Wendy’s Blog

Scary as it may sound, I actually broke several major laws of nature the other day. Including, but not restricted to; taking a shower, going out in public, and changing my socks. You see, I don’t usually perform any of the aforementioned tasks on Sunday. In my opinion, Sundays are for snoozing ’till noon, wearing sweats, noshing on popcorn, watching bad television, and basically doing a whole lot of nothing. The great thing about these activities, is that I perform them so ding dang well. I’m extraordinarily good at them. And I readily fess up to my talent…even to total strangers. If only I could get paid handsomely for this general malaise-like behavior. The sad thing is, they don’t really have a sort of sloth-on-the-sofa occupation in the world of corporate America. Wait a second…hold the phone…yes they do…that’s it, I’m running for President…

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How come anything you buy will go on sale next week?

Erma Bombeck

Most of you know that I’ve spent countless hours at the Club 6019 in my lifetime. There’s always a bounty of food, good conversation, and Margaret aptly tending bar. I’ve lounged by the pool, pumped the pedals of the player piano (wow, say that 3 times fast), viewed a thousand movies, and enjoyed feasting at a multitude of dinner parties. But never, in all that time, have I ever been privy to an exchange quite like this:

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“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it and decrease the surplus population.” A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens

So it’s the holiday season here in the hinterland, and the reason I know is not because of all the twinkling lights, decorated pine trees, wrapped presents, mind-numbing piped in Christmas music, or shivering-in-line-at-4:00-am-shopping-mall-freaks. Nope, the real reason is that the dreaded tulle fog has arrived. That’s right kids, it’s time for the pea soup to froth up and steam over and work it’s scary, spooky self into the streets and fruit orchards of Fresno, like a bubbling cauldron of witches brew. I was feeling very much like Adrienne Barbeau on the way to work this morning, except for the fact that my chest is a whole lot smaller. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080749/ Yes, this is the fog of Hitchcock films and nightmarish dreams everywhere, turning the moon into a milky snow globe, and ancient fig trees into replicas of gloomy stick figures. Can you say Tim Burton? http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107688/ Our fog has a mind of it’s own, gently wrapping it’s ghostly fingers around car headlights, feeding through the hub cabs, and swimming past the windshield like some terrifying underwater apparition. Weird stuff.

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So if someone asks you to join in a goofy game called Chicken Feet, just explain that you’re color-blind and you left your magnifying glass at home. http://www.pagat.com/domino/chicken.html For the record, it’s a domino game for 20-20 eyesight players only, and anyone who can accurately tell azure from royal blue, and toffee tone from butterscotch. Yikes. These dominos have the teeniest-tiniest circles, the most obscure tints and shades, and a multitude of different dot groupings. Wow, it’s pretty hard for someone who can’t even read the newspaper or a prescription bottle without her specs. And don’t even think about scattering the million plastic pieces on anything other than a plain white tablecloth; using a circa 1985 crazy print throw as a background will almost certainly send you straight to the optometrist. Although the official goal of the game is to produce a lifelike looking poultry foot by matching up colors, I found just retaining my sanity was worth a gold medal alone.

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There’s nothing more satisfying than corrupting the innocent. And there’s nothing more riveting than watching an innocent new friend being introduced to five barking-growling-pooping-snapping-drooling-shedding-ear-plug-eating- Big-Time-Wrestling dogs. Canines of all sizes, shapes, temperaments, appetites, and degrees of snippiness. It’s definitely not for the meek. Luckily, there are those who step up to the proverbial plate, and try not to act too horrified. That being said, I must give kudos to our good pal, the Semi-Fast Maverick Man, for not running screaming from my sister’s house last weekend. It WAS hell in a 2-bedroom box. If it weren’t for the sizeable shot of tequila he was forced to down immediately upon arriving, I’m not sure the outcome would have been the same. As a matter of fact, it could have been downright ugly.

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Been channeling George Costanza on Seinfeld:

“Hey, it’s George. I got nothing to say.”

- George, leaving a message on Jerry’s answering machine, in “The Chinese Woman”

http://tvsothertenpercent.tripod.com/seinfeld.html

Actually, I DO have plenty to say, I just don’t know that it has any relevance. So seeing as how I can’t seem to get my feeble brain around any sort of theme, here are some musings and episodes lacking in complete and utter importance:

There are certain people who are just deviant by nature. Let’s say, my roommate’s mother, for example. We attended an entertaining production of “My Fair Lady” at Roger Rocka’s http://www.gcplayers.com/rockas.html a couple months ago, and she arrived stocked with an entire mini-bar in her well appointed handbag. Which, by the way, always feels like a very large bowling ball has been sewn into it’s interior. Apparently, Margaret had attempted to open a lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, only to have the cork splinter and wedge itself into the neck. Completely unfazed, she located an empty container of Jose Cuervo, filled it with her chilled vino, and capped it with the handy screw top. Thus, our bar bill at the show was almost non-existent, and Margaret got the official sneaky-by-design award for the evening.

People with no cell phone manners, and women wearing WAY TOO MUCH bad cologne should just stay home. There, I’ve said it. And speaking of smelly stuff, I must admit that I have the bravest roommate on Planet Earth. Not only will Cinderella pick up a gigantic, rotating-head praying mantis with her bare hands (yikes!), she will courageously perform the ugliest, scariest, hair-raising chore that humans can possibly imagine. No, I’m not talking about plunging the clogged toilet, emptying the mice trap, or sucking up 3 month old cobwebs with the Hoover (bleah). I’m talking about dog poop, and lots of it. We only have 2 mutts in our household, but they do manage to crank out an exorbitant amount of doo-doo on a weekly basis.

When Cinderella unexcitedly announces she’s going on “poop patrol” you know it’s not going to be pretty. As a matter of fact, it’s going to be downright toxic. Sometimes, those precious packages take on a life of their own, and turn into horrifying science projects reminiscent of “The Fly” I volunteer to help out every once in awhile, but quite honestly, I just don’t have the stomach for it. Those moldy piles of dino-dump just freak me out (Dino-Dump(d-EYE-no D-uh-mm-p) Noun: Having the appearance or utility of a six foot tall steaming pile of shit). Not to mention the juicy ones our friend Katie lovingly refers to as “un-done brownies”… they look harmless on the outside, but break them open and WHAM! Those creamy chocolate centers are just evil. Grossed out yet? Stomach getting queasy? Revolted beyond belief? Then my day is complete.

We have the bitchiest neighbor in Fresno. Actually, Fresno, Clovis, Madera, and the surrounding metropolitan areas. I don’t know what her story is, but she hates us. She really hates us. We tenants at Cowpoke Alley do our best to be affable, personable, likeable folk. We say “hello”, “how are you” and sometimes (when we’re feeling REALLY daring) even “howdy” to our fellow Sherwood Forrest dwellers. They reply, conversations ensue, and life is all lollipops and moonbeams. And then there’s “Crabby Mary” She’ short and mousy with bad frizzy hair, big bug-eye glasses, and a nasty attitude. Even when she’s just taking out the garbage, she strides with such a clipped purpose, you’d think they were handing out blue ribbons for the fastest trash can slam.

This humorless, pint-size peon thinks we’re too loud and boisterous, even at 8:30 on a Saturday night. We think she just needs to get laid. She’s been known to swagger out onto the front porch, hands planted firmly on her bony hips, and giving us her best shut-the-hell-up-I-loathe-you-because-you-have-a-life-and-I-don’t stare down, before returning to her hovel with an ear-splitting slam of the door — KA-BLAM! But what really makes her blood clot, is the Boo dog. She absolutely abhors the Boo dog. She thinks he’s the devil incarnate. Especially when he whizzes on her potted plants. He just thinks she’d make a good appetizer. Crabby Mary’s favorite phrases are, and I quote,”Why isn’t that dog on a leash!?” “That dog should be on a leash!” and “GET THAT DOG ON A LEASH!!!!!!” We’ve decided to go ahead and bite the bullet, buckle down, and invest in a nice leather leash — a 50 foot one —just long enough to reach those potted plants.

A Blog About Nothing

I’ve been informed recently that I’m severely lacking in my blog entry status. I apologize. Unfortunately, for the past few weeks, I’ve been channeling George Costanza on Seinfeld:

Hey, it’s George. I got nothing to say.

- George, leaving a message on Jerry’s answering machine, in The Chinese Woman

Actually, I DO have plenty to say, I just don’t know that it has any relevance. So seeing as how I can’t seem to get my feeble brain around any sort of theme, here are some musings and episodes lacking in complete and utter importance:

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So I was cruising down the freeway this morning at my usual Batmobile speed, trying to break the sound barrier, when a light bulb popped over my cranium. What we rat race members need to do, is officially assign an appropriate name for each lane on the bustling highways and byways of America. It appears that people like me, who actually have to BE somewhere at a pre-designated time, are being held back by the folk who just can’t seem to find the gas pedal. Or the idiots yakking on their phones, having arm-flailing conversations with their passengers, while simultaneously stuffing an Egg McMuffin into their overheated jaws. Not to mention the yahoos going around the world to the left, who haven’t turned their blinkers off since 1983; a phenomenon observed by Jerry Seinfeld as “an eventual left”. And so, good people of the USA, here are some of my profound suggestions for lane names; movie-related, of course:

The Office Space: “It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I just don’t care”. This lane is reserved for those who really DO have to be at work, but just can’t seem to muster up the enthusiasm to go faster than 57 mph……in the fast lane.

The Clueless: “Why would I listen to you anyway? You’re a virgin who can’t drive”. This lane would actually be equipped like a car wash; the automobile is on tracks, so no steering is required. Thus, leaving both hands free for mascara and lip-gloss application, cell phone text messaging, and best-girlfriend socialization.

The What’s Up, Doc?: “Well, there’s not much to see, really, we’re inside a Chinese dragon”. For those knuckleheads who couldn’t find their way in OR out of a Chinese dragon, forgetting their exit until the very last minute, and veering through 3 lanes of cranky commuters in 5 seconds flat.

The Blues Brothers: “It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses”. Strictly for professionals, an 85 mph and over lane, where people, literally, drive like they’re on a “mission from God”.

The Forrest Gump: “Stupid is, as stupid does.” Either they just fell off the proverbial turnip truck, can’t speak in complete sentences, or are truly plain stupid. For all the boneheads who can’t seem to grasp the term, “merge”, I present this lane idea. If you can’t get your tired ass over long enough to let in at least ONE oncoming car, you get sucked into the vortex of a massive underground tube, shot into the bowels of a gigantic shrimp boat, and are forced to eat boxes of bad Russell Stover chocolates for eternity.

I am so in love with my family, it’s sickening. Here I am, in my cousin’s old childhood bedroom, staring at faded photographs, and not even recognizing myself. Pathetic. But, time rolls on, and I can’t be expected to look as good in a bikini, cut off shorts, and halter-tops as I did when I was 12. Which would be WHY I haven’t worn ANY of those since I was 12. When I was in about 6th or 7th grade, I was asked to write an essay about my favorite place. I chose my aunt and uncle’s house up in Redding, where the summers are hotter than blazes, and the Sacramento River plugs along with rafters cruising across her surface. http://www.ci.redding.ca.us/ But more importantly, it’s where I spent some of my favorite vacations as a kid, frying my skin to a crisp, feeding mallards, and swimming, swimming, swimming, until my toes were completely pruned.

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So before I begin the REAL blogging, here’s an idea that’s been floating around in my mind for weeks. Just because we’re SO sick of them both, I think Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise should dump their respective fiance’s, get married, have Carl’s Jr. burgers for the reception, jump on that Top Gun motorcycle, and ride off into the sunset. Or better yet, how about careening off the planet altogether? Are you people as TIRED of them as I am? All the smiling, preening, gushing, and couch-jumping-rolling-on-wet-cars escapades have made me want to channel George Costanza’s father “SERENITY NOW! And now, back to our regularly scheduled banter.

I think a lot of you will be hopping out of your socks when I reveal this tasty tidbit: Jethro lives. That’s right, for everyone who’s ever wondered what happened to Elly May’s cousin, listen up. He’s alive and well and I actually conversed with him at the IHBA Boat Drags a couple weekends ago. http://www.ihbaracing.com/ Well, I wouldn’t call it conversing; it was more like him babbling and me watching him bob and weave. His real name was Paul, but his pals did right by assigning him a “Beverly Hillbillies” nickname. http://www.timvp.com/beverlyh.htmlWith a cigar hole in his Salvation Army shorts, a tattered cowboy hat, 47 beers in his gut, a drunken Southern drawl, and the biggest, ugliest boots this side of the Rockies, he made his namesake proud. Git ‘er done!

You know, living in Fresno may not sound like a thrill a minute, but you’d be surprised at all the extracurricular activities one can find. For example, the boat races in Chowchilla, where streamlined machines scream across the water at speeds of 230 mph in under 6 seconds, and the noise is SO deafening, you think your eyeballs are going to pop right out of your sun-soaked head. http://www.ci.chowchilla.ca.us/ And you think that would be scary enough, but it’s not. It’s not watching the drivers’ helmets bobble under the pressure, or their lips peel back from their teeth, or that probable injury-or-death-by-impact lurks just seconds down the stretch. Nope, not even that. The most horrific, terrifying, run-for-your-life, blood curdling, excruciating-to-watch scene has got to be… well… the people. That’s right, the freaky human speed addicts. I’m talkin’ nipple rings, tattoos, plastic chin piercings, poster children for dental floss, fat chicks in pink sausage casings, cleavage for days, and bimbos teetering about on “sensible” 4 inch heels. You have to be one brave bombshell to strap on those babies, keep your balance for hours in the dirt, all the while trying to protect your precious pedicure. Brave, or really stupid, I can’t decide.

However, in all good conscience, I must give kudos to a few gals in the crowd, who deserve some honorable mention:

The woman wearing her “sensible” cork heels, and the shortest denim skirt I have ever seen in my entire life. That tiny piece of material defied all means of gravity, and almost gave new meaning to the term, “bottoms up”.

The several 20-something girlie-girls who courageously pranced about in the world’s teeniest, tiniest promotional bikinis and “sensible” shoes, while fearlessly standing in line at the porta-potties from hell. If only they had pockets for some hand sanitizer.

And finally, the brash broad who strutted about in a neon blue bikini top, spilling over with the most gigantic, amazing, jaw-dropping, traffic-stopping, not-jiggling-an-inch-even-if-there’s-an-earthquake “bolt-ons” I have ever seen on display. I don’t think I could tell you if she was wearing “sensible” shoes or not — and neither could anyone else.

I attended the races with the usual suspects; Flaming Ass Girl (sister Jill), her boyfriend Toxic Gas Man (Jeff), my roomie Cinderella, and their cool cohort, Gordi. While Jeff was up to his elbows in grease as part of the “Problem Child” pit crew, we wandered the grounds in search of Race Chic apparel. With cranberry vodkas in hand, and 12 inches of dust on our flip-flops, we made several contributions to the local vendors fund. Cinderella received many a wolf-whistle with her “boys” hangin’ out, Jill drank her body weight in Coors Lite, http://www.coors.com/ and I endured singed nose hairs and blistered eyes from the nitrous oxide boat fumes. Whew, talk about a head rush; I think I may have destroyed the very last of my brain cells with that stuff shooting up my nostrils.

All in all, it was quite the eventful day. I made a management decision not to return the next morning for the finals, basically because I couldn’t hear anything, sleeping ’til noon sounded much better, and my “sensible” shoes were at the cleaners. But to all of you courageous race fiends who DID go back, I salute you. It takes a lot of pluck to soldier on two days in a row. It takes a valiant effort to pace your way through the beers and cocktails. And it takes a lot of guts to stand up to the Nazis that are the Chowchilla police force, with their serious stares and rental uniforms. I’m convinced they were responsible for the rather stern roadside sign that read, NO GOLF CARTS, NO BATHING SUITS, NO THONGS. No thongs? No thongs?! Wow, I’m surprised everyone didn’t just turn around and go home.