This Is No Joke. Certainly.

The following is an actual letter received by my actual Son regarding an actual recall of his vehicle. Seriously. And although the letter clearly speaks for itself and requires no elaboration, please be sure that I will. Elaborate, yes.

"On certain Mazda6 vehicles, a certain type of spider may weave a web in the evaporative canister vent line and may cause a restriction in the line. If this occurs, the fuel tank pressure may become excessively negative when the emission control system works to urge the vapors from the canister, potentially leading to fuel leakage and an increased risk of fire."

Sweet Holy Moses.

Don't we have enough troubles in our world without having to worry about certain spiders lurking in certain places? Don't we enough to keep track of with natural disasters and salmonella and economy woes and sunscreen and artificial sweeteners and global warming, for crying out loud?

Now we have to worry about certain spiders that like to go Zoom, Zoom?

I am happy that The Son will soon be driving a Mazda6 with a little net over the evaporative canister line to keep certain spiders out. But then what happens when those nasty creatures can no longer catch a ride in a sporty sedan?

What evaporative canister line is next? Commercial airliners? Aging SUVs? Weed whippers?

And who really cares about the evaporative canister line? I am more concerned about one of those babies deciding to hitch a ride in my ear some evening and weaving her little web that close to my precious brain tissues.

Holy Moly. I would hate to get one of those recall letters!








Heck, yes!



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I Can-Can!

I really appreciate a vandal with a sense of humor.





And an affinity for musical theater, apparently.

Singing in the rain, just singing in the rain ...

Heck, yes!


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Of Course My Diet is Restricted. I Am Presbyterian! Oh, Wait. No, I'm Not.

Occasionally, I hear something that I do not expect. It is surprising. Or it is hilarious. Or perhaps it is both, yes. And occasionally I hear things that aren't even actually said, such as:

Rachael Ray is discussing the difficulty of cooking for friends with assorted eating restrictions. She is displaying a pot of something with pasta, of course, and saying, Here is the dish that satisfies both the Vegetarians and Presbyterians at your dinner table. I am not aware of the eating requirements of The Presbyterians until I realize that Rachael is referring to Pescatarians, which are a different denomination completely, yes.

But I do hear actual real things, not imagined, that are pretty delightsome as well.

True Story: I am talking to The Dot on the phone. The Dot lives in Fargo, which is very very far away and at times, it is difficult to hear her clearly on account I don't know why, come to think of it.

But we are chatting and the background noises are brutal. I am wondering if The Dot is surrounded by Wolves or surrounded by Vampires or surrounded by Wolves surrounded by Vampires or if The Dot is scraping her fingernails on a chalkboard or listening to a kindergarten kazoo band or screeching to a halt in her new car over and over again. So, I ask The Dot about the horrendous, annoying, unbearable noise.

I'm in Wal-Mart and you are hearing the music, she says. It's Celine Dion.

I snort. With delight. Fantastic!

Note: Not a fan, clearly.

True Story: I am visiting my friend, whom I shall call Slim, on account of the fact that she is. Slim. We are admiring Slim's Baby and musing about the eventual eye color of said offspring. So naturally I look at her eyes and she gazes into mine, examining the color of course, and Slim mentions that my eyelashes really are longer and really are thicker and I'm saying I know! I know! and then Slim says:

I think you need to trim the ones on the edge.

Trim my eyelashes? Because they are too long?

I am now living my finest moment.

Heck, yes!

A Personal Ass. Istant.

So, around my neighborhood an enterprising soul has placed signs advertising her services as a Personal Assistant. I am considering what exactly a personal assistant does. To assist.

I think it might be nice to have someone mop my floors and scrub my grout and remove soap scum from my shower tiles. But wait. Isn't such an assistant called a Housekeeper?

I think it might be nice to have someone who comes to my house three days a week to supervise my exercise schedule and to recommend specific ways to make my arms look like Kelly Ripa's. But wait. Isn't such an assistant called a Trainer?

I think it might be nice to have someone who mows the lawn and trims the shrubs and blows away the debris with an outrageously loud leaf blower. But wait. Isn't such an assistant called a Husband?

Note: And I do have one, yes.

I find my answer at the craft store of all places.

My hands are getting full of my purchases. I am juggling styrofoam Easter egg decorating kits and adorable daisy hand towels and two boxes of glittery eggs and two bags of malted milk eggs and two large wreaths for the front door when I see the chilled soda cooler and I'm thinking Oooh, a Diet Coke sounds delicious. But the bottle happens to be on the bottom rack, of course, so I squat down while holding the kits and the towels and the eggs and the candy and the wreaths and I jimmie the cooler open with my elbow which is pointier than I anticipate, luckily, and secure a soda with two fingers of my right hand.

And then I see the usefulness of a Personal Assistant.

Note: Or to be more precise, perhaps it is the older gentleman behind me who sees the usefulness of a my Personal Assistant.

Picture this, or better yet don't: My hands are full of kits and towels and eggs and candy and wreaths and soda, yes. My hands are full, and I am squatting and then standing and I feel a nice, refreshing breeze. In back, yes.

Now I understand.

I need a Personal Assistant to follow me around and pull up my doggone pants.

Any takers?

Heck, yes!



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At Least They Are Not In Your Pants.

So, you know the whole thing about how the ants go marching?

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb or drink some rum or scratch his bum or whatever
and they all go marching down. In the ground. To get out of the rain. Boom, boom, boom ...

And then you know how they march two by two? And three by three? And of course, four by four and five by five? And then those crazy ants go six by six (to get their kicks) and seven by seven and eight by eight and nine by freaking nine ...

And then. Finally.

The ants go marching TEN by TEN.

And did you ever wonder where the ants go then?

No, not my microwave, although that's a darned good guess.

I discovered their location while shopping at my local mall.









The TEN ANT ROOM.

Heck, yes!


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She Bangs.

So, Martha is celebrating St. Patrick's Day on her television
program. Men are marching around in kilts and playing bagpipes, which I always thought was a Scottish thing, but I suppose that once a man drinks enough green beer, anyone can wear a dress.









Martha is now making Bangers and Mash with Colin Firth, who seems to have a wee bit of an attitude, yes. She puts the big old Irish sausage in a sizzling frypan and makes idle conversation.

Do you know why they are called Bangers? She is asking Mr. Firth.

The camera shot is above the frypan where the hefty sausage sizzles. And bangs, yes. Martha is oblivious as usual and comments about the beauty of that darned sizzling sausage, turning it much too appreciatively with the tongs.

Mr. Firth seems delighted with the question. He smiles. It is an evil little smile, like The Grinch imagining that the Whos are finding out now that no Christmas is coming.

Oh, I think I could venture a guess, he boasts.

I think I just lost my appetite.

Carry on!


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One Thing is For Sure. I Like My Buns Nice and Toasty.

I am at a local bakery and I am looking at the bread. And it hits me.

Bread is a metaphor for life.

Bread is a metaphor for our bodies.

Bread is a metaphor for what happens to our bodies as gravity takes its sad toll, yes.

Bread is a metaphor for my bum.

Note: I suppose that is why smaller versions of bread products are referred to as buns, although it is not quite clear as to what came first: The Bun or The Other Bun.

Regardless.

There are young, perky buns. Ah, yesterday.

There are soft, round, dimpled buns.

There are long, pointy, torpedo buns. Be careful. You could poke your eye out with that thing.

And then, there is my bum. Gravity, indeed.

I think I need a sandwich.

Heck, yes!

Green Jello. Never Tasted Better.

Holy green jello, Batman!

It is time to dust off my recipes for ham and funeral potatoes to prepare for tomorrow's Mountain West celebration!

I've been Jimmered!




Heck, yes!


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Danny, Do You Know What You Can Do With That Darn Thing? What Is It With Dudes, Anyway?

I am the only patron in the Nail Place. My Nail Girl is nailing me. Bachelor Bob is on the giant television on the wall, hosting the gameshow network and chatting with Doris from the heartland about her adorable grandchild.

Note: My Grandboy can take hers with both hands tied behind his back.

The only other person around is Danny, the fellow who did my nails a couple of times when My Nail Girl was sick. He once told me how the bad guys in his homeland ate the brains of his pet monkey and pretty much scarred me for life. And whatnot. He is sitting out of my view on a brown leather sofa in the waiting area. But his presence is obvious.

And I'm not talking about the scent of Old Spice.

The channel changes.

Jerry Springer is holding the envelope. He is slaps it in the palm of his hand, then waves it under the skank's nose.

Are you ready to know who is the father of your baby?

The Men tussle. The Skank shrieks. The Muscle drag the men to opposite sides of the stage. Expletives flow.

Jerry pulls a sheet of paper from the envelope ...

The channel changes.

Jennifer Love Hewitt is playing hide and seek with some kid with wide, vacant eyes. Scary music flows as she looks in the closet or under the stairs or in some creepy and dark place. But there is a ghost in the hiding place, not some kid. The Ghost has dark circles under her eyes and looks as if she hasn't had a decent nights' sleep since she died, whenever that was.

Jennifer Love Hewitt is motioning to the ghost and saying What have you done to the child? Where is he? and the Ghost is motioning with her head and making quizzical faces and not whispering at all.

Note: I am sorely disappointed with the lack of whispering.

The Ghost makes a run for it and Jennifer chases after her, breasts jiggling, of course but then there is the scream. Of a child. She looks back.

The channel changes. Again.

The nose of Flight 800 explodes, sending the plane down into the frigid waters of the Atlantic. Thousands of pounds of razor sharp debris and hundreds of miles of wires and cables tangle the Navy divers as they recover the bodies of the 230 passengers and crew.

Bits and pieces of this and that, which I fervently hope are not body parts, drift near the ocean floor, and fish dart in and out of the wreckage.
The narrator's raspy voice asks Was it an accident or was something more sinister behind the crash of Flight 800?

You guessed it. The channel changes. Again.

Now I will never see Doris' adorable grandchild. I will never know which Loser fathered the Skank's child. I will never know if the hiding child was ever found. And I will never know the outcome of the investigation of Flight 800.

Danny, Do You Know What You Can Do With That Darn Thing?

Heck, yes!


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The Cowboy. the Tangerine. And the Damsel in Distress.

After fifty-seven freaking minutes, the Tow Truck finally pulls up, brakes squealing.

I cringe. Look over here the truck squeals, check out the distracted middle aged woman who locked her keys and her dog in the car and please notice that she's not wearing any makeup and quite possibly hasn't seen a hairbrush this morning either. And oh yeah, Why is her butt all wet?

Two gentlemen emerge. The Big One hoists up his pants and ambles across the street, wisecracking to The Little One, who wields the Slim Jim.

Note: Yes, you heard me right. The Little One wields the Slim Jim.

How y'all doing today? The Big One booms, smoothing his fringe of short orange hair.

Is this a serious question?

The Little One has the door unlocked before I can even answer. I begin to thank him but I am distracted by his belt buckle. It is one of those big rodeo belt buckles that cowboys wear to brag about their prowess. As a cowboy, yes.

I ask him if he is a cowboy.

Nah, he is saying, his big brown eyes fluttering a bit, I think, I just like the buckle. I am trying to say something about growing up in the country but The Big One is making holler-up noises and saying, Hey Dude, she's totally into you.

The Cowboy is younger than The Son, for crying out loud, but The Cowboy is grinning and The Big One is nodding and I think that this day cannot be more mortifying.

Note: Sure it can!

The Big One takes my driver's license and says Wow, that's a hot picture and he's right, yes. He chatters about his license photo that makes him look like a Giant Tangerine and honestly, I can kind of see that possibility.

I say Thank you for your help today. The Giant Tangerine says We get that a lot. The Cowboy is nodding and he is smiling.

The Giant Tangerine says there are other ways to thank him. I love pancakes, he is saying, the next morning.

Are you kidding me?

Hope springs eternal, I guess.



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Location:Lakeside Dr,Oakland,United States

So Let It Be Written. In The Pudding.

The evidence is now irrefutable.

If given the opportunity, a jury of my peers would find me guilty, beyond reasonable doubt. And yes, if given the opportunity, it would be my utmost pleasure to be in a room with a jury of my peers.

Note: Imagine the shoes!

So, the evidence arrives in the mail in an envelope with other non-evidentiary correspondence, such as the mortgage statement, the Val-Pak coupons in the blue mailer and an invitation for The Hub to join the AARP.

At first, I feel shock. Then awe. Then delight, yes, because there it is, right before my very eyes. In black and white, yes, I find payment for services rendered.






So let it be written, so let it be done.

The proof is in the pudding.

Heck, yes!


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Blame It On The Signs.

I am passenger-ing on the freeway.

Note: I am not driving. If I were driving, some of the activities in which I am engaging may be deemed dangerous or potentially illegal.

Additional Note: It is also possible, yes, that some of the activities in which I am engaging are potentially illegal regardless of my driving status.

Oh, simmer down. Can't anyone take a joke these days?

I am noticing signs today. There are billboards for Liposuction and We Will Adopt Your Baby. And there are lots of street signs. Road Twenty-Nine, Road Thirty, Road Thirty-One.

Note: I am in the boonies, yes.

There is a sign for a Wildlife and Bird Sanctuary. And there is wildlife! And there are birds!

Look Honey, there's a Snowy Egret, I say and Look! A Mallard Duck, which is the only duck I can ever hope to identify because of its green head and Look at that Flock of Canadian Geese!

Note: And the Geese are goosing each other. But of course, they goose with their sharp beaks, not their cupped hands. I do not believe that I will be trying the Geese form of Goosing anytime soon.

And I am wondering how the egrets and the mallards and the geese learned to read and found the Wildlife Refuge and Sanctuary in the first place. Incredible!

But my favorite sign in on the back of a Semi Truck.

Note: I am wondering why it is called Semi. A small pickup or SUV would be a semi-truck. The Semi Truck I am looking at is most definitely a FULL-FLEDGED Truck.

THE SIGN is written on cardboard with large black lettering and is duct-taped to the back of the trailer. It reads: Ladies! Have some fun. Flash me your Tatas!

I do not have time to appropriately analyze the pros and cons of this opportunity. The Hub is pulling alongside the Semi Truck in our Aging SUV. The Truck Driver smiles down at me. At least, I believe that he is smiling. His long mustache obscures the view, slightly.

That is all.

The End.

Heck, yes!