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December 30, 2003
FAMILY FA-LA-LA
(I was going to write out all the verses, but it was waaaayyyy too long…I think you know which tune to hum…)
On the 12th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, 12 bubbly bottles, 11 toy-stuffed stockings, 10 lit volcanoes, 9 floating eyeballs, 8 Corning Olives, 7 crepes with berries, 6 standing rib roasts, 5 COFFEE BEANS…4 vino jugs, 3 tons of fudge, 2 Chex Mix bowls, and a lime for my G&T…
There were Christmas carols and fuzzy snow flurries. There was homemade eggnog and lilting laughter. There were glad tidings and peace on Earth. Okay, reality check. There were 3 warbling redheads and cold rainy evenings. There were many cool cocktails and complaining characters. There were “Bah Humbugs” and LOUD, anything-but-peaceful conversations. Such was the eating/drinking marathon that is my family during the holidays. I’m not feeling particularly babbly tonight, as I’m trying desperately to stave off some sort of cold-like illness…I’m hoping the Benadryl/Vodka combo is going to help. Hey, it can’t hurt.
In short, we had a fabulous time as usual, and my mother got a much needed break for Christmas Eve. Our little group, including Uncle Denny, Aunt Mary, Lors, and the ever-popular Margaret, headed on over to Flaming Ass Girl’s house for some tasty lasagna. Of course, Toxic Gas Man proved his culinary mite in the kitchen, and we all feasted like ravenous ravens. The wine flowed, the VOLUME in the room went through the roof, and the flaming volcanoes for dessert were, well, flamin’! My cousin Lori whipped up some heavenly strawberry and whipped cream crepes for Christmas morning, and they literally had to roll me down the hall to change out of my PJ’s before the buttons burst. We finally got around to tearing into the sparkly-wrapped presents about Happy Hour, and might I say – just in time. Some folks were getting a bit cranky at the delay, but were easily appeased with a smart beverage or two….that, and a handful of toasted almonds (or AAAAmonds, depending on your planet).
I thoughtfully (aw, shucks) agreed to give up my electric blankie for the visiting relatives from Redding, and Lors and I spent a couple of chilly evenings in the comfy, cozy motor home out front. Luckily, it has all the modern conveniences of a real casa, such as a furnace-type heater, tape cassette and FM radio (AM too, for your sports freaks)…not to mention, a 4 x 4 bathroom, complete with shower. I personally have never hosed off in that hamster cage of a room, but I can’t imagine it being too easy; it’s more like a bidet with a faucet. On one evening, we gals awoke to what can only be described as some sort of “Blair Witch Project” http://www.blairwitch.com/ noise on acid…I thought the youngster across the street had just found out the real truth about Old Saint Nick. As I bravely (aw, shucks) tiptoed out into the Tule Fog, I discovered what I knew all the time; a couple of felines were doing their best imitation of High Noon. I’m happy to say they must have resolved their differences and decided to share some catnip, as I never heard so much as a purr after that. It’s a cat thing…meow your brains out until someone offers you a treat, a saucer of milk, or a tummy rub……oh wait, that’s me…..:-) Hmm, and then there's that earthquake tremor we both felt that NOBODY else did....we KNOW the truth...
And now about the food – let’s just say it was amazingly yummy. For some unknown reason, people are truly inquisitive about the eating habits in our household; probably just for the sheer amount we are able to consume. So for the record, it was lasagna on Christmas Eve (with sausage…abondonza!), those marvelous crepes for the morning, the aforementioned standing rib roast for the big meal, and more dessert than can be crammed into a freezer of gigantic proportions. We’re bursting at the seams with peanut butter kiss blossoms, snickerdoodles, fudge, banana bran muffins, white chocolate orange cookies, toffee, and popcorn balls. I’d like to say there was some pie left, but we devoured the last sad remnants this past weekend. Hey, we had to do SOMETHING with all that Redi-Whip. When all is said and done, we had a great time for the holidays. We toasted the season, completely pigged out, laughed at “A Christmas Story” (the best XMAS movie ever), http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0085334/ told some jokes, shared a few memories, and more importantly, enjoyed each other’s company. I hope everyone else had just as much fun as we did…but I doubt it...:-)
Tune in tomorrow for (hopefully) the first in a series of many end-of-the-year finales. If it’s a big blank screen, you’ll know I fell asleep with an empty bottle on my toe (see: “That Touch of Mink”). http://www.dorisday.net/That_Touch_of_Mink/that_touch_of_mink.html If nothing else, I’ll have a new entry to welcome in 2004…have a safe and Happy New Year! See you “BOP” girls tomorrow night!
Posted by Wendy at 9:52 PM | Comments (4)
December 18, 2003
TAKE A SCOTCH AND A PILL…
…and call me in the morning”. As CEO and official “Minute(s) Maid” of the newly formed “BOP” (Bimbos on Parade) Club, I’m happy to announce that this will be the official organization motto. Mainly because we all agree that mixing substances is a good thing, and most of the time, it’s the cure for whatever ails you. Be it heartbreak, depression, lack of funds, weight problems, or just the fact that you’re out of martini olives, a scotch and a pill will do the trick. And hey, even if it doesn’t do anything but make you feel all warm and fuzzy for a brief moment, you can always ring up another “BOP” friend and see if SHE has any martini olives. Although our little girlie group is comprised of only 4 members at this time, we hope to coax many more unsuspecting female-type persons into our unholy alliance. This may include any means of bribery necessary, such as decadent chocolate, smart cocktails, and promises of amusing shopping excursions to far off lands, such as Reedley and Madera. However, we’re not averse to spending quality bimbo bonding time at our fine local haunts, which is precisely what happened last weekend.
On Saturday morning, I was forced by Visa-point into the Camry from Hell that belongs to Margaret, my partner in crime. She is the "Chauffeur du Jour” of “BOP”, and it has nothing to do at all with her scary driving technique. It’s just so damn amusing watching her try to read a map and parallel park at the same time. Off we sped to collect Kerry, who is not only Margaret’s daughter, but also holds the title of “Head Hyena” in our no-dues society, because she laughs with great abandon at just about anything. This characteristic was only heightened after our last passenger piled into the car; “Flaming Ass Girl”, better known as Jill, the "Court Jester" of “BOP”. Her job is to keep us all slightly amused, as she scours the lonely city streets for the nearest watering hole; she can smell a Coors Lite from 100 paces.
And so with wallets in hand, we entered the sparkly, festive dwelling of Bebe Long www.bebelongart.com , who was holding her annual Christmas Open House. She’s a big tall drink of water artist who creates wonderfully colorful paintings, candlesticks, pottery, frames, and the occasional flying cat. In the spirit of keeping the economy going, we consumed pink bubbly, wrote bad checks, swiped credit cards, and came away broke, but pretty darn happy. Since we’d all worked up quite a sweat spending non-existent cash (and having been crammed into a tiny back room), we decided to schlep down to the lovely and attractive Tower District for lunch and libations. http://www.towerdistrictnews.com/sequel.html
As we stepped into the Daily Planet, we were horrified to learn that the entire establishment had been reserved for some sort of large family function. I’m still not sure whether it was a Quinceanera or a Bat Mitzvah, but there were lots of presents and chatty kids involved. After a harrowing cruise through several parking lots, a questionable back alley, and many Wrong Way signs, we chose the LandMark Restaurant as our next choice. Once again, the fates were not with us, and another sizeable group of relatives had beaten us to the punch (spiked, actually), where we were kindly asked by the bartender if we were “with the funeral”. Lying through our parched teeth and working up some anguished heartfelt tears, we promptly informed her that if she took ANY longer with our drinks, SHE'D be next in the pine box. Oops, did I say that out loud?
Luckily, before our hazardous run-in with the “Bartender of Bereavement”, we enjoyed wandering aimlessly around a quirky little store, aptly named “Come-On-A-My-House”. Great stuff from slanted wine glasses, to retro pajamas and everything in between, including fabulous jewelry and amusing fish-shaped lighters. As the “Bimbos on Parade” began to get crankier by the minute, it was imperative that a luncheon location be found, and not a moment too soon. “Flaming Ass Girl” was hungover from the night before, the Hyena needed a breather from all that giggling, I was jonesing for a cheap glass of vino, and our Chauffeur was all freaked out from the constant back/front seat driver advice. Actually, it was more like a continuous stream of anxiety-ridden screaming, as the Camry lurched, lunged, and cornered sidewalks like a ping-pong ball on crack. We found our salvation at Livingstone’s, which is possibly the DARKEST restaurant on the planet, or at least in the Central Valley. Yeesh, we all appreciate looking glamorous in low-level lighting, but this was old movie theatre, bat-cave, creepy cobwebbed attic, I-can’t-read-the-menu dark. I’d no clue whatsoever if I was in the right bathroom or not, until the guy next to me asked if I was finished with the urinal. And despite the fact we were practically the only humans in the entire place and that our waiter kept falling asleep in the back room, we did enjoy a glorious feast of fine foodage Unfortunately, we almost LOST our midday meal after entering some sort of earthy, hemp-clothing-laden, INCENSE-FILLED, crystal, Tarot card, unicorn store…ugh, I think that horrific smell is STILL burning my prominent nose hairs.
And so the non-stop spend-a-thon continued, as we careened down Olive Street to a tiny, teensy-weensy shop that’s about as big as my first studio apartment. Actually, it’s a charming old house that the owners have turned into a quaint little gift shop, with everything from hand-milled soaps (ooh, try the orange scent), to sunny yellow vases, pear-shaped candles, and metal garden sculptures. It’s called “Thistle”, and we’ve pegged it as one of our very favorite places to drop a few bucks; be sure and sample their to-die-for dessert toppings like Coffee Caramel Sauce and Fresh Lemon Curd. After one more stop at an interesting garden locale, we “BOP” gals sluggishly poured our tired selves into Margaret’s auto, and finally called it a day. I think it’s safe to say that the Tower District is a fine Mecca for some incredibly ultra-cool collectibles, and reminds me a bit of Fourth Street in Berkeley. http://www.sfgate.com/traveler/guide/eastbay/neighborhoods/fourth.shtml Well, there are some SUBTLE differences; 4th Street has the Crate & Barrel Outlet Store, and Olive Street has an unbelievable “head” shop….anyone care for an 8 foot bong or a gen-u-ine Egyptian hookah pipe?........C’mon, Christmas is coming………
Posted by Wendy at 10:16 PM | Comments (12)
December 11, 2003
BLOG-O-RAMA
When I lived in the Bay Area, I used to have what I call “epiphany mornings”. These were days when I was driving to work, and found myself almost overwhelmed by how happy I was to BE where I was. I would look over my left shoulder on the freeway and see the Bay Bridge (traffic backed up as usual) over the still water, San Francisco out in the distance. Sailboats would be bobbing lazily about, and the sun would just be peeking its lemony face up from the horizon. Silly as it sounds, I would almost get choked up, just by virtue of the fact that I actually lived where such a view was possible. Today, as I was traveling up Bullard Avenue toward Clovis, I had the very same experience. It rained last night, and the far-off mountains were poking up into the clear cornflower sky, the snow lying like a skull cap across their pointed tops. I turned onto Willow, and to my right were three men, one perched precariously on a ladder, trimming the branches of trees in a skeletal orchard. Amazing how things come about. As Carly Simon once sang, “I know nothing stays the same, but if you’re willing to play the game, it’s coming around again”.
And now, some blog-worthy musings to ponder:
That’s Not My Virgin
I know it sounds like an odd subject, but it’s actually my favorite line from “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum”, which I had the privilege of viewing last week at Roger Rocka’s Dinner Theatre. http://www.tower2000.com/rockas-gcp/musichall.html What a hoot! I’d never seen that play before, and I was howling with laughter so hard that my ribs hurt. Dan Pessano (as Pseudolus) and the rest of the Good Company Players do one helluva bang up job, especially with their well received stabs at audience participation. And who WOULDN’T want to be part of that spectacular production, complete with men in dresses, the Three Stooges (who deserve some sort of award), horse sweat, magic potions, and one scary leather-clad hooker with a whip – yikes. Special kudos to Kevin Stivers as Hysterium, who not only has the greatest character name, but almost had me blowing Merlot out my nose. And let’s not forget the aforementioned virgin, and the observant way Mr. Pessano wisely pointed out there weren’t ANY in the crowd. Touche`!
Talk To The Hand
Did you know there are people who actually don’t pay any attention to stop lights, but use the “Walk/Don’t Walk” signals as a guide instead? On our way back from Roger Rocka’s, I noticed my gal pal Margaret was slowing down WAAAYYYY before we even got close to a light. I didn’t think much of it, considering the source, but my curiosity got the best of me. She explained that she was looking at the “Walk” sign, to see when the red “Don’t Walk” hand started flashing. Huh? This would be some sort of sign from God that instead of speeding up, like the rest of us normal folk, she should begin braking early and crawl toward the intersection like a crippled snail. So be warned; if you see a batty blonde behind the wheel of a black Camry creeping up behind your auto, don’t worry - you still have about 47 minutes to get out of her way.
Paper or Plastic
You know, there are some things I just don’t get. To be perfectly honest, there are LOTS of things I don’t get. For example, I recently accompanied my dad to the swanky new SaveMart Center, where hundreds of people dressed in their finest red togs showed up to cheer on the Fresno State Bulldogs Basketball team. http://www.savemartcenter.com/Welcome.shtml This facility will also be used for ice hockey, live concerts, and the occasional big time wrestling match…..well, I’m not exactly certain about that last one, but you never know. (*Note: I wrote this BEFORE I read the SaveMart website calendar....check out the wrestling!!!) They have this goofy rule where you can’t take in any food or beverage, and it’s apparently in use at many other arenas around the country. That’s cool, I wouldn’t really want people hauling in Crock Pots full of hamburger stew and Coors Lite-laden pony kegs. But you can’t even take in BOTTLED WATER – what is UP with that? My mom informs me that rowdy fans have been known to use said bottles (and their caps) as flying weaponry, hurling them at players and causing bodily injuries. So they make you leave your $.69 container of Aquafina at the door, and force you to purchase a $3.00 bottle of the exact same H20 from the concession stand. Which still gives you a plastic, injury-provoking flying weapon to hurl at players if the spirit moves you. Duh…
I Want A New Drug
So I had a doctor’s appointment the other day, which was SUPPOSED to be at 3:15. Apparently, doctors run on a completely different time-keeping device than us mere mortals; something based on solar cycles, Zodiac signs, and blue moons. I like to make a good impression with a new physician, but when I didn’t see the whites of her eyes until 3:57, my eyes were pretty much red with exasperation. Not to mention I had a job interview at 4:00, which meant I had to call my contact 2 times just to make sure she knew I hadn’t flaked. But hey, it’s just a job, I’m sure it wasn’t near as important as that issue of the Enquirer the good doctor was perusing in the ladies room. Boy, it saddens me to think I might have interrupted her busy schedule, hope she didn’t mind squeezing me in for that whole five minutes. It must be so difficult dealing with us pesky patients all day, I don’t know how those doctors do it….maybe I should send her a card of apology……naaaahhhh….she’d never have time to open it…..
Eat Your Roll!
And just because I promised my almost-brother-in-law Jeff that I’d do it, I’m happy to present the first annual “Just Say No To Customer Service” award. This fine prize is haughtily bestowed to La Boulangerie de France bakery in Fig Garden Village, for their staunch resistance to the phrase, “The Customer is #1”. Jeff drives trucks for a living, and his schedule is a bit wonky, leaving him with few precious hours for personal time. He bravely offered to host Thanksgiving dinner, and was bound and determined to get the delicious rolls he truly craved. He eagerly entered the bakery, stepped up to the counter, and asked if a pre-order was possible. NO. But I’ll pay in advance. NO. But I don’t have time to come back later. NO. But I love your rolls. NO. But why not? NO. But I… NO. But… NO. Well, take your rolls and shove them up your (insert favorite body orifice here)! Geez, what kind of a yahoo do they think would order 4 dozen rolls, PAY for them in advance, and not pick them up? It’s a win-win situation for the shop, since they’d get the money either way. Now, because of their snobby attitude, they just get an unhappy customer and bad publicity. However, they do get a lovely and attractive trophy made out of moldy bread. Oui, oui!
Posted by Wendy at 9:26 PM | Comments (4)
December 2, 2003
TURKEY TALE
Well, if you’re still awake at your desk this weekday morning after the-stuff-your-gut-to-the-gills-holiday, then you obviously didn’t get enough tryptophan into your bloodstream. Those of us who DID ingest more gobbler than is legally allowed (at least in some states), are happily gazing off into space, mindlessly tapping our keyboards, and consuming more caffeine than SHOULD be allowed. Boy, it was one exhausting weekend, and I may not recover until Christmas Eve, when the entire thing starts all over again. Must they bunch all these events (or as we say in my family, “any excuse to party”) so close together? Your brain cells just begin to regenerate, and before you know it, BOOM! It’s another in a series of evenings devoted to eating, drinking, and merry-making fun. Yikes, I can’t take much more of this frivolity. I love the whole “spirit of the season” baloney, but I’ll be absolutely ecstatic when the blasted ding dang thing is over and done with. Uh oh, on second thought, this would mean going back to my miserable existence of job hunting, interviews and rejection letters. Hmmm, when’s the next bash? What time? Count me in……
Yes, I had a fabulous time with the clan on Thanksgiving, and the celebrating continued on until Saturday evening, when we all collapsed like exhausted puppies into our comfy little beds. And now, because I know you’re drooling with excited anticipation, I present to you the first (and maybe the last) “Jive Talkin’ Turkey Awards”. For obvious reasons, these trophies were pulled out of thin air:
The “Galloping Gourmet/Go Speed Racer” Award is presented to Jeff “Toxic Gas Man” Jones, for the ability to put up with a large crowd of noisy, wine-soaked characters in his living room. His talent in the kitchen is only matched by his skillful dexterity in balancing atop a four-wheeled barstool, holding a lit cigar, and going 30 miles mph up a residential street. Yes, we do have photographic proof.
The “Martha Stewart Get Your Own Damn Drink” Award is tossed with reckless abandon to Jill “Flaming Ass Girl” Hunter for her soiree-throwing aptitude and sassy waitress attitude. We give her special snaps for vacuuming, dusting, washing, and Windexing every single solitary piece of furniture, each guppy-filled fish bowl, a thousand picture frames, and a plethora of stained vino goblets. Through it all, she kept her well shellacked fright-wig-hair standing tall and strong, even amidst the roasting turkey heat vapors and the outside bonfire sparks. Girlfriend, we salute you for even getting CLOSE to an open flame.
The “Walter Brennan/Hopalong Cassidy” Award goes to Dorothy “More Drugs Please” Hunter, for her courage in even attending the aforementioned get-together. Gathering all the strength she could muster into her Hunch-Back-of-Notre-Dame frame, she bravely endured the revelry with only a grimace or two. We believe the combination of Merlot and Vicodin may have been helpful.
The “Odd Todd Cheesey Tuna Surprise” Award is handed over to Frank “Coffay” Hunter for his steadfast resolve to remain one of the few semi-sober guests, amid a sea of non-semi-sober ones. His enthusiastic “it’s shgood” response to everything edible always brings a heartfelt round of applause, especially from any chef who might be riding a wacky, homemade barstool and smoking a big ol’ stogie.
The “Lewis and Clark No Spirit of Adventure” Award goes to Jim “The Dude” Pire for his expertise in simultaneously “winjing” (are we THERE yet?), and reading very small lettering on even smaller road signs out in the Madera wilderness. “It said 10 miles, not 1.0! Sheesh!” I’m happy to report that after downing several glasses of Ficklin” Port, the dude-in-law was a much Happier Camper, and a more sedated one.
The “I Forgot My Compass/Operator Deficiency” Award is duly presented to Susan “Around the World in 80 Days” Greer for her underachievement in both cell phone operation and direction giving. If Columbus had this batty blonde on board, we’d all be speaking Finnish and Margaret would have been shoved off the plank by some very cold and cranky sailors (as if there WERE any other kind). “Okay, go right here, turn left at the old stone fence….no wait, that’s not it…go three and a half meters to the 23rd intersection, measure a squirrel’s tail to the circumference of a rattlesnake’s jaw, and head East where I can get a proper signal on this stupid thing……..”
The “You People Are Making Me Crazy” Award is given to Kelly “Mario Andretti” Pire, for her concentrated attempt at dustbowl driving, while being bombarded with horrendous human distractions. These would include one batty blonde in the back seat, with a non-working cell phone attempting to give directions, and one miserable “Cheesehead” riding shotgun, who probably wished he HAD a shotgun. This award is accompanied by a nicely chilled glass of Chardonnay and orange-flavored almonds.
The “Gee I’m Glad This Is Only Once A Year” Award goes to the entire Smith clan, for just having the guts to show up and spend several long hours with a bunch of rowdy relatives. You shall all receive a Dangly-Heart-Pin-of-Courage, a la the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz. Now click your sparkly red shoes, and start counting down the hours until next Turkey Day. Now THAT’S an even scarier thought than ANY wicked witch. There’s no place like home…
The “Guest That Wouldn’t Leave” Award is gladly accepted by yours truly, for spending a record three nights at “The Zoo” that is Casa Cornell. One can’t just leave a host and hostess with a gigantic train wreck of a mess, after they’ve graciously served a banquet in their well appointed home. Of course, if the hired help is bribed and coerced by the consumption of lovely ruby-red cocktails, served in adorable little glasses….well……….
P.S. And yes, in case you’re wondering, there WILL be further adventures of “Toxic Gas Man” and his faithful companion, “Flaming Ass Girl”……..be afraid……
Posted by Wendy at 9:29 PM | Comments (2)