I certainly didn’t, but how delightful to be famous.  Well, that’s what I was told.  I’ve been nominated for inclusion into a ‘Who’s Who’ along with other noteworthy business dignitaries and community celebrities.  I received several emails telling me to drop everything and accept this incredible honor immediately, so I did just that.  I never knew that I was very important, so this seemed like a grand slam.  

Actually, a grand scam. 

I devoured the email, eagerly searching for the name of my champion.  I was going to send flowers, at least.  No need, since I wasn’t really nominated.  My “…information was obtained by our research committee after careful consideration of candidates using industry publications, trade show attendance lists, and corporate profiles on [social networking] sites….” 

Is that so? 

Still, my ego was still bloated enough to keep reading, until I found the part about the basic and enhanced lists.  The basic list was just that.  It was free and your name was included on a list in their publication.  To be on the enhanced list, which included your name, professional affiliations, and all the other qualities that made you a bigwig, you simply needed to complete the application and send $800.00 for a Platinum Membership.  In this economy, I’d have to commit robbery to get $800.00, and after that, why I’d be on several lists and quite possibly have my picture up in post offices across the nation!  And the taxpayers would pay the fees! 

At that point, my ego deflated faster than the Zimbabwean dollar on the foreign exchange reserve.  (Really, ten million ZWD will net you around four bucks in the US!!)  There was nothing particularly important about me.  I was still unique and special, just like everyone else.  I was also highly irritated.  These ’whooligans’ really wanted $800.00 to put my name on a “yearly registry of global movers and shakers.”  That almost created enough moving and shaking to start an earthquake.  Seriously, Elvis Presley was ‘All Shook Up’ and Jerry Lee Lewis had a ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ going on, and THEY got paid to be on lists, not the other way around.  

So remember that it’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.  And the work you do is worthwhile and meaningful, but don’t waste your hard earned money on a bunch of scammers who are playing on your sense of pride.  It’s great to be proud, but we’re all part of the crowd.  I’m going to save my money, listen to some Elvis, and print myself a certificate of achievement.  And if the folks at Who’s Who contact me ever again, I’ll offer ten million dollars.  Zimbabwean dollars, naturally.  

And that’s what’s what.

A spirit lost in serving all
is now a name writ on a wall
for some, a need to serve and save
in blood their names are signed.

Remains placed in a hallowed hall
each death still casts a bitter gall.
No vengeance do the fallen crave
for sacrifice they gladly gave;
but never solace from the pall
for those they left behind.

With Jerry resting in a drug induced stupor, er, like a trooper, I took the opportunity to catch up on everything that I had missed in world events. A headline caught my eye, ‘Here’s Looking at You.’ My first thought was that some idiot was going to remake Casablanca so I clicked on the link, determined to devote my life to stopping such horror from taking place, but I was confronted by a different horror altogether. There, on the screen, was an ultrasound picture of a tumorous testicle, containing what appeared to be a human face in it! An not just any face, but a face that looked like a sinister mash up of Rodney Dangerfield, Marty Feldman, and Abe Lincoln. I’ll call it ‘Maybe Drinkin.’

I was so creeped out that not even drinking would help me. Nothing would make me unsee Jack in the sack, the ghoul in his jewel, the SMUT IN HIS NUT!!!!!! And as upsetting as the sight was for me, I am sure that the Planter’s Peanut guy is really having a hard time facing this!!!

This seems to have started in Canada when a patient sought medical advice for pain in his groin, specifically, in his, um, badoobies. So he agreed to an ultrasound to determine the cause of the misery, and the doctors were confronted with what they could only call ‘the face of testicular pain.’ One doctor was quoted as saying, ” It looked like a man screaming in pain, which I thought was hilarious, considering the clinical picture of the poor guy.” So, ignoring any moral implications (as I often do), Dr. Jack Kervorkian spent eight years in jail for trying to end the suffering of terminally ill patients, and this urologist is laughing at what appears to be a man screaming in pain in some poor guy’s ball bag?  Seriously? 

The urologist went on to say that he briefly considered that the face might be that of a religious figure or mythical deity, such as Min, the Egyptian god of male virility, and that name is the only thing in the doctor’s whole news, er, release, that is even remotely appropriate. Let’s face it, the poor patient is in pain. And I don’t mean like a paper cut or stubbed toe….he has pain in his cojones, and now he finds out that he’s toting around a tumorous face in his scrotum. And does he get the face of Brad Pitt or some other hottie? No, he gets the testicular equivalent of the one-eyed Jack and the medical James Bond reject, Dr. No He Dint!

After reading this gem of a story, I was actually relieved that Jerry’s gallbladder surgery turned up nothing more than a gallstone. No Sly and the Family Stone, no Stone Phillips, no Kid Rock. That’s good, works for us. And as for our Canadian friend, a hospital spokesperson said that he isn’t terribly interested in his rad nads. Still, he could try to say that it’s ‘Ball-y Idol’ and sell it on Ebay….

“Balls have got a face, he’s strangely out of place, Balls have got a face….”

Nah. That’s just nuts.

 Hello, blog followers. This will be our last exchange since the world is slated to end THIS EVENING AT 6:00 PM EST!!!! I have no delusions of Heavenly grandeur, which leads me to believe that you, my dear friends and loyal readers will, for the most part, be taken up to Heaven, leaving my sorry ass behind to go through 5 months of horrible tribulation. And thats fine, because after 15 years in call center customer service, 5 months doesn’t seem so bad.

I am hopeful that I will be one of those chosen to shuffle off this mortal coil, but I’m not holding my breath. The first indication that I wouldn’t be chosen came to me when I heard that the END IS NEAR, so I called my mortgage company to cancel the upcoming pre-scheduled payment. Of course they asked why I was canceling my payment. Screw you! The world is ending on May 21 at around 6pm…..that mortgage payment will buy Kendall Jackson ‘communion wine’ and a buttload of junk food. I’m going out fat, happy, and loaded.

 Click, dial tone, Boooooooooooooooooooooop.

 Hello? Hello?

 Little do they know that when I get called up to my great reward, they’ll have a devil of a time selling this house….no pun intended.

 So I’m here waiting for the end, and I even cleaned my house today. You might be asking why but my in-laws are coming to visit, albeit briefly, and I want things to look nice. Besides, whatever sinner buys the house, well, I want it to look nice. I haven’t said anything to Jenda. No use getting her upset. Besides, I can just hear how that conversation will go….

Jenda, Sweetie, the world is going to end tonight. God is calling all of his faithful home.

 ”Oh jeepers, Mommy, you’re going to cook tonight, aren’t you?”

 So I am leaving her out of this. Of course earlier today, I was searching the internet to get information about the upcoming Rapture. I learned that we should feel a catclysmic earthquake at approximately 6:00 pm EST, so I added Jerry Lee Lewis’s ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On’ to my rapture song list. Poor Jenda is already traumatized thinking that she has to eat my cooking tonight, but while doing my research, I came across a headline on one of the news sites….CNN or MSNBC or one of those….. “Church of the End Times Plans for the Future.”

WTF?????

What possible plans could you have for the future if you just KNOW you are one of the chosen few? I mean, in my case, if I am one of the select, my plans for the future entail seeing my Mother, who, GOD rest her soul, passed away in 1995. And I also plan to ask GOD why kids get cancer, and can we stop that, and why do people still treat Gays and Lesbians so badly, and why are hot-fudge Sundaes bad for you but oat bran is good…? If I get called to Heaven, I damn sure have an agenda. That being said, I probably won’t make it.

So I am here with my ‘communion wine’ and putting together my End Of The World (EOTW) playlist….here is what I have so far….

Europe- The Final Countdown

Skeeter Davis- End of the World

Elvis- Waiting for the End of the World

Iron Maiden- The Number of the Beast

The Doors- The End

Tom Waits- The Earth Died Screaming

Blondie- Rapture

and finally….Eric Carmen- All By Myself (sad but true!)

So I feel reasonably certain that I’ll still be here when all Hell breaks loose. If you need me to look after your children or look after any of you, for that matter, just let me know. I expect that I’ll be turning the lights off. Say your prayers, get right with your Higher Power, and know that I love you all verrrrrr……………………….

Having said that, I understand that all good things eventually come to an end. Designing Women went off the air. Crayola got rid of ‘maize’ and ‘raw umber.’ And apparently, all of the cast of ‘The Waltons’ are in some kind of witness protection program, because no one has seen any of them since 1981. But it’s nice to think back on these simpler days and the things and characters we held dear, because they represent, at least for me, a certain continuity and integrity that have stayed with me through the years. Which brings me to that ass-monkey, Captain Kirk.

Bearing in mind that everything has a beginning and an end, I can understand that James T. Kirk had to find another gig to pay the bills after he got booted off the Enterprise. I admired his stint on Rescue 911, really, not so much because of the positive impact the show had, but because he looked so uncomfortable so obviously encased in that full body girdle and I could identify with that. (Okay, I still can!) Of course, this show, too, ended, so Capt. Kirk, being a famewhore and food addict (I totally get that, too!) decided to take whatever job he could get. So he ended up with Pricelie, er, PriceliNe. And that is where the trouble really begins.

Captain Jerk now makes a living convincing Middle America that cheap hotel rooms are simply amazing. In fact, he encourages reasonably mild-mannered people to go online and show their asses anonymously to get cheap hotel rooms even more cheaply. It seems like a good thing, until you remember that you get what you pay for, and even our childhood television heroes will do what it takes to make a buck. Here is a case in point.

My father came to North Carolina recently to visit us and to take our daughter Jenda back to Florida for a visit. Since we already had a full house and he knew that Princess Jenda travels with more baggage than the Astors and Vanderbilts combined, he decided to venture into Kernersville and stay in a hotel for the night before driving back to Florida with Princess Jenda. My father can never be accused of being tech-savvy, but apparently he was feeling his oats, or he was smoking them, because he decided to book his hotel room on Priceline. The hotel that was recommended was rated five stars. Unfortunately, that must have been on a scale of 200.

Priceline suggested the 5 star rated Dudley Inn. After having seen it, I realize that the name was a misnomer, as it should actually be called Deadly Inn. I say having seen it, but that’s not entirely accurate. From the outside, it looks rather normal. It’s not the Trump Towers, but the outside is okay. So far, Captain Kirk is okay. Step inside and he moves from zeitgeist to shit list. See, when you walk into a hotel lobby and realize that all of the potted plants are fake, and THEY’RE dead, it dawns on you that there is a serious problem, and that creepy tingling up and down your spine is not the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. Which brings me back to my poor Dad.

He went to the front desk to check in and was told that they should have a room ready by now. Being that he had booked the room, he couldn’t understand why the room might not be ready, but he was still under the assumption that the hotel was a five star rated inn, so he went along with it, dead silk plants aside. What can I say, after a twelve hour drive, he was tired and decided that the lobby simply needed cleaning. So he paid for one night and got a key to a room on the third floor.

Naturally, there were no working elevators, so he schlepped upstairs with his overnight bag and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Being a Viet Nam era veteran, he immediately recognized the smell of decomposing flesh. Now, Daddy doesn’t scare easily, but peering cautiously into the room, he saw unidentifiable stains on the carpet, so he backed out, went back downstairs, and asked for another room.

“What’s wrong with the one we gave you?”

Well, I think the last guy never checked out and rigor mortis is still setting in. What else do you have?

The night manager sent one of the desk clerks with Daddy to try another room. They went to another room that was occupied by a number of people that Daddy hoped were just here illegally. Then on to the third room. This one had a headboard that had fallen down from where it had once been nailed to the wall. They finally found a fourth room that had no towels. This wasn’t a huge problem since there was no running water and there was something growing all over the toilet that Daddy could only describe as MRSA on crack.

By this time, Daddy realized the sun was coming up and he decided that it would be better to just come on over, crash on the loveseat and deal with a house full of people rather than a motel full of as yet undiscovered dead bodies and unclassified diseases. He showed up on our doorstep at the butt-crack of dawn asking for a hot shower, a place to sleep, and massive doses of antibiotics. I was able to oblige on all counts, after putting him through a decontamination process similar to those at Chernobyl. After a few hours of sleep, he and Jenda got on the road. I loaded them up with Lysol spray and Clorox wipes, so I know they left all the public restrooms between North Carolina and Florida much cleaner than they found them, which isn’t saying much.

After a fun-filled vacation, wherein Jenda cleaned out Dad’s bank account, she came back home to us, and Dad decided to stay with us instead of taking his chances with another Bates Motel knock off. Of course my house isn’t nearly as nice as the Bates Motel, or as neat and clean, but that’s another story. The fact of the matter is that I would sooner believe Norman Bates than Captain Kirk. But Kirk gets away with it. And no wonder….

As Norman Bates once said, “I think [he] must have one of those faces you can’t help believing.”

Since I have a young child, I have to be very careful about what we watch on TV.  I have started  reading the news online since I don’t want Jenda watching anything more scary than Nicktoons or HGTV.  And let’s face it.  Some of the ‘before houses’ on HGTV can be rather frightening.  Our TV set is like some kind of kiddie Outer Limits.  Anyway, I happened across an article about an elderly woman in Idaho and her black and white house cat.  Well this sweet little old lady had one of those nosy-ass Mrs. Kravitz type neighbors who had to be her own neighborhood watch committee.  Mrs. Kravitz noticed a black and white cat wandering around outside her neighbor’s house and figured  her elderly neighbor’s beloved pet had escaped.  Being one of those nosy-ass good-Samaritan types, she grabbed the cat and took it to her neighbor.  Sounds really sweet, until all Hell broke loose.  It was like Picasso’s “Guernica” when that dear sweet old lady answered the door.

 Little old Mildred (that’s what I call her) answered holding her cat (Chuckie), who had not escaped.  Chuckie saw Mrs. Kravitz and this other cat, and he went apeshit!  Unfortunately, he attacked his owner, not the dorky neighbor who deserved to be mauled, and bit his owner into swiss cheese!!!  She had to be taken to the hospital.  Okay, it gets worse. 

 A lot worse.

 The paramedics rushed to the scene to treat poor, bleeding Mildred and one was quoted as saying, “The owner said she was going to take Chuckie to the shelter because that’s not the first time she’s been attacked.”

 WHAT?!

 There sure as hell wouldn’t be a second time.  Chuckie would damn sure be pushing up daisies.  Attack me?  Hmph!  I love animals as much as the next person (not in that over-the-top PETA kinda way!)  But Chuckie would have to go.  I mean, when he first attacked Mildred, he musta clawed a big-ass hole in her head where her brains fell out.  Mildred may be retired and lonely, but damn, go be a Walmart greeter!  It’s better than “The Human Scratching Post!”  Sideshows are a dying breed (like Chuckie would be if he lived in my house) but Walmart’s always hiring!

 It reminded me of when Jerry and I lived in Lauderhill, or as we called it, LauderHELL.  I was getting in the car to go to work (linen suit, pantyhose, and sensible low heeled pumps, in the 105 degree heat, like an idiot!)  I spied this precious kitten wandering pitifully through the parking lot.  I felt sorry for it, so I decided to catch it so it wouldn’t get hit by a car.  This was one of the dumber things I’ve done in my life.  I couldn’t have caught that kitten with a jet engine strapped to my ass!!  I was worn out, late for work and sweating like Heather Mills at a Stella McCartney fashion show.  I poured some milk into a saucer and set it in the back porch.  There was a big hole in the screen so I knew he would get in and find it.  Then, off to work. 

 I got home that night and Jerry was mad as hell at me.

 Jerry came home after a long day and stepped out into the patio to enjoy a cigarette and a beer.  It wasn’t the kitten that bothered him so much, but the fact that the whole feline Manson family was now in our patio.  We couldn’t go into our patio because the crazy mama cat would have killed us.  Hell, if we so much as walked near the sliding glass door, she hissed and pissed and freaked and shrieked… like me when I get outbid at the last minute on ebay. 

 I told Jerry that I would handle it.  I called my best friend Eileen, who is an animal lover and cat owner.  I mean, this wasn’t something I could handle on my own, and Eileen came through like a champ with two heavy-duty zip-top cat carriers and directions to the no-kill animal shelter.  For once though, she didn’t offer to come over and help.  Something about remodeling her basement.  Funny, I didn’t even know she HAD a basement.  So, Jerry and I agreed that come the weekend, the cats were going.  Everything was great until Jerry messed things up. 

 I woke next morning to the sounds of Jerry shrieking and hissing.  I ran to the living room and there was Jerry with another cat!  This one was babies daddy.  He was good-natured and a lout in a feline sort of way.  The cat, not Jerry. 

 What gives?

 “I saw this one wandering around outside and one of those kittens looks like him so I decided to reintroduce him to the family, but it didn’t work!”

 Lemme tell you why.  There’s a reason the babies are with Mama and she’s crazy as hell.  Daddy here is hooked on catnip, he’s behind on the child support and he pissed away the last of the milk and Little Friskies on some little frisky, so Mama ain’t gonna welcome him home with open paws!  Sigh.  We needed to go look at a house we wanted to buy, so we locked baby daddy in the bathroom until we got back.  Then, we would take him to the shelter.

 We went to look at a house and signed a contract on a townhouse (without having listed our condo yet), then we came home to feline downsize.  I put Daddy cat in a vinyl tote-bag, zipped him up with his head sticking out, and put him in the floor of the front passenger’s seat.  Then Jerry drove us all to the no-kill shelter.  That’s when the fun began.

 We got into midday traffic in Ft. Lauderdale, which is surreal at best.  We were on Oakland Park Boulevard, surrounded by more cars than crap in a laxative factory.  I felt sorry for the cat, since only his head was sticking out and it was a really hot day.  I leaned down to unzip the bag a little so he could get some air. 

 I regret that move to this day. 

 I heard a hissing sound.  The cat seemed happy enough, then, the smell hit me in the face.  Hard.

 I couldn’t breathe, scream or move to get the window rolled down.  I gaped at Jerry, who gave me that disgusted “you farted!”  look.  Then, it hit him, too. 

 “Holy shit, roll the windows down, do something!”  I was frozen, paralyzed in cat-piss horror.  The smell spread like nuclear fallout through the car.  Jerry took matters into his own hands, which meant he took his hands off the wheel.

 We careened down Oakland Park at roughly 90 mph, me choking, Jerry scrambling to roll down his window, and other drivers honking and giving us the finger as we bounced off their fenders like Ray Charles driving bumper cars.  If you have never done this, you don’t know how to live.  We finally made it to the no-kill shelter, reeking, cursing, and stinking to high heaven.  It’s good practice for raising small children.   

We went in and the people quietly waiting their turn parted like the Red Sea and announced loudly that “those two stinky-ass people are next!”  Of course, there was some pompous ass who declared, “well, someone has a male cat, and he just sprayed!” 

Y’all know me…

 “SOMEONE is a rocket scientist who is going to need a proctologist to get my foot out of his fat ass!”  Naturally, Jerry made me go get back in the car.  Wuss!

 We dropped off Daddy cat, and just to be generous, we donated the bag that we brought him in.  When we mentioned that he had a family waiting in the wings, they told us that they would have to go to another no-kill shelter that they worked with as a partner site. 

 In Afghanistan.

 We went home and both got fully dressed into the shower, using Clorox as shower gel.  Then we burned the clothes we were wearing and I went to work knowing tomorrow was it.  The rest of the Manson Family had to go.  Jerry had a plan.

 We woke up early.  “Take this piece of plywood and go stand outside the patio (he did say outside) and hold it over the hole in the screen.  When I go out to round up the Mansons, I mean cats, they won’t be able to escape.  I’ll put them into Eileen’s cat carriers and we’ll cart them off to the shelter.”

 I laughed my ass right off.  Jerry was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of shorts.  Mama Cat would turn him into shredded cheese in about 10 seconds.  Look, I said, go back in, put on jeans and a sweatshirt, and get your work gloves.  If not, well, even I might have a hard time identifying your body! 

 I took my plywood and got into position outside, blocking the escape hole (as I was told to do).  Jerry, padded like the Michelin Man, slowly opened the sliding door and brought the cat carriers out.  Mama Cat knew something was up so she put down her crack pipe and motioned the kittens to huddle close.  Then, the fun began.   

 I was standing there trying to keep all these cats contained in the patio.  Mama Cat flipped out with Jerry chasing her until he finally caught her.  She climbed up the screen.  Jerry grabbed her around the middle.  All four of her legs were splayed out spread-eagle and as Jerry was holding her trying to get a better grip, she pissed right through the screen smack in the middle of my chest!  I stood in shock for several seconds, then became aware that Jerry was laughing hysterically!  I thought, ‘you sonofabitch!’

 Then Jerry screamed, “you sonofabitch!” 

 I thought it was one of those magic marriage moments when you can read each others thoughts…. Then the uncontrollable laughter hit me! 

 Jerry grabbed Mama too hard and she pooped in a straight line directly onto his chest!  Talk about a magic moment!  He managed to wrestle Mama off the screen and he was able to get her into the cat carrier, but then realized he couldn’t ZIP the thing without letting go of her.  “Come help me” he said.

 No.

 “Get in here and help me!”

 Hell no.

 “You’re my wife, remember?  For better, for worse?”

That’s right, and it’s better for me out here and worse in there. 

 After much puffing and cursing, Jerry got the cat into the bag, hahaha, and after that, the two kittens were no problem.  Off we went again, to the second shelter, the one in Afghanistan.  Anyway, this cute little gal came out to assist. 

 “Ooh, look at the cute kitties!”

 I wouldn’t do that if I were you….but one hiss from Mama and Jerry’s screams convinced her to back up quick.  The shelter then went into a lockdown mode as we were ushered into the back to the maximum security area.  Since it was a no-kill shelter, I can’t say it was death row, more like some kind of super intensive rehab for wayward cats.  We took the cats in, and Jerry made the mistake of telling the people how Mama Cat beat his ass, I mean, uh, showed very little class.  We could’ve gotten out sooner if Jerry hadn’t had to fill out a bite report and tell all the people there what a horrible wife I am for not helping him. 

 Needless to say, I have learned my lesson.  I don’t bring home strays.  I still have a soft spot in my heart for animals, but I would never be attacked by some ingrate animal and then be dumb enough to let it happen again, and I don’t pick up strays to bring home anymore.  Now I’m older and wiser, and in North Carolina.  I set a dish of food across the street at someone else’s house.  Then I just sit outside with my chardonnay and watch my neighbors do battle.  It’s much safer and more fun that way.

 Better for me, worse for someone else.

I have been lucky that my health has always held me in pretty good stead. I have managed to keep myself in one piece and so far have been able to avoid invitations to spend the summer at any state mental institutions. Still, once I turned 40, things haven’t been the same. Anymore when I get out of bed in the morning, you’d swear I was having group sex with those damn Rice Krispies midgets. All of my joints are screaming snap, crackle, and pop! I have various mild aches and pains where I never knew I had body parts. And where I used to consider myself a feminist, I now laugh at anyone who burns their bra. You’re going to need those things one day, you fools!

At any rate, I have reached a point in life where I have to take calcium supplements, vitamins, omega threes and even extra fiber! Fiber! For all of the times in my 40 years that I have been told I am full of shit, there is no way I should ever need to take a fiber supplement. But here I am. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Having worked as a supervisor in a call center and having spoken to some of my fellow crabby-over-40 Americans, I know good and well that many, MANY people need more fiber…and anti-depressants.

I think I know when it started for me. Everything was moving along fine my whole life, and then one night, Jerry, Jenda and I went out to dinner at a diner-type restaurant that I will call Lenny’s. Since I wasn’t terribly hungry, I ordered a cheese steak sandwich with only meat and cheese. Jerry, on the other hand, not only ordered a bacon double cheeseburger the size of a gopher, he also asked the waitress to bring the onions, peppers, and mushrooms that would have been on my sandwich. Now, I took a bite of my blandwich, consisting of bread, meat, and cheese that I can only describe as funny in taste and consistency. Not funny-haha, this was bad funny, like cheese left over from the Reagan administration. After my second bite, I began to feel rather ill.

After Jerry finished his dinner and the food that Jenda didn’t finish, I insisted that we leave. I told Jerry that I felt funny and that I thought there was something wrong with the cheese.

“Maybe it was WIC cheese, or as they say in the South, Gub’ment cheese….bwahaha! Anyway, take an Alka-Seltzer when we get home. You’ll be fine.” Now those of you who know me know that Alka-Seltzer is my cure-all. I take it, holding my nose and gagging it down because it works. But in this particular case, it didn’t work, and I knew I was in trouble.

Fast forward two weeks and that damn depression era cheese had blocked things up worse than the line for the Halal cart at 53rd and 6th. (My New Yorker friends know what I mean!) It was not pretty. Hell, I can’t even say it was ugly. Nothing happened. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I finally reached the point where I had to call out sick to work to go to the doctor, and imagine my humiliation having to tell the triage nurse what was wrong. My stomach was SO bloated that the doctor insisted on doing a pregnancy test before the x-ray because he was convinced that I was about to give birth to ten pound triplets. And yes, there was thirty pounds of somethin’ in there, but I knew he wouldn’t want to be the one to deliver it!

When I came back from the x-ray, the doctor was amazed. He turned to my husband and said, “I can’t believe how backed up she is. There seems to be some sort of intestinal blockage,” to which Jerry replied, “Yeah, she’s full of shit….hahaha!”

Fortunately, we were already at the doctor’s office so they were able to treat his wounds immediately. While Jerry was having my foot removed from his ass, the doctor suggested that I take an over-the-counter fiber supplement to get things back to normal, and he assured me that I would be feeling better by the next day. It turns out he was talking shit.

After another 48 hours of agony, during which time I tried Castor oil, fiber-laden beverages, and pretty much anything else out there, I sent Jerry back to the drug store and told him to empty Jenda’s college fund and buy everything he could get. Strangely, he came home with a single bottle of something. What is this, I asked?

“I went to the pharmacist. I told him your symptoms, then I told him your name and showed him your picture. We had a good laugh and he told me that you should drink this stuff. It’s called magnesium citrate.”

Suffice it to say that they give this liquid nastiness to proctology patients because it cleans things out. Unfortunately, it also makes Alka-Seltzer taste like a glass of Dom Perignon. Nonetheless, I drank it down and hoped for the best. Be careful what you pray for….

About an hour or so later, with no warning, I knew that Judgment Day was at hand. I barely made it to the bathroom. Fortunately, I did make it, but unfortunately, I didn’t have a seat belt to hold me down, because I almost took off like that guy in the movie ‘The Rocketeer.’ Talk about being cleaned out…Martha Stewart could perform my first colonoscopy. But it’s all good, I feel much better, I finally read ‘War and Peace’ cover to cover, and Jerry finally repainted the downstairs bathroom.

Per the doctor’s orders, I take my various vitamins and peculiar potions and eat a fiber fortified diet. I try to get in some exercise (somedays, I try harder than others) and I eat a diet rich in whole grains and fiber. Of course, I still haven’t given up my Kendall Jackson on occasion.

I have enough crap to deal with!

The adjustment process hasn’t always been easy for me.  For example, in Florida, all of the ground is sand.  It’s a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water, so that stands to reason.  And I could grow ANYTHING in sand; tropical plants and palms, African Bush daisies and Cuban Buttercups.  When we sold our townhouse and moved to NC, our real estate agent remarked that our unit looked like all of the others but no one else had our curb appeal.  And she was right.  I assumed that it was because I am a Southerner, but it turns out I’m not good at gardening OR being Southern.

We moved here and settled on life in a small town in what is know as ’The Heart of the Triad.’  We had no sooner moved in than our neighbors showed up in droves with food and baked goods, invitations to their homes and solicitations to various churches.  We were a bit surprised, but absolutely charmed, and we were grateful for their kindness.  We still are.  Of course these thoughtful gestures made me realize that I am not a true Southerner.  Not even relocating from the southernmost part of the United States allowed me to join their midst, because we had to move north to live in ‘The South.’  For example, we heard that one of the houses in our neighborhood had sold so we would be getting some new neighbors.  Naturally, I wanted to get all neighborly and take them some yummy baked goods.  I mentioned my intentions to hubby Jerry and he was in agreement, which is a blessing since he is a wonderful cook and I, well, it’s just not a talent that I possess.  Imagine my horror when he showed up from the store, ready to meet our new neighbors with a store-bought lemon bundt cake from the day-old bin at Food Lion!

Please tell me that you have something better than this to offer our new neighbors.  This here is the SOUTH, Jerry.  Day old bundt cake ain’t gonna cut it!

“No, it’s still soft.  It’ll cut fine.  It’ll be fine.  Really.”

It’ll be fine if the new neighbors relocated here from New Jersey, but if they are from anywhere near the Mason-Dixon Line, we’re going to be the laughing-stock of North Carolina.  Assuming we’re not already, which I think we are. 

That notwithstanding, we marched over to the new place, like some perverse General Sherman (redundant!) burning a swath to the coast.  Of course the new neighbors were from Georgia or Tennessee so they took one look at our stale-ass bundt cake and immediately pegged us for freaks.  Okay, I guess they were smarter than I thought.  

So I spent all of our money on every Paula Deen cookbook in existence and used all of our food for casseroles.  I made casseroles for births, deaths, and everything in between.  I made dishes with hot peppers and others for hot flashes.  I almost felt sorry for Jerry when he came home one night and said, “Ummmm, something smells wonderful.  What’s for dinner?”

Ramen noodles. 

“What?  Something smells heavenly!”

Yes, and if you touch it, I will send you to Heaven.  I am prepared for anything; pregnancy, birth, death, graduation, weddings, divorces, and menopause.  And whatever our neighbors come up with, I have a casserole for it.  So don’t touch anything in the freezer.  I don’t have anything prepared for killing your own spouse.

So I felt that I had gotten a handle on the whole greet-your-neighbors-with-a dish thing, until I met someone who I just couldn’t get a handle on.  Strangely, all of my neighbors knew him.  In fact, everyone in town knew him.  Except me, and I vowed to find my way into his inner sanctum.

His name was Mamanem.

It would seem that everyone in town knew Mamanem except me.  He was a very popular sort.  I assumed he was the mayor or something because his name was known to everyone in town, in fact, in the entire state.  I first became familiar with him in talking to the people I met….

“We’re busy tonight.  Gonna go see Mamanem.”

Okay.  Cool.

And then, ” We all gone go to church this Sunday with Mamanem.  We’ll see y’all later.”

It dawned on me that Mamanem was a non-denominationalChristianBaptistMethodistMoravianLutheranHolyroller.  In fact, he attended every church in town except for the little Episcopal church around the corner that Jerry and I attend.  I know he didn’t go to our church because I excitedly asked one of our fellow parishioners, Is Mamanem here today? 

“No, Mamanem’s at the Baptist church, but thank you for askin’!”

Uh, sure.  Give Mamanem my best regards. 

Enlightenment came in the form of a rather glaring miscommunication, well, no, just a giant gaffe.  I was talking to one of my neighbors one day and after she mentioned Mamanem, I indicated that I would sure like to meet the amazing Mamanem.  She looked puzzled. 

“You met Mamanem at little Lucy Rae’s birthday party.  ‘Member?”

Jerry was flashing me a warning look.  You know, the one that means ‘shut up’ and the one that I rarely heed?  Anyway, this time, I obeyed.  Oh yes, I ‘member now.  Ha ha….

Jerry leaned over and whispered “He isn’t a HE!  It’s MAMA AND THEM, spoken in deep Southern.”

Oh Lord.  Actually, no, OOOHHH LAWD!  I could hardly call myself a true Southerner and not be acquainted with Mamanem.  How could I have missed that?  Most of my ancestors come from THE DEEP SOUTH, but somehow I had missed the boat!  Oh Lawd, bless my heart!

So here I am desperate to get in touch with my Southern roots, and unfortunately, the ones in my hair don’t count.  My summer reading list consists of everything written by Paula Deen, Ernest Matthew Mickler’s ’White Trash Cookin’, and the John Deere catalog.  I am giving up Chardonnay for Mint Juleps, and trying my hand at canning and cooking.

If I’m successful, y’all come over for supper.  Bring y’all’s Mamanem!

 I had the privilege of working with Donald for about three years, but such was his personality that I feel like I’ve known him my whole life. Donald was a very warm person and such a vital presence. He always had a kind word, and even if he was picking on you in his rather snide way, it was always in good fun, and he could take shit as good as he could give it. His nickname was Duck, and initially, I thought it was because his name was Donald, but I came to learn that it was because the teasing of his colleagues rolled off his back, and he was always ready with a snappy comeback. I worked with him in a call center and any time he would refer an irate caller to me, I would huff and say, “Donald, I know you did what you could to tell the customer what can be done, but they don’t believe you because you’re TOO DAMN NICE!” And he would agree and then say, “That’s why I am referring them to you because you’re SO DAMN MEAN!” Sadly, that is not a point I could ever argue. It’s just one of my character flaws. Get over it.

At any rate, his acerbic wit notwithstanding, he always had something nice to say to me, and in fact, when I was in his presence, I felt like I was the wittiest, most beautiful woman alive. Of course as I got to know him better, I realized that neither point was necessarily true since he made EVERY woman feel that way. In short, he was an outrageous flirt. Looking back, I am not sure that outrageous is a strong enough word. But I digress. Inasmuch as he was a terrible tease, he also recognized character traits that deserved acknowledgement in his friends. While I personally collect character flaws the way some people collect fine china, one of my habits is humming to myself. What can I say, some people bite their fingernails. I did for years until my father told me that all of my chewed up fingernails were being stored in my appendix, which would rupture any day. Of course this is the same man who told me that mayonnaise comes from those giant cockroaches when you step on them, so I should have just ignored him. And some people smoke cigarettes, or drink wine….oh, wait. Nevermind.

 So Donald heard me humming a happy tune and at the outset of our friendship, he began calling me ‘Hummingbird.’ Chances are he probably forgot my real name, but Hummingbird became my moniker and I can honestly say that while I have been called many thing in my life, most of which do not bear repeating here, ‘Hummingbird’ was one of the nicest and kindest meant. Happily, I have a decent sense of pitch and Donald and I had the same taste in music, so for that I loved him all the more.

It was some time into our friendship before I knew that he was ill, and it is a testament to his wonderful spirit that he kept his smile in place, and kept batting his eyes at all of us crazy females. But he had a serious side. He loved his job, and he cared for his coworkers and leaders. He actually grasped the fact that life is precious and fleeting, and he really lived each day to the fullest. Whatever his flaws and foibles, his wry sense of humor and ability to have fun made you forgive him, and made you feel better about yourself. I am blessed to have many friends, and I hope that the remainder of my life brings me many more dear friends. But the beauty and tragedy of this is that there will never be another Donald. I suppose that goes without saying. I miss my friend, moreover, I miss the way his humor and kindness made me feel. My grief is selfish, but my gratitude is boundless. The fact is, many people have called me a Dodo bird, and sometimes, I have to eat crow. And it will probably never happen again, but no one else ever called me a hummingbird.

Thanks, Duck.

When it snows our whole state panics,

But not me, I’ve got my Xanax

It’s just a statewide freak show

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Or this one….

I’m dreaming of a warm Christmas, just like the ones I used to know

In the lush, warm tropics, where all our topics

Were talk of hurricanes that blow….

Now, I am in a strong blizzard, at least it seems that way to me

May I live through this storm of white, while I dream of Florida so bright!

No?  Maybe this one…

Oh the weather outside is frightful

And inside, it ain’t delightful

While my kid is bouncing of walls

Well a big glass of chardonnay calls!

And finally…

While my kid squawks city sidewalks

Are now covered in snow

In the air there’s a feeling of madness

Jenda’s manic, I’m in panic, this is such a wild scene

And my frantic refrain you can hear…..

Bloody hell, bloody hell

We are snowed in until Sunday

Bloody hell, bloody hell

I need some more chardonnay!

               Whatever your preference, and wherever you are, have a wonderful holiday.  I wish you ALL the best!!!!