Monday, February 15, 2010

Childhood Memories (Installment #3: Chrstmas)

Ahhh, to be home at 118 E. Pasadena Rd. The peanut butter balls are just a pudgy arm's-length away; the ham grizzle/pork loin rests in its grease-ridden, braising pan; and Emily's famous, extra-lard-laden bread beckons me like smack does to a new junkie.

We finished dinner and after the usual, Rickman/Johnson conversation, began beating each other with anything we could get our hands on. Auntie did something completely out of character for the Christmas season; she removed her lower partials and proceeded to stomp them into dust. Becky Jo grabbed the antique candle snuffer and commenced to smash the rescued, animal shelter dog, T-Boy, about the paws and face.

Tommy, having barely recovered from life altering surgery, had enough of the yule tide and danced about as he doused the dining room drapes with 12 year old Scotch. He laughed; his head thrown back with tiny beads of sweat and phlegm glowing under his nose. Then the whole house went up.

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Sunday, December 13, 2009

Childhood Memories (Installment #2: The Letter)

The Letter

Dear John,

Sorry it's been a coon's age since I've written. There's been trouble with a capital "T" down at the plant. Rosa was brought up on charges of money laundering, credit card scams and, the dreaded, grand theft auto. She skipped town and is now on-the-lamb. Pedro is fairing well after the accident. The "hand" looks pretty gruesome, but he really knows how to work it! We were forced to put him in the back, though, so he wouldn't scare the other workers.

I've been hitting the sauce again. It's got a real hold on me, they say. So I don't get the shakes at work, I keep a flask stuffed down my pants filled with gin. I haven't been caught yet. Oh, Lenny has finally left me. I knew it was just a matter of time. I tried hanging myself one afternoon right before he got home from work. No such luck! Lenny got there just as the shower rod ripped out of the friggin' wall and I cracked my head open on the toilet. Boy, did he have a good laugh. He said he was tiring of my suicide attempts and the next time I should just ask him and he would blow my head off for me. Maybe he secretly does care.

Well, there is some good news. Tiny had puppies...thirty of them! It's supposed to be written up in The Guinness Book of World Records. We ended up losing most of them, sadly. It seems Tiny was going through some sort of post-pardem depression and ate most of the litter. The remaining pups are doing fine. We've sent the cajoined ones off with Lenny's cousin who claims to know circus folk.

Gosh, I do rattle on about nothing. Please write soon and send any money you can spare...or you can just send booze...whatever is easier for you and mother.

Eternally grateful and probably damned to hell,


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Childhood Memories (Installment #1: The Elks Club)

For lack of time (and drive), I'm going to include some short stories to my blog that I penned years ago. Here's "Childhood Memories" (Installment #1)

"The Elks Club"

They drove to what they thought was the Elks Club in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It wasn't. Instead of being greeted by ol' Jimbo, who had served Mr. O.K. Rickman for nearly a century, they were frisked and cavity searched. Racous rap music poured out into the street.

Disappointment read on their faces. They expected savory, flank steak, potatoes au gratin and a hearty Burgandy, but got nothing but "carded" and called "whitey". It was now a hip-hop club.

The Old Grandad went down easy. Pigs-In-A-Blanket were a plenty. The tunes were hard and crass, but at the same time, soulful.

Auntie was the first to break the ice. She tugged on the black man's arm, "Cleavon, you wanna dance?"

At about three am, Tommy, Becky Jo and Caroline, (spent and with blistered feet) begged Auntie to leave. She would have nothing of it...she loved to party.

As they waved out the back window of the Buick Park Avenue, the sweaty, eighty-three year old, Auntie, winked and shouted, "Call the police if I'm not home by Monday!"

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Thursday, November 26, 2009

Being Over 40 Years Old At Thanksgiving

It’s a day before Thanksgiving as I sit watching my 5th hour of the CSI Marathon and wonder how I’ve gotten so fat in less than a week. I think I might be a “sleep eater”. Is that a real disorder (or a clever rationalization)? It’s either “slumber snacking” or my metabolism has finally slowed down to that of a dead person’s. Granted, I’m 44 and haven’t been working out 3 times a week, like I know I should, but WTF?

I happened upon a newly formed, spare tire while sitting in the audience of an alcohol counseling class for a family member. I was horrified more by my own “rolls” than I was the graphic, drunk tales. As I touched my middle, I was moved to tears. How did this happen?

I admit that I’m guilty of doing the emotional eating/reward-yourself-with-tasty-treats-simply-for-being-alive snacking at night, but does that manifest in a giant ass? Apparently, it does.

Has it finally come down to me eating salads, protein and fruit not only during the day, but before bedtime, too? I’m not sure life is worth living if I have to munch on apples and celery in my “jammers” on the couch every night watching my “stories”.

I guess I’d better get bigger jeans.

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Sunday, November 15, 2009

Ballet Flats

Now I’m no expert on fashion, but there’s one thing that I do know, and that’s what looks good and what looks like shit.

Ballet Flat

You should wear ballet flats if you’re A) a ballerina B) a tween C) you’re eff’ing long-legged and skinny. If you’re under 5’6 and thick-thighed, (like myself, during the winter months) you should NEVER wear the round, snub-nosed ballet flat! It cuts off your leg like at the ankle like a hobbled, amputated stump.

There’s nothing worse that emulating a dumpy, southern housewife with the ass widening, mom jeans, bad perm, thin lips and white Ked sneaker. At least the tennis shoe adds a bit of a leg extender. With the ballet slipper, your hacked-off legs accentuate the wide load you’re carrying around above it.

This Plus




If you insist on working the skinny-legged jean and you’ve got a booty like a rap video hoochie (e.g. baby got back, junk in the trunk, caked-up), do yourself a favor and add a substantial boot or elongating shoe to the look.

Silence & Noise Twig Jean

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Gym Attire?

Are you homeless and trying to break into the showers or are you here to work out???

Ladies…why the vagrant/hobo/transient look when you go to your local gym?

No offense to street people (I give change to most of the women that ask me), but why do you purposefully look hideous when you exercise? It’s not a crime to put a little concealer, mascara and gloss on before engaging in physical activity where others have to see me!

I’m sure being raised by a gorgeous, Southern Belle mother who’s been wearing false eyelashes since ’65 has influenced me. “Oh honey, you need more lipstick!” Becky Jo would squeal. I was taught from an early age to never be seen in public “without your face on”. I don’t mean the kabuki or drag queen look, but just a hint of color and a reminder that you have features.

And one more thing...a sloppy, old pit-stained shirt and pajama pants doesn't count as fitness attire. If I wanted to see you with that just-woken-up-haven't-brushed-your-teeth-or-bathed look, I would've come to your house at 6 am.

Now here's the pretty, day makeup (below) that makes sense for your daily gym regimen (and doesn't make me wanna gouge out my own eyes with a 2 pound dumbbell).

And here's the perfect outfit...

Hope to see you in the sauna!

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