What's Behind the Curtain? It's a New...

This morning I woke up with the image of Bob Barker in my head. What's in this Showcase?

"A New Car!" exclaims the announcer. Cheers!!! accompanied by the celebrated "Price Is Right" music!

Isn't that Inferno Red Jeep Liberty 4x4 a beaut? And it's all mine!! Could life be any more thrilling? In my head I'm already rock crawling and climbing near-vertical slopes, splashing through muck and mud and scaling dunes. Mind you, I'm pretty much a Grandma driver and have never driven off-road before. But just you wait!!!

My elegant custom Camry, which we'd had for less than a year, started making a bumping noise last week. John took it to his trusty mechanic for a diagnosis, and we were given the worst case scenario---upper and lower catalytic converters (one of which we'd already replaced) AND the transmission. AARGH! It looked like the lovely Camry was going the way of it's predecessor, Hi-Ho Silver Taurus, which couldn't pass smog even after a few barrels full of money were dumped into it. I began to bemoan the loss of the decrepit 1986 Peugeot, which cost $500 and ran for years with a broken head gasket and thick, rust-colored oil.

But somehow, my hubby managed to turn disaster into a sweet situation! When we drove down Auto Row, I immediately spotted the Jeep. "That's the car I want," I announced. Though it looked like we'd never afford it, he managed to swing the deal! I drove it home in my hiking boots and Carhardt jacket, basking in how well I match with my new car. Don't have to get dressed up for this baby! I could hardly sleep last night I was so damn excited.

We are gonna have so much fun on upcoming trips!! And I even have a working CD player, though I vowed not to use it for a week, so I don't immediately break it (as I usually do.)

Today was the very first day I drove it. After my job, I was loading cleaning supplies into the back of the Jeep and dropped my car keys on the ground. I tossed them in my supply basket, closed the door...OOPS! Auto locks...and my keys inside. So I stood around in the rain waiting for the emergency road service. But it gave me ample time to show off my car to my client friend. (He was suitably impressed.) When the emergency road service guy showed up, he asked, "Is this a new car?" "No, it's an '04," I replied, beaming with pride.

Then, on the way home, I called my Buddy Ben to come out on his balcony since I was passing close to his apartment. I pulled up and he admired my car via cell phone. Then I climbed out and posed on the (wet) hood and he took pix with his digital camera (hope he has a telephoto lens) which he promised to email me for this blog on the condition that I take him rock crawling and mud "wrestling" or "wrangling" or whatever. (I can just see him wrestling in the muck in his skivvies.)

So it turned out to be a fabulous day, almost like I really was on a TV Game Show with a Host and Showcase Prizes and Theme Music and Cheering, Ravenous, Covetous Crowds...

The only difference is: I still have to make a car payment every month. But don't remind me until it's due.

Pinky Poodle

Pinky Poodle

In a Noodle

In a Doggy Woggy Doodle...

Mister L'amour - ay! He's on the Floor - ay!

Stinky winky Lu, I love you! Stinky-inky-inky-winky Doo!

This is a picture of my dog, LulaBelle, and her cousin Louie L'amour. These are a few of the songs they inspire. What is it about these critters that inspires me to burst into song?



When I go to my job at various houses, many animals (especially cats) run for cover when they see me with a vacuum cleaner. Dogs are quick to forgive and forget, and love me anyway. But some cats are difficult to win over once they associate me with the vacuum. However, I have discovered that I can lure even stand-offish cats when I sing.

They say, "Music tames the savage beast." It always seemed to work on our haughty part-Siamese, Cinders, who would lounge nearby when I practiced piano as a child. She loved Mozart and tinkling high notes.

Maybe I should try it on my husband. Next time he picks a fight, I just might burst into song.

Try it on your bosses, your children, out-of-control neighbors and spouses, then let me know if it works.

Cinderella

I clean houses. That's my job. I came into my occupation in a round-a-bout way, but looking back, it's not really surprising. I've always been a house cleaner.

As a kid, I followed my Mom around desperately attempting to get some positive attention. Since she had 4 kids and an elusive husband, she was overwhelmed and housebound. "Oh-my-God-I-just-cleaned-that-now-it's-a-big-mess-Go-outside-and-play-NOW!!!"

I took to cleaning in hopes that she would be grateful and like me. It didn't really work, but at least I got some negative attention. Meanwhile I scrubbed the mildewy back shower to keep the mushrooms from growing back there, and mowed the lawn and did the dishes and vacuumed and swept, little Cindy-Cinderella.

As I cleaned, I dreamed about how I would grow up and escape the Bible Belt and be an artist/pianist/journalist/actress. As time went by, I was constantly reminded that naturally I wasn't good enough to do any of those things, but I was a really fast typist and could scribble shorthand like a demon. Thanks to all the writing and piano-playing and drawing, not to mention the cleaning and scrubbing, I had really strong hands! So it was decided that I should be a secretary. The problem was that business classes bored me to death. Accounting was the only class I ever got a D in, because who cares if it's a penny off! I'll throw in the damn dime, just close the books!! I'm still flunking accounting to this day---just ask Bank of America and the many creditors who are looking for me (just don't tell them where I am.)

But I made "them" proud and aspired to my secretarial duties. Guess who I ended up working for? Good Housekeeping! Once on a visit to New York I went to the laboratory where they test products to see if they live up to their advertising claims and qualify for the "Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval." It was pretty cool. Truthfully though, I wanted to write the magazine, not answer phones. Besides, I was somewhat belligerent as a personal assistant, to the dismay of my boss. And although at that time in my life I could pull off the girly thing with the cute dress and polished nails, I always had to complete the outfit with a pair of shamrock green combat boots.

Well, it all fell apart anyway. Due to the wild drinking and carousing in my personal time, my office "housekeeping" was no longer getting a seal of approval from the Big Cheese as I stumbled into work at noon. OOPS!

Obviously, it was time to Clean Up my act! So...kicking and screaming all the way...I was finally able to stay Clean & Sober. That's when I got into cleaning houses.

As you can see, my life is all about "clean." And you know what they say about cleanliness...

it's next to "Godliness."

And as I work, I have plenty of time to live in my little fantasy world.

My "Funny" Valentines

Examine these photos.



The top one: cuddly, lovey-dovey.



It's a Valentine card.



I love Valentines. I was born on Valentine's Day. This means I think of myself as cuddly and lovey-dovey, like it's an inborn quality because of my birthday.



I call the top photo, "The Beginning."



Now examine the bottom photo.







This photo I call "The End."



This seems to be how all my relationships end up. I am alternately the critter on top, then the one on bottom.

What is going on? Okay, I was raised in a less than unconditionally loving and supportive home, with parents who were at each other's throats for 25 years until my Dad died (they never divorced.) But, I've been in therapy for my entire adult life, been treated for every addiction and mood disorder available, joined every group, worked every step, read every self-help book on the market, studied abnormal psychology, particularly personality disorders, memorized the DSM IV, freelance diagnosed my lovers, friends, and neighbors, indepth research on sociopathic personalities, dissected (so to speak) the lives of serial killers, tried spiritual love fests and yoga and talk shows and poetry and couples counseling.

I always thought of myself (because of my birthday) as the Queen of Hearts. But Alas! Perhaps I am...the Queen of Broken Hearts...

My Funny Valentine

My funny valentine, Sweet comic valentine, You make me smile with my heart.

Your looks are laughable, unphotographable, Yet you're my favorite work of art.

Is your figure less than greek, Is your mouth a little bit weak

When you open it to speak, are you smart?

Don't, baby don't, Don't change your hair for me, Not if you care for me!

Stay, little valentine, stay,

Each day is Valentine's Day!

(Richard Rogers/Lorenz Hart)

...and they lived happily ever after. The End.

How Do I Love Thee?

Vegas!!

How do I love Thee? Let me count the ways.

I love Thee to the depth of the last dime in the bottom of my pocket,

To the breadth of the Palace Station Buffet,

To the dizzying heights of the Bellagio Fountains;

For the joy of Being near Elvis impersonators,

and the Ideal of Grace..Land Chapel.

I love Thee to the level of Life's

Most riotous need, by scorching sun and neon light.

I love Thee freely, as men strive to Win,

I love Thee purely, as they turn to Sin

(Since it happened in Vegas, it stays in Vegas.)

I love with a passion put to use at the penny slots,

As I chain smoke the night away in my childlike fantasy world.

I love Thee with a love I seemed to lose with each throw of the dice,

I love Thee with the breath, smiles and toned physiques in a Cirque du Soleil show.

And though Lady Luck be fickle,

I shall but love Thee better when I get my free show tickets and slot play

After this two hour time share presentation.

The Purr-tiest Gal In the Whole Damn Town

Ms. Sierra Havana Brown

1992 - 2007

Loyal Pet, Beloved Family Member

"Hello Ms. Brown! The Purr-tiest Gal In the Whole Damn Town! The Purr-tiest Girl In the Old Western World!" These are words to just one of many "jingles" inspired by Ms. Brown.

Ms. Brown joined our family at age 2 when she was adopted by my sister Suzie. Her chubby brown form huddled in a crate on Powell Street, part of the traveling SPCA "show" of orphaned pets available for adoption. When Suzie stroked her, she immediately began to purr, instantly melting my sister's heart and winning a place in her home.

Her gorgeous coat, an unusual color for a cat, inspired admiration from all. Even many veterinarians had never encountered the Havana Brown breed. A cross between Siamese and Russian Blue, the Havana Brown is ideally a pure, rich chocolate brown, like the Cuban cigar, with a tall, sinewy form. Ms. Brown was flawed in two ways: a small white triangular crest on her chest...and a huge weight problem. At the time of her adoption, she tipped the scales at 16 pounds, and despite a lifetime of diet cat food, she maxed out at a whopping 28 pounds (she did manage to drop five pounds later, after a tail amputation slowed her down.) She appeared to be a nervous eater, and definitely inherited the Siamese voice, screaming top volume when the bottom of her food bowl made an appearance, making it nerve-rattling to enforce her diet. Who knows what manner of stress she had endured before she wound up at the SPCA, but she was obviously grateful to have a home and jealously guarded it. Later when another cat, Snarky, joined the household with new roommates, she protested unwaveringly for years, peeing and pooping at the front door to mark her territory. This horrible behavior came to an abrupt halt when she was once again given a territory of her own in my room that was beyond the reach of another feline.

Ms. Brown was at her best in the care giving role she so faithfully performed. When our Mom joined the household, unable to live by herself due to early-onset Alzheimer's disease, she and Ms. Brown immediately bonded. Ms. Brown's friendship gave my Mom great joy at a time when she faced great sadness. I will always be indebted to Ms. Brown for that. When we were no longer able to care for Mom at home and had to move her to an Alzheimer's care facility where she could receive round-the-clock care, Ms. Brown walked up and down the long hall of the Cortland apartment for over a year, crying piteously for the loss of her friend.

In her senior years, Ms. Brown was joined by a sibling, our dog LulaBelle. Ms. Brown had a calming effect on the spunky Labrador youngster. Though Ms. Brown was too decrepit to play with the puppy, they provided great company and security for one another while we were at work. At night, as soon as the lights were turned out, Ms. Brown would jump down from her ottoman next to my bed, and join LulaBelle on the floor. They would lay toe to toe in unspoken communication, a process I dubbed "hob-nobbing." LulaBelle would wag her tail and lick Ms. Brown on the head.

Ms. Brown gave great love and was well-loved in return. We miss her very much and she will always hold a special place in our hearts.

99 Bottles of Beer In the Wall

The Tom Kelly Bottle House in Rhyolite, Nevada lends new meaning to the annoying old "drinking song," the one you sang non-stop for hours as a child on long car trips with your family. In Tom's case, there were quite a few more than 99 bottles, and these were in the wall (as opposed to on it).

On a recent visit to Rhyolite, my husband John and I were regaled with stories of this ghost town's Boom Town days by a kindly Bureau of Land Management guy who was as weathered as the buildings and the landscape itself. He informed us that when Tom Kelly was finished building his bottle house, he raffled it for $5.00 a ticket--earning over $2000--much more than he could have sold the place for. Being a good (recovering) alcoholic, I asked our tour guide whether Mr. Kelly drank all the (mostly beer) bottles himself. We all got a good chuckle, and I felt pretty clever until another tourist approached and asked the same thing. (Our crusty veteran of a guide must have heard that zinger more than a time or two.)

Truth be told, I wasn't really kidding. The house reminded me of my own wild and woolly past, and the bags and bags of bottles and cans that piled up in my room--too ashamed was I to be seen by the neighbors carrying it all to the dumpster each day. It seemed that Tom had the perfect solution. He could use as his rationalization for all that drinking, that he was just gathering materials to put a roof over his head. His usage of bottles, not only eco-friendly in the wood-scarce desert, was a perfect example of recycling for all the other rough & ready gold miner types. On top of that, he raffled off the place upon completion, a sound business decision considering this Boom Town's bust was just around the corner. Besides, $5.00 a pop will buy a lot more booze for a guy who probably spent his last dime on "building supplies" while spending his time building a "glass house" as opposed to getting a real job.

And as any low-bottom drunk knows, who needs a house if you don't have a bottle inside it?

Three Cheers for Tom Kelly!!

Ghosts

I believe in ghosts.



Some may consider me flaky, perhaps because they've never seen one...



I was 5 years old when I saw my first ghost. My family had recently relocated from Michigan to Oklahoma. We lived in a small rental house where I shared a bedroom with my older sister. It was night and we were fast asleep in our twin beds with our new bulldog puppy, Kitty, in a crate on the floor beside us.



Suddenly, I woke to the sound of Kitty barking. I looked around the room and gasped. Moving slowly towards us was a the figure of a young woman, her hair tied back in a pony tail. Her form was gray and shadowy without distinct features, as if she might evaporate at any moment. She sat on the end of my sister's bed, facing our puppy. Not a sound could be heard save that of Kitty barking. As I pulled the covers over my head, my sister whispered, "Do you see that?" "Yes," I uttered, barely able to breathe. I cowered beneath my blanket.



A few moments later, Kitty stopped barking. Hesitantly, I peaked out from the covers. The woman was no longer in our bedroom, but through a window that looked out towards the back yard, I saw her form glide into the darkness.



The next morning I told my Mom about the ghost. She said I must have dreamed it; of course ghosts aren't real, are they?



Later, as a young adult, I had a more personal supernatural sighting. I had moved to New York City with my husband. We had been married for several years, and I was totally miserable. Though my husband was controlling and abusive, I was incapable of gathering the emotional strength to leave. I had become a shadowy, featureless ghost of a woman myself. Everyone (especially me) had given up hope that I would be able to muster the courage to leave.



I'd been frightened to make the move; I thought, I can barely function in small town Oklahoma. How in the world will I survive New York? In fact, the move turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Somehow, the energy of the city gave me hope; it resurrected me. Secretly I began to consider leaving, though I was still petrified.



One night I had an intense dream. In the dream, I came upon my husband in a subway station. He was sitting on a bench down the platform. I saw a man behind him and I knew this man had ill intent. Yet I did not shout to warn my husband; instead I watched as the man slit his throat. Just then, the train pulled up. The doors opened. I thought, "I have no idea where this train will take me." Then I boarded it.



The next morning, the dream weighed heavily as I readied myself for work. I walked down Christopher Street to the subway station. At that early hour, there were very few people on the street. On the opposite side of the street, a man approached. He seemed familiar. As we passed one another, I stared in disbelief. There was my Dad! It was definately Dad. He stared right at me with the same wide, goofy grin he always donned for silly photos. No one else in the world had that same dumb grin (although my sister Suzie can do a damn good imitation.) But it couldn't be; Dad had died in London six years before. Seconds later when I turned to look again at the passing figure, to assure myself that it could not possibly be Dad, he had vanished. I stood agape on an empty street. After I got over the shock, I realized that Dad had made an appearance to support me. Though he'd not been around often as we were growing up, down deep I always knew he believed in me and that he had my back.



The next day I left husband.



My next ghost was another shadowy apparition, a tiny old lady who followed me around the sanctuary of the massive and crumbling Christian Science Church that I cleaned. I would be vacuuming and glimpse her out of the corner of my eye, but of course when I turned, she was gone. I was usually alone in that dank old building, and it was beautiful. After each storm, the roof would leak and and flood the place. Especially at those times, it could get pretty creepy in there, but I liked the job anyway; I have a particular fondness for decrepit ruins. Sometimes workmen who were attempting to patch up the place, would tell me they felt a presence as they worked, and they couldn't wait to get out of there. But I felt that this spirit was harmless and just wanted the company.

As I think back to the days of the old lady ghost, I realize that, at the time I saw her, I was going through a very difficult time. We had placed my Mom in an Alzheimer's care facility after we were no longer able to care for her at home. During the last few years of caring for her, she was much like the "old lady ghost"--a ghost of her former self, she "shadowed" us (followed us everywhere--a common behavior for Alzheimer's patients.)

Once, the ghost of my cat crawled under the covers to cuddle with me. A few weeks before, she died from some undiagnosed illness, and I was alone in my apartment, sick, afraid, in the grips of alcoholism, contemplating suicide. A giant face of the Devil glowed sneeringly on my wall, telling me to jump out of my fourth floor window...



Oh, and on my fifth sobriety birthday, I met Jesus. But He's not really a ghost, is he? Anyway, you probably think I'm flaky now, too, so I'll save that story for another day.

One Love

I heard that someone died...someone I loved, once. I hadn't seen him in years.

I can't believe it. It's a strange feeling. There's no one I can talk to about it...they wouldn't understand. They didn't understand then, & they wouldn't understand now.

He's not a person I should ever have loved. He was dangerous. He was trouble. He was a liar & a cheat. He was selfish, abusive & unemployable. He was an alcoholic & addict, & known to occasionally turn monstrous under the influence.

He was charming. He was strong. Talented. Sexy. Hilarious.

I should have stayed away. The first time I saw him, he was laying on a bed in a seedy motel room, high, wide-eyed, brooding. I thought to myself , "This is the scariest man I've ever seen." Within a week, we embarked upon an affair that lasted until I sobered up--lifted from my darkness into a new plane of reality. My two lives did not, could not, intersect.

To tear myself from him was no easy feat. He was a mad addiction. We were connected on some deep level. Whenever I thought of him, or dreamed about him, I'd walk out my door & run into him. A primal lust.

He awoke sweating...he'd dreamed he was singing an unearthly song, & as he reached for me I vanished toward the horizon. He said, "I know you will leave. I can't go where you are going."

He tried to strangle me with an extension cord, but somehow seized, collapsing on the bed. His face morphed into the Devil's, framed in wild dreads. Gripped with terror, I mumbled "You are Satan." He laughed & replied "No, I'm God." We took another hit.

We fantasized about eloping--a wholesome, new life. We would go to Florida. Instead, I took a bus half way across the country to escape him. Still, we spoke each day on the phone. I moved in with someone else...a disaster.

I moved into a convent. I knew it was a battle against my abyss. I could see the workaday world of regular people. It stood beyond an impenetrable glass wall. I remembered, such a long time ago, when I could walk by day. I prayed. I sobered up.

He was angry. He didn't believe I loved him. Was it the drug? I thought, I hate you.

Let him go, let him go, let him go with love, my mantra. I refused to speak his name, as if to do so would summon him again. I stopped running into him. I moved into an entirely new life.

Once, sitting at a hamburger joint with my new husband, I saw him outside the plate glass window. Our eyes met. No expression. Look away from the stranger. I love my husband.

A few days ago a young friend was telling me about her latest infatuation: an exciting ex-convict who sold the drug. "Stay away!" I implored, & told her about him. (Surprising; I never speak of him.)

Love can be a powerful drug too, & you can't outsmart it.

Then a friend called to tell me the news. "What happened?" I asked. "Did someone shoot him?"

"They don't really know...they think it was a massive heart attack."

I acted unsurprised, unaffected. "It was expected, considering his lifestyle. I let him go along time ago. "

Where does love go? Was he buried? Cremated? Was there a service? I looked for a death record. Did I even know his real name? Does it matter? It's like it never happened...that time, I mean...my other life. But I am older, & life is short. Now a young friend asks for my advice, my experience, as if I have some sort of wisdom. So young & naive. So hopeful. So full of love. I love that passion.

I close my eyes. I hear him sing, an unearthly song...

far away, in a place of peace.