Sunday, June 29, 2008

Happy Anniversary...to us

It's hard to believe that B and I are celebrating 17 years together. We met in June, 1991, in San Francisco.

I had only recently broken up with my psychotic and unmedicated manic-depressive boyfriend, Joe. This is Joe and me in better times. (click the photos to embiggen and get the full laugh!)



Shortly after we broke up - I moved out and shared an apartment with a woman who attended the Unitarian Universalist Church I attended in the East Bay. I joined her, her boyfriend and some other friends for a weekend away in Mendocino to sort things out.




Yes, I had fallen in with folk singers. It was a dark time of my life. My 47-year-old roommate dated the man you see with the guitar and insisted on speaking baby-talk around him.

"We go bye-bye in car-car?"

I wanted to kill her - then myself.

What followed was a string of dating disasters that were biblical - or at least Thurber-esque - that included one guy who brought his ex on our first date, a man who would call me and describe the porn film he was watching, and - oh, this was special - yet another unmedicated manic depressive who had a psychotic break AT MY COMPANY PICNIC.

My brother-in-law Terrence said I should write a book. Hey, what does Augusten Burroughs have that I don't?

Then - one night a week before SF's big Gay Pride event - while showing my roommate's newly-arrived male friend from L.A. the city, I met B.

I was drowning my sorrows at being stuck with a loser for an evening over Chinese food at the Metro in the Castro. After dinner, the loser and I braved the cologne levels in the adjacent bar and I proceeded to win a Jaegermeister sponsored boat race which involved incredibly inebriated people downing shots of Jaeger and trying to blow a toy sailboat across a wading pool without vomiting.

It was magical evening.

We ventured out onto the narrow deck overlooking Market Street, where we met B and his friend Jake - enjoying a cocktail after leading a local Stop AIDS meeting.

We chatted, with B and I darting to and fro - avoiding the wildly flaming tiki torches because we had so much product in our hair that we didn't want to do the Michael Jackson thing and run flaming down the street (ba-rum-bump!) into the bay.

We didn't really hit it off at first. I thought B was stuck up and he thought I was a hick.

As I said, magical.

But we chatted over the course of the evening and when we went to breakfast the next day (draw your own conclusions here), that's when we knew there was something special going on.

We began dating and even braved the madness that is San Francisco Gay Pride.

Be sure to note Brian's Jackie O shirt - on the back, it said,
"What does my hairdo have to do with my husband’s ability to be president?"


Within two months, I moved in with him in his Sanchez Street flat in the Castro.

Humorous sidenote here - we did not frequent the gay establishment in the neighborhood (unless we needed a bathroom while shopping at Walgreens - then we'd duck into the Midnight Sun - or as Brian called it, the Midnight Scum). We actually hung out with his boss and her married millionaire lover (there's another story!) and some other acquaintances at the only straight bar in the Castro. Named Dick's. Owned by lesbians.

Face it. My life rocks, okay?

From there on. it's been an E-ticket ride. Three houses, five dogs, four cats and three states. We've gone from Napa Valley to northern Vermont to New York.

And along the way, it's been nothing but


Hijinks

High society events
(at this event, we'd gone to a designer fabric gallery opening of a a guy who'd dumped our friend. To drink his champagne and see who showed up. It turned out we were there for the same reason everyone else was.)


Fine dining


Cocktails
(we loved taking friends for champagne at the Top of the Mark in San Francisco - the girl next to me is Lynnette, one of the fabulous and gorgeous lesbians we ran with in those days. I was once filmed by Chinese TV while dirty dancing, shirtless with a cute little lesbian named Carol - but that's another story)


Stylish and fabulous friends
(be sure to note B's perpendicular wrist corsage design - it took two of us to carry it)


Cocktails AND Smart Social Events
(There were three of us in raw silk that night and we kept running up and rubbing each other - in a completely acceptable fashion, of course)


Viking song


The occasional mis-use of a glue-stick


But what's more - there's always been friendship, respect and the ability to laugh. When we first met, it was the laughter that told us we were destined for each other.

And of course, there is love. It's why we still run home to see each other and why B makes up silly songs with his nickname for me in them - even after 17 years.



Happy Anniversary, babe. It's been a great ride and it's only going to get better.

I love you.





Friday, June 27, 2008

OMG!!! WANT!


"Together at last! In a pairing nobody saw coming, Mattel married two classics together to make the Alfred Hitchcock The Birds Barbie Doll. As you can see, the doll is being assaulted by a trio of angry avian attackers, making this one of very few products to be both awesome and classy. We love it, and we're sure you-- or someone you know-- will, too!" - Entertainment Earth editor.

It's only a matter of time then until we get

* Janet Leigh shower-stabbing Barbie (Psycho)
* Kim Novak with eyebrows you can see from space Barbie (Vertigo)
* Grace Kelly "who stole my waist" Barbie (Rear Window)
* Thelma Ritter short and acerbic Skipper (Rear Window)
* Julie Andrews most boring thriller ever Barbie (Torn Curtain)
* Mrs. Danvers Barbie and No Name Threatened Leading Lady Midge (Rebecca)
* Doris Day Que Sera Sera singing Barbie until you want to fork your eyes out (The Man Who Knew Too Much)

You get the picture...

Hat tip to Joe My God for making me aware of this!

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

See - I wasn't kidding!

This was the scene in Hyde Park on my drive home, Monday.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Shrieking down the Taconic

Well, well, well. What an adventure it was.

Driving home from Yorktown last evening - it began pleasantly enough. There was a fresh breeze in advance of an incoming thunderstorm, cool enough so that you could turn the AC off and actually open the windows without becoming instantly saturated with sweat.

And even the death-luge that is the Taconic Parkway wasn't badly congested.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Taconic - between its origin point near White Plains in Westchester County, heading north to where it intersects Interstate 84 - the Parkway alternates between wide-open, 3-lane highway with lovely green views and ample shoulders for emergencies, to 2-lanes of white-knuckling, soil-your-pants winding turns, cliff walls to one side of you, sheer drop-offs on the other- with only a ticky-tacky erector-set barrier (see photo) separating you and your fellow travelers from certain death - while driving 90 miles an hour in traffic lanes designed for those little cars that Shriners ride in parades, surrounded by already balance-impaired Westchester housewives in Navigators and Tahoes, yapping on cell phones, and 300-year-olds driving the largest possible Oldsmobile they could find, busily trying to find that pesky center line again.

As you can see - it's an adventure.

I should also explain that there are very few exits or pull-outs on the Taconic. It is a very strict and business-like little road, with little room for frivolous activities like flat tires or bodily functions. If you want a rest stop, use the Interstate, it seems to say.

Anyhoo - I had left work a little early to get ahead of the weather. A few sprinkles and splats of some very fat rain drops on the windshield as I headed north for home, but nothing serious.

Then as I approached the exit for Route 55 to Poughkeepsie, the sky began to darken very quickly and the NPR radio station i was listening to was suddenly broken into by the Emergency Broadcast System - you know, that annoying "Scrawk --- scrawk ---scrawk--" - which I hoped to be a test, but knew better from looking around me.

The EBS alert stated - in an unsettlingly mechanical, recorded phone lady response system voice - that a tornado alert had been issued for Dutchess County. Conditions were ideal for the formation of a tornado.

Okay - meanwhile - the wind has picked up to a degree that the trees on either side of the parkway are whipping and thrashing like the audience at a Sex Pistols concert. And the sky continued to darken.

The EBS alert continued by saying that the center of the fast-moving and powerful storm was expected to pass through Poughkeepsie around 5:50 pm, then through Pleasant Valley around 5:55, heading north-northeast towards Milan and Amenia - essentially following the Taconic's path.

I glanced up just in time to see the Pleasant Valley city limits sign - and to glance at the clock. 5:54 pm.

Jesus H...............

The skies opened and rain slashed down - the winds whipping and jerking as I tried to stay focused on the road. It became darker and darker still - my headlights barely able to cut through the gloom and rain - yet you could see that others on the road were accelerating to get somewhere - anywhere - just to get off this damned road. I succumbed and found myself doing 80 miles an hour, knowing the Millbrook exit was just ahead.

As I crested the last hill before the exit and ...oh my God. The rain abruptly ceased. The wind immediately died. And the sky turned a vile, greenish gray and black.

My heart almost stopped.

As anyone who has been through a tornado knows - there are a few sure-fire signs that you are about to get your ass kicked by a funnel with an attitude. The main three had just happened simultaneously.

I've survived three of these bad boys in the Midwest. I was about to apply everything I had learned but not practiced for a very long while.

I raced for the Millbrook exit, knowing that - at a minimum - I could hide under the overpass at the exit. But no. There was no place to safely stop - no shoulder under the overpass- and cars continued to whiz through. Then, just in front of me, two Oldsmobile Flotillas just stopped and were parked under the overpass by their fossilizing operators.

Heart racing - I sped past them - heading towards the storm - looking frantically for a safe place to pull off.

The colors in the sky continued to lurch around each other in a circular pattern, looking everything like a devil's milkshake - puke green colliding with leprous gray green, with a smattering of eternal darkness thrown in for fun. Rain had begun to fall again - blowing in sheets sideways across the road.

I finally saw the lights and signage of a roadside store - fresh poultry, eggs, venison. Whatever! I'm stopping there.

I slammed the car into a spot, grabbed my backpack with my laptop and phone in it (you're welcome employer, I saved the laptop) and dashed through the rain towards the entrance.

As it turns out, I had always wanted to stop at this particular shop - albeit in more ideal circumstances.

Two ball-capped, portly, bib-overalled gentlemen stood on the broad covered porch near the entryway, cell phones clasped in hand - watching the show.

I said, "Man - I think I got off the Taconic just in time - this looks pretty bad."

Billy Ray Jim Bob - the smarter of the two, I was to learn - responded. "Yeah - I wouldn't want to be on the road right now."

Bobby Earl, who was only smart enough to handle two names, piped in, " I dunno what the big deal is - you see a tornado - you run for cover. Buncha wussies, pulling over."

I was like, Hello! Wussy here! Standing next to you! Judging you - and you're losing!!

Then it began - hail - the final sign you are likely to get sucked up to Oz in the next few minutes. And rain - oh, the rain - we were approaching biblical. Hail as big around as nickels - larger than marbles. My poor car, I thought.

You could see trees being stripped of their foliage by the hail - horses in the field across the way huddling under the battered trees for shelter.

Three more cars had sought cover in the lot - all being judged quite loudly by Bobby Earl as being first class wussies.

Billy Ray Jim Bob quickly put a stop to his escalating stupidity by sending Bobby Earl in to shut off the AC and to retrieve the police scanner radio.

The he turned to me and said, " We do have a basement here, if need be."

A comforting thought. Me and Bobby Earl in a dark place underground. Wheeee.

The others in the parking lot remained in their cars - their eyes wide as the hail pummeled their vehicles.

Bobby Earl returned with the radio - the police band was buzzing. "Trees down on Acacia Lane"...sqweeee ... "Motorists trapped...fallen trees on vehicles..." ...squawwwkkk...."Officer needs assistance.."" "Flooding..." "Stranded cars..."

I was very happy at this moment to be a weather wussy.

I called home to let B know where I was, that I was going to sit out the storm before continuing home, and to please send the search team here if he never saw me again. I'd be the one in the collapsed building's basement, likely fighting off Bobby Earl's repressed tendencies.

...wait.........just threw up a little...ok...yup...bleah... continue....

As we watched the storm rage and parking lot flood - the hail continued for another five minutes. Billy Ray Jim Bob went into the store to lock down the gun shop. Yes - the GUN SHOP. This was where I chose to stop.

Combination gun shop, tackle and bait, fresh poultry and game - freshly killed, as advertised - with shelves full of Italian risottos and delicacies, truffle and olive oils, fresh pasta and soy milk. It was the summing up of Dutchess County in one roadside store.

Rednecks, weekend yupsters and Westchester wannabes - driving their Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs to deliver their children to the nearest private school so they won't have to muck in with the locals. And oh - wouldn't it be lovely if we could pick up some quail eggs, prosciutto and live ammunition on the way to have our Valium refilled at the Rite Aid?

But I digress. (Don't I always?)

With the crackle and buzz of the police radio behind us, Billy Ray Jim Bob and I kept craning our necks out to listen for the sound of an approaching freight train - one we hoped we would not hear.

Meanwhile, I was being treated to a dissertation from Bobby Earl on the improved traction of warm tires over cold ones - which we wussies had brought upon ourselves by stopping our cars, instead of continuing on our way - only pausing to ask me if I ever watched NASCAR, because you know - before those cars start racing, they zig-zag a bit to get those tires warm and BAM! they're off like a shot.

Managing not to look too shocked and repulsed, I managed to reply, "Really? How interesting."

He took this sign of approval much as a dog appreciates a pat on the head and continued to explain how lighting actually comes from the ground.

The storm raged - the hail finally abating. As I mentally prepared to resume my journey home, I figured I should show my appreciation for the shelter, so I purchased a fresh chicken from Billy Ray Jim Bob. I made a mental note to stop again if the chicken was good.

A few minutes later, I dashed through the rain to my car - lightning still zapping everywhere around us - and continued the ride home.

Driving westward, the worst of the storm eventually passed.

The roads were only visible through tire ruts in a carpet of green and brown - leaves and branches shattered by the hail. Snowdrifts of icy hail lined the roadside.

Entire intersections were underwater - yet brilliant minds of the future continued to race their second-hand Saturns through at full speed.

As I crept home - avoiding fallen trees and submerged roadways - the fog and steam resulting from ice and water being suddenly thrust on roads on an 85 degree day made it difficult to even see in front of you - let alone get anywhere near the speed limit.

Finally, as I crossed the Kingston Bridge across the Hudson - the river reflecting the still-tortured skies above - I sighed a sigh of relief and patted the plastic bagged carcass next to me and said, "not today, little chicken, Not today."

Thursday, June 12, 2008

You GO, Girl!!

Hooray and congratulations to Stephanie Izard, the first female Top Chef.

In addition to being a damned fine chef, Stephanie was also a gracious competitor, a real team player and just an all-around nice person. That - along with her fellow contestants Richard and Antonia - made the last few weeks the most enjoyable Top Chef season yet. No bitter acrimony, no yelling or fighting - just three talented chefs competing in a civil fashion.

Even the largely unlikable Lisa - whose unfortunate selection over the totally-likable Antonia to the final three was the only flaw in the end of the competition - was gracious at the end.

Kudos to the competitors this season. In the same year that we de-selected watching Hell's Kitchen for its low-grade, largely white trash talent and high levels of conflict and yelling - Top Chef more than made up for it.

Now we can focus on the new season of Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List and the human train wreck that is Flipping Out.

Summer will be fun.

Why I'm voting Republican

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

What the heck is Laura Bush doing?



For the whole hysterical take, check out Princess Sparkle Pony's Photo Blog. You'll be glad you did.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Eartha - then and now

Then (thanks to E! for finding this)


Now (thanks to P!)

The price of glamorous living


Well, kittens - we had a once-in-a-lifetime event this weekend. B and I, along with our friends P and E, schlepped into old Manhattan, where we had reservations at the fabulous, historic Cafe Carlyle at the Carlyle Hotel to see a living legend. Miss Eartha Kitt. Live and in person.

But it wasn't all fun and games...oh nooooo. It was an ADVENTURE.

First off, the temperature had topped ninety degrees - with an equally high humidity reading. So, anything you did - you'd sweat. And the Carlyle has a policy where gentlemen must wear jackets - ties suggested. You know - a class joint.

So - plans were made to get into the city the best way possible to enable the least sweating through of our dash clothing.

So - we opted for Amtrak. It costs quite a bit more than Metro North - but it's air conditioned and much more plush. And you generally get a better class of riders - people who won't steal your shoes while you sleep.

The problems started straight away. First - our train was a half hour late. We could see it- sitting half a mile out of the station. But for some reason - another Amtrak train was late coming the other direction and was on OUR track.

Ahem. That's why there are TWO tracks, Amtrak people.

Anyhoo - so there we stand - on the platform - in the heat. Convinced that it was preferable to stand in the minimal available shade than to climb the 3 stories of steps back to the nominally more comfortable station building.

Our train finally arrived - and we were seated and fairly comfortable. And not five minutes into our ride, we stopped.

Maintenance on the tracks, we were told. Just a few minutes delay, we were told.

A train ride from Rhinecliff to Poughkeepsie that normally takes 15 minutes - took 40.

P was angry. This was his first - and likely last - Amtrak experience.

The engineer attempted to make up time between Poughkeepsie and New York - and even though we were going to be cutting it close - P had called and changed our reservation to a half hour later - we knew we'd make it just fine.

So, we relaxed and tried to enjoy the ride. And then - as we approached Penn Station. We stopped. Dead.

There was another Amtrak train stalled in the tunnel we needed to use to get into the station. We had to wait until another engine could be brought to pull it out of the tunnel.

By the time we arrived at the platform, a 1.5 hour train ride had taken us over 3 hours. And we were hot and pissed.

P had called the Carlyle again when we were waiting for the tunnel to be cleared - they assured us if we made it by 8:30 (the show began at 8:45), they'd find something for us to eat. Dinner was a requirement to see the show - and vice versa.

So - we jumped in a cab and - to his credit - this guy made our evening by getting us there quickly and coolly - at 8:15. Hope was reborn. We dashed into the Carlyle and were immediately seated.

As it turned out, we were not the last to arrive and many people were just ordering their meals as we arrived.

The Carlyle - as you might expect was, in a word, simply swank. It was gorgeous and intimate and posh in every possible respect. You knew you were experiencing history and that it was a privilege to be here and to experience the legendary performers who call this home. After all, Bobby Short held court here for many, many years.

The service was unbelievable - you knew you were someplace special when the Maitre' d shooed the servers out of your way on the way to the restroom.

You couldn't help but feel special - and fabulous being here.

We ordered smart cocktails and specified flat water over sparkling. The room was abuzz - in that hushed, elegant kind of way. Barely heard crystal clinking over the hum of conversation. P&E sat on an upholstered divan on one side of the table while B and I were in chairs. Wait staff buzzed efficiently around us.

When the menus came - we knew what to expect - and weren't disappointed. Caviar - top shelf or domestic only $175 - 75 an ounce - entrees whose descriptions made your mouth water with ingredients you just don't have in your pantry at home.

B opted for an Amish Chicken - not sure what made it Amish, but at $38 for chicken, I am sure it was special. We decided that it came from a flock that shunned electricity and combustion engines.

E chose the NY Strip - a gorgeous piece of steak, OMG - while P and I opted for the "Bobby Short Chicken Hash" - made with truffle-whipped potatoes, foie gras and God knows what other fabulous ingredients. It was sex on a plate.

So - we dined and were treated like kings - queens, actually - LOL. We had time to peruse the room and look for the less than worthy so we could talk about them. B spotted two people in shirtsleeves (no jacket - gasp!) and bad hair - probably in some band - one of whom was wearing a hat. Indoors. It was all B could do not to snatch it off.

We had great seat as opposed to another male couple in the very back corner, so they were amusingly and visibly jealous of the queens in the good seats.

And next to P and I was the Eco -Warrior. The Eco-Warrior was someone who you just knew had either burned out their brain cells smoking too much rope or was born mentally deficient - and in either case, had more money than God. He looked like Edward Hermann with horn-rimmed glasses and was dressed in a pale, wrinkled and odd looking grey-blue linen (probably hemp) suit with some kind of eco-friendly, Greenpeace-y stamp under his back collar - in dark soy ink of bamboo trees and Mother Earth or some damned thing. Accentuating this potato sack of an outfit were open toed sports sandals, so we could clearly see his calloused feet and yellowing nails.

This was a bit of slap in the face, given that P and E had rushed out and bought new suits for the evening - and B and I - who rarely dress for anything anymore - had to empty the closet looking for fine garments that fit. I even de-selected ironing a green linen shirt for B, thinking it too "informal" for the event.

Had we known we could have just picked out any old thing and rolled around on the ground - we'd have been much happier.

Around 8:40 - the band began to take the stage - a percussionist, a piano player, a guitarist, a bassist and a trap-drum player. And then ...

she came.

Taking the stage in a bejeweled red wrap evening dress, the legendary Eartha Kitt began to sing.

Okay ya'll, this lady is 81 - and say what you will about her. Legend - or camp. Diva or caricature - this lady is a performer. No one had a better time in that room that night than Eartha. She sang to and played the men in the front seats - she was sultry and vampy and purring (minimally, so it was classy and fun - not overplayed).

And let me tell you, when she slipped one high-heeled leg out of the slit in that dress - putting it on the table in front of a man in the VIP seats - that girl has still got some sexy gams!

Eartha sang classics and new numbers from her yet-to-be produced one-woman show. She sang "I will survive" and "La Vie en Rose."

And at some point, P yelled out "go Catwoman!"

Amusingly, during her Edith Piaf salute and performance of La Vie en Rose - the Eco-Warrior buried his head in his arms and might have actually been sobbing. P also thought he was flirting with him most of the evening as he kept getting "footsied" by the Eco Warrior.

I think it's brain cells - poof. gone.

After an hour or so, Eartha left the stage - to enthusiastic applause and a standing ovation. She wandered among the VIP seats near the stage, shaking hands with the guests. P even sidled over to the VIP are and managed to shake her hand. He said "enchanted" and she simply moved to the next person.

It's interesting that she neither welcomed us when she took the stage, nor bid us adieu as she left. It wasn't rude or anything - it was just something you noticed after the fact.

So - happy, giddy in fact with our amazing meal and the experience, we opened the check that had been left on our table. E looked at it first.

In his always-calm way, he said, "well - I expected something like this but it's still a surprise."

P took it - and reacted visibly, saying "Oh my God."

I then took the check and could only say "Whoa."

I handed it to B who said something very similar to "damn."

The total bill for our evening - including the $100 per person charge to see Eartha was...

$941.00

With tip, we spent over a thousand dollars for the meal and show alone for four people.

Add in the $52 round trip Amtrak tickets, cab fare and two new suits - this ended up being a pretty pricey evening.

We quickly found ourselves out on the sidewalk, slightly stunned, looking for a cab. We then returned to Penn Station where we eventually boarded a train that DID NOT break down or sit outside of the station taunting us - and headed home.

And with only minor - but quite funny - instances of public drunkenness, nudity and sex from a couple in the front of our car, it was a largely uneventful ride home.

$941.

Damn.

It's expensive to be this fabulous. But someone has to do it.







Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Voice your support, New Yorkers!!


I just found out that New York Governor David Paterson’s office is taking a poll on whether or not New Yorkers support his decision to recognize same-sex unions from other states. If you’re interested in voicing your opinion, call 1-518-474-8390. All you need is your zip code and to voice your support to whomever answers.

Call now!!

First roses of the season


From our own backyard - mmmm - the scent is AMAZING!

Weird. LOVE

There is so much I love about this that I don't know where to start. Those clever Latvians!


Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Scenes from a wedding - Tonga style!

Meet my cousin, Tevita (aka Davita or "Little David" in his native Tongan language).

Tevita married his bride ‘Ilaisaane Afu (Saane for short) on May 15th in Nuku'Alofa, Tonga, where they currently share the home of my Uncle Dave and Aunt A'nau.

It was a small wedding - only 150 guests - so Uncle Dave only had to roast 11 pigs for the banquet.

My uncle went to Tonga with the Peace Corps in the early 1970s as a conscientious objector after his classmates were gunned down at Kent State University. His status as a CO during the Vietnam War was a HUGE scandal in my white Midwestern family.

I always admired him for following his conscience, however.

Uncle Dave married a Tongan woman who, to this day, is my absolute favorite relative. A'nau is funny, smart and has a vicious temper - especially where my scheming, manipulative maternal grandmother - her mother-in-law - was concerned (God rest her soul - which I doubt).

She comes from a family of 14 or 15 siblings - not uncommon - and runs a successful jewelry distribution business.

The sad part is, I don't even know my cousin that well. I remember their visits to the States when he was a toddler and a young, bratty kid - who happened to speak English, French and Tongan. My aunt and uncle were married on my 16th birthday in 1979, and I am about 24-25 years older than Tevita.

The bark and straw wraps you see them wearing are traditional garb for the islands. The men who wade out into the sea to catchy the day's fish wear just the wraps, which are folded over above the waist - and the fish are tucked into the waist until they wade ashore.

I'm guessing these are not the same wraps. LOL

Anyway, it brought a smile to my face to see my cousin again - and to see the features of my Grandfather's face blended in with my Aunt's family features. This is just too cool.

Here's the family all together, my aunt A'nau, Tevita, Saane and my uncle (like that was hard to pick out).


Congratulations, Tevita and Saane!!

Monday, June 02, 2008

Lies our elders told us


Over the weekend, I had occasion to recall some of the admonitions and warnings provided by my parents, grandparents and others - some that ended up totally screwing me:

  • "If a dog chases you, don't run - stand absolutely still." Wrong. I tried that one once - remember, Mom? Stuart ran across the street and I was savaged by a 200 lb St. Bernard. To the tune of Stuart yelling across the street, "He's biting you! He's biting you!" Actually, this is true. The trauma and blood loss apparently affected my ability to recall the incident and my own personal stupidity clearly.

  • "Dry your hair first after you shower or you'll die of pneumonia." Um, okay. Thanks. Gotcha.

  • "A paste of baking soda and water will take care of any wasp or bee sting." Until you have hobbled across your patio drooling, with your leg swollen to the size of a Volkswagen Jetta, I'll take benadryl and steroids, thank you.

  • "He who hesitates is lost." Unless you don't wish to be on yet ANOTHER corporate task force.

  • "Only bad boys know how to snap their fingers." Maybe so, but combined with the three-up, "oh no you didn't" gesture it will silence the weekender from Staten Island trying to cut in front of you at the deli counter. I should have run you over in the parking lot, by the way.

  • "You'll never be a success if you don't know to wash your face before your a**." That seems clear. No argument here.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

More garden glory


Poppies!!

I finally found my Buddha!

There's more great flora to be found on our Flickr photostream.