Kathleen O'Donnell's Blog, page 7

Puzzo

Hubby and I are ugly Americans. 

We repeatedly travel to foreign destinations not knowing a word of their language. No matter how many times we are almost kidnapped, can't find band-aids or pay 3x as much as needed, we continue.

We are, as I type, in Italy. 

We've been here about 24 hours. 

The only phrase we have mastered is Parla Inglese or Par-lah Eenglaysay which, for those of you as ugly as us, means, Do you speak english? And when I say we've mastered it, I mean I know right where that phrase is in my pocket Italian/English phrasebook and can find it just like that. And by just like that, I mean after I dig it out (again) from the bottom of my bag (which takes at least 5 minutes), then another 5 minutes digging around for my glasses,  then I can start thumbing though the book like an ugly american maniac.

Yep, that's me and hubby. Unleashed on European soil with only our idiotic optimism as our guide.

To my credit (we also spend a lot of our time giving ourselves too much credit) I've been picking out useful phrases from the handy phrase book for our planned outing today.  

But, the pronunciation is tricky. For instance...

I can order penne in a restaurant. Duh, I can even do that at home. But, if you order pene instead of penne (and I'm not sure what the pronunciation difference is) depending on the cafe, you'll either get thrown out or the waiter will unzip his pants and put his penis on your plate.

You can see how we might get into trouble.

Luckily, the phrase book is divided into helpful categories, like eating, health, traveling, entertainment, etc. 

Not sure what the guidebook author was thinking, or maybe we know even less about our Italian friends than we thought. For instance:

Finding a prostitute is a common request. And right after you find one you can tell her you are covered in bed bugs, which is the first phrase after "prostitute" in the guide.

You can tell the taxi driver to slow down or you'll throw up. How do you say that in New York?

You can sing all the words to Volare or Happy Birthday. Just those two though.

You can announce you're a virgin, or not a virgin, you're a pheasant plucker, have bad breath, or you're Peter Piper picking peppers.

You can call someone pussy cat, cupcake, honey bunch or sugar pie. Or, pig, stupid, and/or jerk.

You can tell people what planet you're from. Which might come in handy if you're scratching yourself from bed bug bites, introducing yourself as Peter Piper, or asking the waiter about his penis.

You can ask if anyone wants to hear you burp, if they smoke pot, or if they believe in Santa Clause. There's also a handy section on conversing with Italian animals so you can avoid those embarrassing  cock-a-doodle-do, tweet-tweet and quack quack situations.

The profanity section is one of my favorites. I find that as soon as I cross the border (any border) I become a teenage boy. In this section I can ask if anyone farted (so far, I haven't seen the translation for the smeller's the feller), call the bus driver an idiot or cretin, and inform someone their mother is a...well, you get it.

But...can I find a hospital, call a taxi, or exchange money? 

No. 

Those sections in the phrase book aren't very interesting.

But if you want to rustle up some assholes for a thumb wrestling contest, I'm your girl.

BTW...the title of this post pretty well sums it up. 

We stink.

All In A Day's Work

Last weekend, I had my first book signing. I wished all of you could've been there, and some of you were. So, I wanted to share some images. My very good friend Audrey Michele took all the photos and as usual, they're perfect. A beautiful representation of what was one of the most special days of my life.

Note the champagne glass hiding in the corner. I think that was my second, or fifth, glass. Perfect weather. The stunning view from our balcony.  The incredible cake. I think everyone was relieved it wasn't more...Rob Rhino shaped... Yes, those are my pink chandeliers and they're awesome. Just so happens my book cover colors complimented them. Coincidence? These were all mine. Well, not technically, but I kept picking them up and drinking out of them even though they were someone else's. Hey, it was MY party. That's Richard's hand, the awesome guy from the Four Seasons who helped us out that day. He was sweet enough to pose with my book too (what could he do? he was trapped 28 floors up) which I will post on my FB page later. My new friend, Manuel Ramos, Denver attorney by day, successful author by night. We have the same agent. She makes a lot more money on Manuel. This is me, forcing him to hold my book. I think I've already made it clear I'm obnoxious. Hubby chatting up the guests. This is Patsy, her beau David, and Manuel. Patsy Brown is our realtor extraordinaire. After helping us find our beautiful home here in Denver, she hasn't been able to get rid us. This is me, dying...I mean reading. Out loud. I didn't plan on doing it but when Manuel discovered my plan...he vetoed it. And Flo (you can see the back of her head here), his wife rounded everyone up, made them sit down, and then she was the BEST audience member ever. She laughed at all my jokes. She reminded everyone in her Flo firm way that they could buy a signed copy before they left. Cash or check, please.

I gotta say, I LOVE Flo. She's a great supporter of authors...she's married to Manuel and all. But she's a dynamo and I want to spend more time with her. This is Lori and Lee. And hubby. Lori is laughing at my jokes. Actually, I have no idea when this photo was taken or what she's laughing at. I just choose to believe it's at my jokes. "She just said what?" Awkward. "Yep, I think she really did just say that." I said what? And my mom never thought I'd amount to anything. Me signing for Flo and Manuel. Did I say I LOVE Flo? I do. I even had a little line! And more champagne! My hallway. Me and my bull at the end. Who knew you could sign an e-book? Sheri did. And she brought they stylus and everything. I'm too hip for words. Well, Sheri is. This is me, looking all serious author like. In my furniture that does tricks. That chair pushes in and it looks like it's just a table. That's the trick. Me and Audrey Michele. Love to you, Audrey. You rock. There's more photos...but I have to save some for my FB page! It's just too much fabulous for one day.

Thanks to everybody who made it over, and to everyone who was rooting for me but couldn't make it. 

It was a GREAT day.

No You Didn't

I’m not the first person to take issue with the ridiculous utterings of my fellow man or woman.  I’m not the first to write them down. I just think mine are better.

Thought I’d share.  

These are things anyone past a certain age should never say. In most cases, that certain age hovers around 16. In some cases, these tidbits should never pass anyone's lips, no matter what their age.
Michael will always be with us.  

While standing in front of Neverland on the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. 

Back away from the gate and go home. 

For Christ's sake, the man's nose fell off while he was on trial for molesting children...his second trial. 

Read that last sentence again. 

Had he been less freaky, this sentiment would still be true. This is also true of Elvis, Marilyn, JFK, Amy Winehouse and Whitney.  

They weren't family.

No, they weren't.

You didn’t know them.  

No, you didn’t.
Harry's my favorite. 

I didn't know who Harry was until I took my granddaughter shopping. He is, according to her, the one in the middle. 

If you have a favorite, get a grip. 

And no, you don't have Beiber Fever. You have problems.

This goes for Team Edward or anything Twilight related.  The only acceptable connection you’re allowed to have with Twilight is dropping your 12 year-old daughter off in front of the movie theater showing it.  

Please stop recommending the book series to me with the expectation I won’t make unmerciful fun of you. Stop saying out loud that Kristen what’s-her-name is a slut and Robert what’s-his-name should never have forgiven her. 

And, please, please, please, don’t come to my house for dinner and tell me with a straight face how hot Taylor Lautner is and not expect to find yourself lampooned in this post.  

This does not apply to Harry Potter.  Although, even JK Rowling has moved on. She was a welfare mom, she gets special consideration. You go, girl.

We're hooking up. 

The only hook up in your future is to a respirator. 

This phrase is only acceptable if you're trying to humiliate your teenagers by saying it in front of their friends. Under that circumstance, by all means, hook up to your heart’s content.  

If, however, you’re repeating this phrase hoping it will actually happen to you with the twenty year-old who’s reaching for her pepper spray, please re-read the first sentence of this paragraph.  

If you’re attempting to hook up during a night of clubbing, continue reading.  

I beg you.

The last thing you clubbed was a brontosaurus for dinner.  

Enough said.

She'll keep me young or He’s an old soul.  

25 year plus age differences are gross. 

Yes, they are. 

You don't think you look like them - look again. If you don't now, you will.

If you’re dating a boy young enough to be your son, or a woman young enough to be your daughter...good luck to you.  

I know, I know... 

You dream of being Ashton and Demi or Michael and Catherine.  

Don’t worry.  You will be.

Can I borrow this? 

While standing in front of your daughter’s closet.  

Kudos to you girlfriend for wearing the same size as your teenage daughter. 

Or, thinking you do.  

No kudos to you for actually wearing her clothes.  

Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.  

You think you look like this. 

You don't. 

Really. 

I know, your sister says you look great.

She’s lying.  

Your husband says you haven't changed since the day he married you.

He’s lying. 

Maybe just on special occasions.

No, not even on Halloween.

I need to touch up my roots.  

If you’re a man.  

Yes, it’s sexist.  Too bad.  

So is putting women out to pasture after thirty.  It is what it is.  

If you’re under drinking age and dying your Mohawk purple, or you’re a Duke fan coloring every exposed surface of your body blue, it’s all good. Other than that, stop.  

Yes, that goes for you too Mike Krzyzewksi.  

If the Waynester can't get away with it, either can you. I think he's actually on trial here for breaking the laws of decency.

Unlike women, men are allowed to age gracefully.  

So, do it.  Have some dignity.  

It looks bad. Everyone knows its dyed.

No, really, they do.  

Your wife says it looks like the color you were born with.

She’s lying.  

Your hair guy says its well worth the $150 you spend on it every month.

He’s lying.  

Maybe just for your daughter's wedding.

No, not even on Halloween.  

What are you doing dressing up for Halloween anyway?

I don't even own a pair of Spanx.  

I know.

No Cow

So, my George and Alice post from last week has been so popular that I thought I'd ask George to share another story. So, George is my guest blogger today.

Here it is:

“No Cow,” Elizabeth said.

“Moon! Moon! Moon!”  Disappointed by the absence of the cow, but thrilled by the moon, Elizabeth rallied, jumping up and down on the dinette cushions, tangling herself in the Outfitter camper curtains. 



“Yes, that’s the moon,” I said. “Mom and I can count on you to find it for us, every evening.”


“Cow?” She hopes, like two year olds do.

“No Cow” I confirm what she already knows.

Ever since we sang a silly song about that cow jumping over the moon, this is a ritual. Unlike other disappointments, which often lead to alligator tears and all sorts of emoting, Elizabeth chalks this missing cow thing up to circumstance.

Maybe the cow is home eating dinner.

Maybe it’s visiting the horses.

She’ll wait like patience on a monument until the next night.

“Cow?” She’ll say, again.

During new moon cycles, or inclement weather, when the moon itself is elusive, the question doesn’t come up.

Duh, Dad. Everyone knows without the moon there’s no sense asking about the cow. 
Even a two year old is clued in on that.

“Wye-Me -Moon! Wye-Me Moon! Wye-Me Moon!” She demands her twin brother’s Williams’ attention. 



“Dah Dah Dah DAH!” William’s head is inside the cabinet under the camper’s dinette, his attention focused on the growling sounds coming from the Sureflo water pump. It mysteriously started making this noise while I washed dishes.

William worries about the plumbing, not a moon missing its cow.

Half-Moon Valley, as far as I’m concerned, is THE place to camp.

A remote spot (in Southern CA terms) in the Las Padres forest with nobody, and I mean Nobody to complain if the kids cry too loud, and several miles from the nearest paved road.

Today, everybody cried. But, the day’s wrapping up, soon we’ll sleep and dream about tomorrow’s new adventures.

Yep, I’m flying, or camping, as the case may be, solo. Mom’s back home, under the weather. Camping makes her ill. But, I suspect she might not even know for sure what real camping is. Roughing it to Mom is staying at Circus Circus instead of the Venetian.

But, I love it out here. My love for the great outdoors, and my kids, overrode my terror at taking two year old twins out, alone.

“Are you crazy?” Is the usual response when friends and co-workers find out I’m outward bound with William and Elizabeth. 

I guess a lot of very bad things can happen with two year olds.

Some things are worth the risk.

“Moon,” Elizabeth gives one more shout out before bed.

Even though William doesn’t care about cows, moons, or any other celestial happenings, Elizabeth is still generous. She watches out for him, and because she doesn’t want him to miss out, she’ll make another run at it tomorrow, or the next night, or next week.

For now, Dad will have to do. He likes the moon, with or without a cow, and the stars too.  Elizabeth shares her nighttime discoveries, her chest puffed with pride.

Soon, she’ll be old enough for the telescope I set up outside the camper door. After the twins give in to sleep, I’ll creep outside to stargaze a while before I climb into bed myself.

I think my well-meaning friends and colleagues are kind of right. 

I’d be crazy to miss one second of this.

Ode To Ken

Today is Kenneth's birthday. 

He's our youngest. Which, can't be right because no one his age can be our youngest. I won't say how old he is. This is still my blog, after all. I'll give you a hint though, this photo is more than ten years old...

I have to confess I'm not sure what an ode is. I think it's poetic. Even though I could find out in half a second what it means, I'm not gonna. I just like it. This is still my blog, after all. In this instance, it means "Shout Out." 

Kenneth is one of those people who are not appreciated enough. So, today, on the anniversary of his birth, I'm gonna appreciate him, show him some love, with one of my favorite things - a list. 

This is a list of some of the things I love and appreciate about Kenneth. Almost everything I know about baseball, I know because of Kenneth. Well, his Dad too, but it isn't his Dad's birthday.

I know a double-header lasts a hell of a long time.

I know what a change-up is. 

I know its important to count pitches.

I know there's no half-time, cheerleaders, points, or crying, in baseball.

What I still don't know is why the coaches and the managers wear baseball uniforms. Kenneth doesn't know why either.  Kenneth is thoughtful.

He bought me this leg lamp because one Christmas TBS played A Christmas Story over and over for 24 hours. 

I said, "I love that guy's leg lamp. How awesome would it be to have a leg lamp of my own?"

Now I can tell you, it is indeed, AWESOME. Because Kenneth bought it for me.

You know you want it.

Kenneth carries groceries without me asking him to. If you're cold, he'll give you his coat. He's never late. If he says he'll do something, he does it. He fixes stuff. He helps me with the techno crap on my website and Facebook page because I'm a zero.

He once spent all day trying to hook up my new MP3 player in my car. 

He's that kind of guy. He was Best Man at our wedding.

He made a toast that he'd thought of himself. This was big. Kenneth is shy, not terribly fond of public speaking. But, I've never heard a better toast.

Except for the one his Dad made at our daughter's wedding. But, it's not his Dad's birthday.

He cracked open the champagne and poured us a glass.

He made me cry.

This photo and memory means the world to me, and his Dad.

All of our kids were fantastic on our wedding day. But, it's not their birthday either.
This is Cosmo. This is Kenneth and his sister Kristen's arms. She gave him this rabbit for his birthday, a zillion years ago. 

I love that he gave his rabbit such a cool guy name. Even though she was a girl rabbit. 

I love that he will probably be embarrassed that these photos are here. He will probably be embarrassed by this whole post.

But, that ship sailed. Not sure why Kenneth's head is cut off in this photo. But, I love that he planted these roses for us. He worked at it all day. 

They were beautiful and the only thing I missed, and miss still, since we sold that house.


I love that Kenneth thinks anything happening below the waist is hilarious.

Fart jokes? Fuggetaboutit!

Naked fart jokes? Stop...he's dyin!

Oh...he laughs at my jokes too. That's key.

He also read both my books, in manuscript form. Even the first, really crap one. He didn't even say it sucked.

I love that.
I have stuff on my book shelves that can only be called, tacky. My sock monkey Jesus, my naked fat lady salt and pepper shakers, my Van Gogh figurine sans ear...

Kenneth baptized this shelf my tacky shelf.

I LOVE it that Kenneth has kept this tradition alive and has his own tacky shelf. 

This is Nunzilla (she rolls and spits sparks out of her mouth) and the Expanding Nerd. He started out a minuscule sponge like thing and when soaked in water, he expanded. 

You know you want one.
I love it that Kenneth is a good cook and made this meal himself last Thanksgiving.

No, that's kind of a lie.

I love it that Kenneth re-creates the exact meal that I've made at holiday time for the last decade, plus. Right down to the apricot jam I spread on the bottom crust of the pumpkin pie.

That's really something.

Traditions are for carrying on. To know that this dinner has meaning to him, well...that's everything, isn't it?
Speaking of carrying on.

This is Kenneth and Madison, our now 11 year old granddaughter.

It's hard to believe how much time has passed since I first met Kenneth so many years ago. Before Madison was born.

We've grown.

The funny thing about writing is it never goes the way you plan.

This blog, for instance. I wanted to salute Kenneth on his birthday. But, I noticed there's a pattern here. It's as much about me as it is about him.

Kenneth makes me feel like my best self when he's around.

That's the gist of it.

I feel like a good mom, a good friend, a good cook, and don't forget, funny! 

So, happy birthday to Kenneth. I'm thinking of him today and all the years we've gotten to know one another, and all the ways knowing him has made me happy. I wouldn't trade them, or him. 

He's my youngest kid, and that's that.

I know one thing for sure, when Kenneth gets married...she won't be good enough for him and I'll be the mother-in-law from hell.

You could ask my sons-in-law to elaborate...but it's not their birthday.

George and Alice

This is George and Alice.

To the untrained eye they look pretty much like everyone else. 

They are SO NOT like everyone else. 

I'll start with George. He's tallest.

George is a musician, engineer, attorney, quasi-geologist, father to twins, husband.  A conversation with George goes like this:

George: That was when I was a pirate.

Me: Ahhh...what?

George: Yeah, pirate. I used to swing in on a rope. Aaaaargh.

There was more to this story, but he had me at pirate. 

Or,

George: Yeah, that was when I fixed the air-conditioning at the Chicken Ranch.

Me: The whorehouse Chicken Ranch?

George: Yeah. When I was in high school my parents retired and moved to Nevada.

Right. I'd forgotten that the natural progression was, you go to high school, your parents retire, then you're fiddling with the air-conditioning at a whorehouse.

Me: You just happened to find yourself there when the air conditioning broke?

George (with an aren't you simple look on his face): No...my mom sent me. She made friends with a lot of the girls. 

Of course. 

Or,

George: That was when Ray Charles came to my house...

Or,

George: That was when I went camping in Australia and got invited to the male puberty ceremony with the aborigines...

You follow me.

Then there's Alice. 

She's a pipeline engineer, mother of twins, wife, and entrepreneur. She owns and operates a Chinese restaurant, a chain of massage stores, and I'm not sure if she still owns that factory. 

Alice left China, her traditional Chinese family, her culture, her language, to come to America, alone. She arrived not speaking much English, but still managed to buy and operate a business with thirteen branches. 

She is the only person in her family to not have had an arranged marriage. She married her pirate-friend-of-Ray-Charles-whorehouse-repairman-male-aborigine-puberty-ceremony- guest-guy, because she wanted to. 

Because, she told me, "He's the best, purest man I've ever known. He's all the way good."

Be warned, if you sit still next to Alice long enough, she'll buy you, remodel you, bring a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap you into shape, hang an "Open" sign around your neck, and expect you to turn a profit in a week.  

Alice didn't like the food at the only Chinese restaurant in their town, so she bought it, remodeled it, brought a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap it into shape, hung out the open sign and its going gangbusters. 

Lucky us, we were treated to a feast there with George and Alice,  just recently.
The food kept coming. We kept eating. I think they brought about 65 lbs. of food to our table. I thought we'd died and gone to Chinese heaven. If Buddha ate Chow Fun, he got it at Alice's restaurant.

BTW...sometime during the evening, perhaps mid-pirate story, George quoted something from my blog. 

Me: George! You read my blog?

George: Yep. My sisters do too. I passed it onto them.

Let me tell you, finding out that George reads my blog and passed it on to his sisters is like discovering Francis Ford Coppola watches the videos of your 1st grader's school play on YouTube and forwards them on to Sophia.

I digress. The first time I met George and Alice, they'd attended a company soiree. George and hubby work together. 

A little known fact - All Asians know when there's another Asian in their midst. They might not know how Asian you are, or what kind of Asian, but if you've got a drop of Asian blood they will find you. And when they do, you're in the pagoda for life.

Alice found me. My soul sistah. She's treated me like family since that day. The second time I ran into George, he'd attended a company soiree, alone. Alice had taken a fast boat to China to buy a factory or some such (Alice buys factories in her off time). I had the opportunity to talk to George.

Me: Where's Alice?

George: China. Buying a factory.

Me: Oh, well...nice to see you, at any rate.

George: Can't stay long.

Me: Why? 

George: Because Alice is in an all-girl Chinese band. She plays the Chinese mandolin (I could be wrong on the exact instrument, but what's a girl to do?) and sings.

Me (not catching on): Oh...well...she's in China, right?

George: Yeah. I'm taking her place.

Me: You play the Chinese mandolin and sing in Chinese? (I let the fact that he wasn't a girl, slide)

George (shrugs): I do all right.

As he was leaving, he told me:

George: You know, I got married really late in life. I'd given up. I didn't think marriage was in the cards for me.

Me: I was speechless, for once.

George: Then I met Alice. She opened up my life in ways I never imagined.




So, no. George and Alice aren't like everyone else.

We're so lucky to know them, to call them friends.

Yep, George and Alice are the cherry on top of our Chinese chocolate cupcake life.

If A Writer Falls In The Forest

Is it pathetic to check every say, five minutes or so, to see if anyone "likes" you?

I already know the answer, but that's where I'm at these days. 

Now don't misunderstand, every time I get a new "like" on my author Facebook page I'm excited, grateful. Time is a precious commodity, so when someone chooses to spend some with me, however fleeting, it's a pretty big deal.

But, I wish it didn't have to go this way.

Getting a book published these days ain't what it used to be. Back in the day, writers wrote, agents found one of the six major publishers to take your book and publishers published...and then sold your hardback book to giant bookstores and distributors, then the paperback. 

Now, a writer writes, an agent (that is, if you even have one) finds one of a kajillion publishers to take your book (after multiple rejections from the major six and most of the other kajillion) the publisher publishes in e-book and paperback only and the writer tries to sell their own book in cyber space cause there are no more giant bookstores and distributors. 

So, here I am, in cyber space where it is surprisingly crowded...considering it's space and all. Throw in the self-published  - who pretty much corner the market on outrageously successful self-promotion - and it's a free for all.

I feel like I've been thrown into the roller derby with one skate. 

I'm getting killed.

I don't understand most of what's happening out here.

What the hell is this? TYSM @aWRITERchick Happy LOVE @Awannabeangel @BobbeBrooks_ @Angie_Mac @managementbrad @Etibom |||> Be a @JoYAmbassador

You probably recognize it as a tweet. A tweet with a bunch of hashtags. 

Aren't hashtags what your mother warned would get left in your underwear if you didn't wipe? Did I miss something?

I don't understand that tweet. My eyes cross. I start to sweat. Worse, there's five hundred more where that came from. I simply can not read them.

What's a Vine?

Pinterest is what?

I've got to have a deep well filled with clever, timely, and hopefully illustrated "stuff" to post on my Facebook page. I've got to wrack my shrinking, overloaded brain for pithy, funny and wise observations to blog about. 

Oh...and my second novel. I've gotta write that too. 

I realize this all sounds ungrateful. Which is the exact opposite of what I am. 

I just can't help but wish for a simpler time when writers shut themselves in their rooms with a bottle of whiskey, a carton of cigarettes and some aspirin. 

Writers were read, not seen. 

You could be a hugely successful writer and a complete recluse.

Then, I realized...

In order for anyone to know, or care, that you're a recluse - they've got to first know who you are.


And, we're back to square one.

A Dog's Life

Madison turns 11 this month. Not sure how that happened. How can my granddaughter be an age that I can still remember? 

That's just wrong.

Anyhoo, I just hope her birthday celebration goes better than when she turned 5. 

"OH MY GOD! I am so EXCITED," my daughter, Kayla said. "We're taking Madison and her friend Alexis to Knott's Berry Farm for her birthday."

Now, Kayla didn't have much money when Madison turned 5. So, I know this trip was a sacrifice for her. Some bills would go unpaid, I felt sure.

But, clearly, she was happy to do it. OH MY GOD.

"She's gonna JUST DIE, Mom!" Kayla yelled into the phone. "They do this thing at Knott's Berry Farm with Snoopy, Charlie Brown...all THOSE guys."

I guess buying jam there wasn't excitement enough anymore.

"We got her the birthday package and Snoopy... wait till you hear this, Mom...you'll JUST DIE," she assured me. "Snoopy COMES TO THE HOTEL ROOM with games, and food, and he PLAYS WITH THE KIDS! She's gonna be so SURPRISED!"

I gotta admit. I thought that was pretty much the bees knees myself. What kid wouldn't go apeshit crazy over that kind of thing?

Over the next couple of weeks, I talked to Kayla frequently about Madison's upcoming shindig. The closer it got the more excited she got. And, me too. Nothing like a double dose of happy, when your daughter and your granddaughter are OH MY GOD so excited.

The weekend finally arrived - off they went. I could barely contain myself. I couldn't wait for them to get back home so I could get the Snoopy scoop from Madison.

A decent interval passed. I called.

"OH MY GOD, Madison!" I felt gleeful. "How much FUN did you have?"

"It was REALLY fun, Mimi." Madison said. 

I waited. Nothing else.

"Well, what all did you do there? Was it so AWESOME?"

"Ummm....yeah...me and Alexis rode the log ride thing, and the water slide thing, and the REALLY FAST roller coaster thing."

Nothing else.

"And?" I prodded. What the hell happened with Snoopy?

"Oh, and we got REALLY BIG SUCKERS." Madison said. "The REALLY REALLY BIG kind. Those were cool."

Silence. Nothing else.

Oh no. Something must've happened. Maybe Snoopy got the flu. I didn't want to say anything to Madison though because OH MY GOD she'd JUST DIE if she thought she'd missed him.

"Okay, well..." I muttered. "I'm so happy you had such a great time..."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Madison said. "There was this really weird guy dressed up like a dog that came to our room and ate all our pizza. What a dork."

You Do What?

My new blog friend, Julie DeNeen at juliedeneen.com (I just subscribed to hers, and she subscribed to mine. In blog world, that makes us almost sisters, really) did a "I Have a Bad Habit of..." blog post. I decided to steal it and make a "I Have a Habit of..." list of my own. 

I'm into lists this week. So, here goes:

I Have a Habit of...

1. Rounding down. By, say...a LOT. For instance, I'll say to hubby, "OMG, you can't believe the ADORABLE shirt I just bought, for like , $10.00! He'll say, "Ummm...it cost $19.99...so it's more like $20...

Not on my watch it isn't.

It's the like that's key. As in, "In 2030 dollars, $19.99 is more like, $10.00."

Hubby has an MBA for god's sake. You'd think he could figure this.

2. Being able to find something I need to find no matter what store I'm in. I believe this is an art form. I don't care what store, what country, whatever...if I'm there, I'll find something I ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO HAVE, something I MIGHT DIE WITHOUT.

At Home Depot, I'll find random things, like a really cute pot to plant something in. Never mind the only thing I've ever planted is my ass on the couch. Or, HARD TO FIND cleaning supplies. The ones that you can get on TV with a free set of steak knives. The ones I NEED to clean the grout.  Like that'll happen. In a pinch, I'll grab a bunch of paint chips. Never know when you're gonna NEED those. They're free, by the way.

Airport Gift Shops in say, Colombia.  I HAD TO HAVE a paperback. Yeah, it cost $45 american dollars. Yeah, it was in Spanish and I don't speak Spanish. Yet. I don't know about you but, my motto is "When in Rome..." or should I say, "When-o in a Rome-o."


3. Buying shoes in the wrong size. I'm not one of those really annoying women who buy shoes that are too small because they don't want to own up they've got feet only a lumberjack would love. No, I go the opposite way. I'm very small. I have very small feet. Nothing EVER fits. Here's how it goes in the shoe store.

Salesgirl: "Would you like to try those on?"

Me: "YES. I WILL DIE IF I CAN'T HAVE THEM."

Salesgirl: "What size do you wear?"

Me: "What size do you have?"

So, I pretty much wear whatever size she brings out. That's what shoe inserts are for. You can even double those up. 

4. Eating half of anything. No matter what I eat, I'll only eat half. 

If hubby and I order one entree to split, I'll eat half of my half.

If I order the half sandwich and soup combo at the diner, I'll eat half of the half sandwich. 

If I order the 2 cheeseburger combo at McDonalds, I'll only eat one cheeseburger. Hubby asks, "Why don't you just order one cheeseburger and get the fries and drink separate?" This floors me. Who would do that? The combo COMES WITH TWO.

He's got an MBA, you'd think he could figure this.

5. Driving my car till the red gas light is on. For a few days.

I don't do gas stations. That's just how I roll.

End of story.

6. Trying to time, by the second, when to arrive for an appointment. Hubby is a get there early kind of guy. I'm a get there with your hair on end, clothes on backwards, with no glasses, wallet, or necessary and important paperwork, and car on empty (see above) because I was in such a hurry kind of girl. 

I've gotta make an entrance. I just do.

7. Buying stuff on sale because it saves a TON of money. I don't buy $800 shoes. I buy 8 pairs of shoes for $100 each.

I LOVE bargains. I love knock-offs and cheap costume jewelry. I buy stuff by the boatload, but ONLY ON SALE. Because, I'm an economizer. I know how to stretch and save a dollar. 

Hubby doesn't see this the same way. IMAGINE that.

I'll say, "I buy EVERYTHING on sale. You can't even imagine how much money I've saved us over the years. I'll bet it's A KAZILLION dollars."

He says, "You'd save even more if you didn't buy anything at all."

He's got an MBA. You'd think he could figure this.

The Celeb Bug List

I saw something on TV the other day that really bugged me. It got me thinking. There's stuff I see on TV that just bugs me and I think I need to share. James Bond. Specifically, Sean Connery as James Bond. I know, I know, I can hear the hissing and booing from here.

"He's the best James Bond of all time," you say.

Really? In that outfit?

What exactly is Her Majesty's Secret Service?

I could forgive the bad rug. Don't act like you didn't know Sean Connery wears a piece.

But, a baby blue, terry cloth, shorty short jumper? Come on, now...007 shouldn't have camel toe. A sad fact I didn't even think possible.

Although, as I type this it occurs to me that I might be missing the point. It calls to mind another James. James Earl Jones. As in, Sean Connery must have balls the size of James Earl Jones' to parade around in this outfit.
No, I take that back. If he did, we'd see 'em.

I don't really don't need to be acquainted with James Bond's junk, shaken or stirred. Cher's 2013 Tour.

Now, I love Cher. Back in the day, she was my soul-sistah. I still know all the words to Half-Breed and have been known to sing them, loud, in my car.

Her Farewell Tour in the 90's lasted five years. And, turns out, she was just kidding.

As much as I love her, I've got to beg...please, please, enough with the see through spandex. Double sided, heavy duty Spanx aren't attractive. 

My son (who will not speak to me after he reads this) says, "If you didn't know how old she was, you'd think she looked great."

Well, I do know how old she is. She's 150. I know because I'm 151. I get she's trying to Turn Back Time. Aren't we all. 

When you look like you jumped off the table mid-embalming, it's time to wrap it up. And I don't mean in glitter. Christopher Hitchens is dead but the Kardashians keep multiplying.

The world is worse off because both of these things are true.

If you stuck your religious neck out or took the moral high ground Hitch could set you straight with a perfect, stinging, fatally true sentence. 

Who else could write, "The Missionary Position-Mother Theresa in Theory and Practice?" A smart, thoughtful and painful rebuke of the world's most revered Saint. Who wouldn't love him for that alone?

Christopher Hitchens remained an atheist to his dying breath. He knew how to commit. Tiger Woods' Comeback.

Not gonna happen. Look at this jerk off. Who but a jerk off would take a picture like this?

The man with the world's worst taste in women isn't coming back. In fact, he should just go away.

I think there's a waitress at Denny's with his name on her. My apologies to all waitresses at Denny's.

I was gonna do five annoyances, but I figure this is enough irritating bullshit for one day. Please be warned, if you irritate me, I will blog about it.