his camera up?

While his Porche or Hummer is being paid for by MY health insurances.

Perhaps I had assumed that someone who deals daily with anals, rectums and fecal matter would automatically have some humility.

The procedure was scheduled, and I procured the required medication to begin at 4 p.m. the day preceding the exam.

From here on is where you do not want any illustrations.

Slightly larger than a gallon container of milk, and empty except for an ominous layer of white powder on the bottom, the pharmacist kindly offered to put it in a bag for me.

When I inquired as to why, she blushed and stammered out "well... so people don't know what you are having done!"

After a full day of only fluids, I was able to choose from four different flavorings (I still can't believe they did not have chocolate), filled the container with water, vigorously shook it until all the powder was dissolved and then...

(** shudder **)

... drank a 8 oz. glass of the somewhat thick and mildly repulsive tasting mixture EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES until the ENTIRE amount was gone.

I didn't throw any of it up... but man, did I want to.

Now the actual procedure was a breeze - I slept through it all. In fact, I was asleep before the anesthesiologist has administered more than a couple of ccs of whatever the white stuff was he put into my I.V.

I didn't even see the arrogant doctor - at ALL.

However, I am counting on all of you to inform me when the photos are posted in any sort of public forum.

HAPPY AND CHEERFUL AND GAY

My father was a musician.

Named Bruce.

So perhaps it is evident that I would be raised without an abundance of homophobic tendencies.

Or was it simply innocence, naivety, or sheer blindness on my part - because it never ever occurred to me that certain people might be gay?

We had a neighbor to the west of our house, a Mr. Porter.

He taught high school Spanish somewhere in southeast Los Angeles. He kept his yard very tidy, was never upset when a ball batted or thrown or kicked from our backyard ended up in his. We could use his driveway to practice our skate-boarder or roller-skating techniques (mainly how fast you could speed down the sloping concrete and still make the 90 degree turn at the bottom onto the sidewalk) with nary a complaint.

And it wasn't until years later, when my own dad mentioned the regular flow of young single Hispanic males in and out of Mr. Porter's home that it even occurred to me that he might be a homosexual.

Frank was a salesman in Michigan at a music store where my dad taught.

He had beautiful flowing black hair (I have always had a thing for men with long hair), the perfect beard, and Frank could talk to anyone who passed the store entrance with just a fleeting thought of purchasing a piano or organ into walking out with a delivery contract for a full-size grand or a theatre-size Lowry.

It was only when he died of AIDS in 1981 that I realized he probably was gay (this was back when AIDS was still very much only a homosexual disease).

I had a supervisor at a job in Maryland, Toni, who had underwent a radical double mastectomy in her early thirties. She and Beth, another supervisor, bought a house together while I was at that job, and once again, it never registered that they might be a 'couple' that way.

Why do I mention all of this?

Because it doesn't matter if someone eats buttered popcorn with sugar, sitting on their own couch, watching their DVD of "Pride and Prejudice" with two panting dogs for company.

It isn't important if a person will sleep with only 400+ thread count cotton sheets on their bed, memory-foam pillows, and Shabby Chic comforters.

If you like to wear black ankle socks with your white tennis shoes, you might not be photographed in Vanity Fair (is the magazine still around? anyone know?), but why should you be censored in general public in any manner?

Should laws be proposed to keep you from wearing black ankle socks? Even in the privacy of your own home?

I become more annoyed than is healthy with people who get frantic about gay marriage slash relationships slash eligibility for health insurance coverage under their partner's employment.

Number one - since it seems like the great majority of these anxious individuals call themselves "Christians," is it just a convenient lapse of memory that the whole "not judging others" bit is forgotten? When were they called to be judges and juries of private lives?

And number two - why the hell aren't they more frightened or terrified of all the child molesters? Sexual predators? Abusive spouses?

Talk about a threat to the basic family unit - that previous paragraph list scares me, at least, a lot more than the gay couple that lives at the end of the road, peacefully, happily, and can always be counted on to bring the largest salad to the community pot-luck dinners.

Thanks. I just needed to vent.

MY HERO

My son and I were watching "The Incredibles" last night (since we couldn't agree on any other show), and we agree there should be more superheros.

We just differ on the type of superhero we think we need.

My son would like super warriors, leaping tall buildings and shooting weapons, accompanied by well-endowed yet muscular female cohort (well, he didn't actually say that, but since he's a fairly normal young man....).

I want a masseuse super-hero - one that shows up right when you realize your back is sore, but long before it's sore enough that you realize you are taking far more than the daily-recommended-allowance of extra-strength Tylenol. (and yeah, I do like the look of this guy).

My daughter would assign me a personal-shopper super-hero - one that can purchase clothes that I look good in, in the correct size and color, deliver them to me and (most important of all) remind me when it would be my best clothing choice.

I am so anti-style that if left to my own devices, I'd wear my jeans, an old t-shirt and my boots anywhere - including church.

And I need someone around who will monitor my diet 24/7, to offer me oranges and cored apples to lead me away from the mass of chocolate I devour hourly, serve me tall glasses of Crystal Light with ice and mint juleps to keep me away from my Dr. Peppers and Diet Cokes.

Of course, this last super hero would have to be invisible, silent, and able to withstand all my crankiness about not getting what I originally wanted.

So, what super hero would you create just for yourself?

ES UN DIA MALO

Seems that individuals in New Jersey and Atlanta are much more concerned about the drug cartel activities in Mexico than I am living here three miles from the border.

I realize the violence in Mexico is particularly palpable across the line in Texas and border towns such as Nogales and Douglas here in Arizona.

And easier to videotape.

But the view from my kitchen window nicely encompasses the high chaparral of the San Pedro Mountains and the lights of Cannana and Agua Verde are only in the distance at night.

I can also see the straight black line of the border wall erected to theoretically slow down drugs and illegal immigrants. Local opinion remains that the construction of a 12' tall wall only necessitates a 13' ladder to get over… literally.

We have more than our fair share of drug shipments that come through here. Vehicles packed with drugs get caught in Douglas and Naco almost daily, which to me only begs the observation of many more do get through undetected.

My son made an obvious observation today that drugs will continue to pour across the border as long as there is a market for it here.

Anybody wanna take a stab at that old war again before we occupy Mexico and attempt to repair their gruesome state of economy and corrupt government?

OWNING THE ROAD

Litter is ugly, distracting and in some cases even dangerous.

But I don't think people intentionally throw trash on the road. I am sure that they think, "Oh, it's just one thing, it isn't much." When the wind catches that plastic bag and whips it out of their reach, "Rats! I didn't get it. Well, someone else will pick it up."


However, I must admit to the exact opposite view of people who discard alcohol containers and half-smoked cigarettes. I don't think ANYone can 'accidentally' throw a beer bottle out the window. And I KNOW cigarette smokers think, "Oh, it's just the butt, it won't hurt anything."


(What should this be called; Anti-Tippling? Discrimination against Budding Pyromaniacs? Bigotry of Beer? Has anyone created a Self-Help Program for them, with the twelve steps of accepting addicts? Should I?)

Groups have used the free advertising aspect of the Adopt-A-Road for personal agendas - my husband still grimaces every time he passes the sign for "the Young Republicans of Cochise County" - and the "Gay Rights Group of Bisbee" section actually got torched once. The photo to the right is actually how they 're-named' the KKK in Missouri.


But my neighbors do it simply out of the goodness in their hearts. Their road is labeled "Ragman and Ruckus" - the names of their respective dogs.

So yesterday I helped on this mile-long stretch of state highway 92. Armed with the extremely strong and vividly blue trash bags, we were set loose upon a wide expanse of road.... of course, only AFTER we had all signed a form that would keep us or our families from suing the county is we got run over by a semi, etc.

Now, you do need to understand that this was ARIZONA road. Which means it is flanked on both sides by ARIZONA FLORA.


Which is flora with an attitude.


Mesquite trees are 90% thorns - not little thorns, as on a rose bush, but hard, solid BIG thorns - big enough to punch thorough the heaviest jeans and make you bleed. Tumbleweeds (which is actually Russian Thistle dried out)... WOUND. Even our scrub grass... INJURES.

So the actual job is untangling plastic shards from fairly dangerous and aggressive plants while standing in tall, thick scrub grass which is the home of the Arizonan rattlesnake.

I think we should be awarded the equivalent of the Purple Heart.