Rikki-Tikki-JAVVY!!!!!

I like to joke that I live in a ghetto.  I don’t REALLY.  I live in a city that does have many, many unsavory areas.  We, however, do not live in one of them.

My Shanty

That being said, I live on ¼ of an acre of property, which is considered sizeable for the ghetto, and my neighbors live close.  Because it’s a city, and because the houses are pretty close together, we don’t, generally, have much “wildlife” around.  We have the occasional rodent and my dog did kill the neighbor’s parrot (shhhhhhhhh!  Do NOT tell them) and  he has been plotting the death of a certain chubby squirrel, but that’s it.

Polly want a…Uh oh

At my Dad’s house he has everything.  Deer, squirrels, coyote, turkeys, elephants, foxes.. you name it.

My Dad’s Yard

At 5:30 this morning I let Javelin (The Weimaraner) out, while our Pitbull, Briscoe, peacefully slumbered, dreaming of marshmallows,  in his canopy bed (that little princess doesn’t wake until 11am).

Do not disturb

When I opened the door, Javvy took off like a SHOT to the back corner of our fenced lot.

I like to kill stuff.  So sue me.

I knew there was a hole in the fence in that area.

Briscoe, apparently, likes to sharpen his teeth on MY fence!   The  neighbors have put a piece of metal up against their side of the hole.  They have assumed Briscoe won’t chew metal.  The joke is on them.  He’ll chew it, digest it and fart it out within 45 minutes.

I heard the piece of metal fall but I assumed Javvy just knocked it over.  Next thing I see is a GIGANTIC raccoon- no joke the same LENGTH as Briscoe, who is, admittedly, shrinking, but still would make a HUGE raccoon if he had the proper wardrobe- climbing up a tree in my neighbor’s yard.  And then teetering along the tall picket fence next door and disappeared into someone else’s yard.

Oh.  Hi.

I look over and see my neighbor two doors down- apparently “waking and baking” at 5:30am- and I say to him “Hey, there is big old raccoon headed your way…”

Got cheese doodles?

To which he replies “Oh. Yeah.  That one has 4 babies.”

WHAT?!

And you KNOW that Miss Raccoon will set up shop for her and her kids in our yard, right?

This incident reminds me of ANOTHER funny incident involving Tony and a cat.

Many years ago, when Tony and I were merely dating- before he was shackled to me like a recaptured fugitive on the run after killing 7 men in Texas, we were house sitting at a beautiful home in Essex, Connecticut.  The master bedroom had French doors leading out to the lawn.

The family for whom we were house sitting had a menagerie of animals.  Many dogs, several cats, birds, fish, a hedgehog, etc.  With the exception of the birds, all of the animals were nice and great to care for.   The birds would lunge at my jugular a every opportunity.  The cats went in and out but normally came in for the night.

The Cats

On a side note, one of their cats was mute.  It was sad, but funny at the same time.  He would walk around – mouthing- MEOW. 

One evening, I went to lock all of the doors while Tony went into the bedroom.  He yelled to me “Darling, the cat is at the door in here.  I’m going to let it in.”

Don’t make me degrade myself by having to knock

I continued what I was doing until his statement registered in my brain.

“Tone- the cats are all inside.”  I yelled.  I thought for a second… WHAT is he letting in the bedroom?!?!!?  I thought he was letting in some other cat that didn’t belong in THIS house.  And I thought to myself- I can’t imagine how hard it would be to get a strange cat OUT of a 6,000 sq foot hourse.  So, I RAN to the bedroom yelling “NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo!”

Thank goodness the doors were a little tricky to open because it was NOT a cat at the door.   It was THIS:

Come on, guys!!  Let me in!

Apparently, they do not have raccoons in England.

What am I? (trying something different)

Here I sit, day after day.  Hanging on the edge of a cup.  The side of the cup separates me from my opposing twin.  When the girl comes, she claims me.  Using me to fix, her perception of, what is wrong.   

The girl doesn’t ask my permission.  She lifts me from my post and puts me to work.

She assumes I am ready and waiting for her.   Which I am.  But she shouldn’t assume this. 

My opposing twin is useless without me.  And I without it.  Together we work to change the canvas. 

Sometimes she uses me up top.  Sometimes in the middle.  Sometimes on the bottom.   The canvas is the same.  That is, until my work changes it. 

My work, however, doesn’t last.   The work I do is temporary.  But that means job security, I guess. 

Sometimes she doesn’t use me.  I may not be right for the job.  She, sometimes, uses the purple one.  But I know, I do a better job.  More thorough.

The purple one goes with her.  I don’t know why the girl chooses to take that one.  It hurts me.  I’d like to go too. 

 I’ve been with her for many years, through thick and thin.  When times are thick, I make them thin.  Then times are thin, I sit and wait. 

My paint is peeling.  The girl sends me away sometimes.  I come back to her renewed, wrapped safe and snug.  Bubble wrap protects me from them and protects them from me.

Once she left me in the car while she went on vacation.  I should have gone along, but I was not allowed to accompany her, at the time.   My picture was posted.  They called me dangerous.  Anyone who would use me to do harm should consider broadening their horizons.  For I am small, and any harm I could do would be minimal. 

I am called upon in times of frustration.  But when my work is finished, the girl is happy.  Until tomorrow,  when I am, again, put to work. 

The girl examines herself in the mirror and then uses me to fix the problems.   As the girl ages, she needs light to allow me to do my best work.  She pinches me and pulls, pinches and pulls, but I do not feel violated.  This is my purpose.

My work is fast, but lasts for a little while.   I know I make a difference in her life.   She stares and stares and stares.  She looks for trouble.  And she usually finds it. 

I believe I am useful to her.    Although, I long to be with her.  I want to be tucked in that little bag with all of the pots and brushes.  It would be nice to make new friends. 

Uh-Oh! SpaghettiOs

I sit in this little room. It is familiar. I can see the water, and it’s beautiful. I wish I could see this sight in times of joy.

I have a perspective of the city that I only have in times of despair. I see three church steeples, and the highway. In the distance, I can see the bright sign at Stew Leonards. I can’t see what is on sale, but I know something is. Probably Chicken.

Placed in my hand is my Uncle’s hand. His hand is swollen and bruised with some lines going in. His grip is strong. It’s a strength that is in disparity to the rest of what I see. Before me lies a man I have known since my birth. He is dying. He now weighs less than my dog. But on he fights.

His name is Padraic, Gaelic for Patrick. Padraic Gannon. It is pronounced Pour-igg. To me, he is Uncle Poo.

My sister and I joke that my uncle cannot be killed, but we were wrong.

I’ve been in this place before, with my mother. His sister. Looking out the window, the view is the same, the steeples, the highway, the chicken on sale. Then too, I held a hand which is slipping from my grasp.  I am at the Hospital.

Uncle Poo is unique. He grew up in Ireland, and he is one of six children, the oldest boy. His mother died of cancer when he was not quite nine. Six kids, the oldest was ten, left motherless.

After my grandmother died, the kids were wild. Their father worked and there was little supervision. “Here come the Gannon boys” the neighbors would say with a shudder.

My mother used to say that Uncle Poo’s real mother came up from South America and dropped him off in Ireland. This was not to disparage South Americans, but to say that Uncle Poo was VERY different than the rest of the family.

Different isn’t bad, it’s just different.

Of Uncle Poo, my mother said “There is nothing thicker than an Irishman, and he is the THICKEST.” Oh, and stubborn too.

Uncle Poo began smoking cigarettes at 10, a habit that would continue until he was 70, when he learned he had emphysema.

Oddly, seeing two of his sisters and a brother pass from lung related illnesses did nothing to make him want to quit.

I mentioned  he was THICK, right?

Thirteen years ago, he burned down his house while smoking. That did not make him want to quit either.

Yep. THICK.

When the fire fighters pulled him from the burning house, they thought he was dead. They even pull the sheet up over his head on the gurney. Clearly, they had no idea how stubborn he could be.

The day Uncle Poo decided to quit smoking, he put the cigarettes down and never touched them again. It was that easy. This left us shaking our heads. Although, that was generally what one was left doing after a conversation or interaction with Uncle Poo.

I don’t have an “earliest memory” of my Uncle Poo, because, since the day I was born,  he was just always there. And he usually brought doughnuts. My Uncle Poo would come over every Sunday to visit and would, seemingly, stay forever.

When I was a kid, Uncle Poo was great fun to have around. He would walk around the house with either my sister or me on his shoulders. When we would come to a doorway, he would always says the same thing “Watch your block.” This was his cue for you to duck so you didn’t hit your head.

As children he tortured us. He called it teasing, we called it torture.

He told us if we planted a feather, a bird would grow.
He told us to go look for invisible quarters.
He told us to go out in the yard and to dig to China.

It wasn’t all teasing, Uncle Poo had pearls of wisdom:

“The white cows give the white milk and the brown cows give the chocolate.”

“Did you hear about the man with the one eye called Casey? What was his other eye called?”

We guessed. And guessed. And guessed. But Uncle Poo never gave us the answer. Little did we know, his eyes didn’t have names, it was a joke about punctuation.

He liked to badger us with “Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh…” When asked what was wrong, he responded “SpaghettiO’s.” And then he would crack himself up.

This was nothing new. Uncle Poo tortured his siblings, long before he was called “Poo.”

Once my mother left Ireland for the United States, my Uncle ruled the roost. My Uncle Joe, Poo’s brother, told me this funny story. In his teens, Uncle Poo had a carpentry job. One day he came home from work with a cake. His four younger siblings gathered around him, sitting at his feet. Uncle Poo unwrapped the cake and cut it into 5 pieces. The kids thought “Great! One for him and one for each of us.” Not so fast… Uncle Poo proceeded to eat all 5 pieces of cake while his siblings sat there drooling.

There are so many funny stories about my Uncle Poo, but this one might be my favorite. Growing up, we had a large freezer in our basement. In it was stored items bought on sale, or things we would eat at a later date. One day, my mother handed Uncle Poo two half-gallons of ice cream, and asked him to “take them downstairs to the freezer.” No problem, my Uncle took the two containers, went downstairs and came back a few minutes later to his cup of tea.

Two days later, my mother went to the basement to retrieve something, and she found the two half-gallons of ice cream sitting outside the freezer… melted.

She got on the telephone to Uncle Poo, explained her findings and asked what the heck happened?!!?

“What do you mean?” Uncle Poo said incredulously “You asked me to take the ice cream down to the freezer.” The error was my mother’s. She never told him to put the ice cream INTO the freezer.

I said he was THICK. I think this was around the time when my mother started referring to him (to my father) as “your brother-in-law.”

As a kid, my Uncle loved to take us to Carnivals. The kind at the church parking lot- with the rides that were, in all likelihood, death traps. There was an instance where Uncle Poo “wandered off.” My sister, Patti, and I knew we needed to track him down, so we decided to go to the booth where they made announcements.

We knocked on the door to the booth and a dude came out and asked what we wanted? We explained that we needed to have our lost Uncle paged. Even at our young ages, we knew that “Uncle Poo” was not a name that should be announced over a PA system, so we decided to have him paged by his proper name. “Padraic Gannon.”

“Please page Padraic Gannon.”

“What?”

“Please page Padraic Gannon.”

“What?”

“Please page Padraic Gannon. POUR-IGGG GANNON.”

“You want to page ‘PORK Gannon?  As in PORK CHOP?!?!”

Patti and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and said “Close enough.”

“WOULD PORK GANNON PLEASE COME TO THE ANNOUNCERS BOOTH???”

He did and we were reunited.

Despite all of these silly antics, stories and torturous idiosyncrasies, if you needed ANYTHING, Uncle Poo was always there. I have known, in my heart, Uncle Poo would do anything for me.

He was always so strong, and a ridiculously hard worker. He was like an ant, he could life 50 times his body weight. He guarded his food like you were going to take it from him. He wasn’t one for flowery talk, but he took care of his family and always did the best he could. Although, he never told me he loved me, it was evident by his actions.

Last month, at the beginning of this ordeal, I was called to my Uncle’s house to try to help him get out of the car. He had just been diagnosed with bone cancer and he was unable to walk. He was in a tremendous amount of pain. His wife, Marcia, had gone to pick up some pain medication at the pharmacy and I sat with him on his front porch.

We sat there in the sunshine and talked.  He was very thin and frail. I had never seen him like this before. I leaned over to him and I said “You know I love you, right?” He stared straight ahead and nodded once. I nudged him and said “While we are waiting, do you want to look for some invisible quarters?” A tiny smirk came across his face.  Shortly thereafter, Marcia came back with the medicine and he took it and went inside to bed.

But I knew we had shared a moment. A moment I will never forget.

Over the past few weeks, I have watched Uncle Poo decline. He has grown thinner and progressively less responsive. But he remained stubborn. He ripped out his IV more than once, and continually tried to remove his oxygen mask. The nurses called him a pain in the ass, and, frankly, I couldn’t argue with them.

At the hospital one evening, I sat in the ICU holding Uncle Poo’s hand. Although he was weak, his grip was strong.

A nurse came in to discuss some things with my Aunt and cousin, they huddled in the corner talking. I leaned in and I said “Uncle Poo, you know Patti and I love you very much, right? You have been the best Uncle anyone could ever ask for. “

From under his oxygen mask, he whispered “I love you, too.”

It was the first time.
It was the last time.
It meant everything to me.

Last night I said a prayer. It was a prayer similar to the one I said before my mother died. “Please God, if he is ready to go, please take him. God, if you think you can handle him, please take him. Allow him to go in peace to be with his siblings and his parents. Please do not make him to suffer any longer.”

An hour later, Uncle Poo was gone and is now at peace.

May you always have work for your hands to do.
May your pockets hold always a coin or two.
May the sun shine bright on your window pane.
May the rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near you.
And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

Slainte, Uncle Poo

The Chronicles of Ray: A Tale in Two Parts

I have a friend named Dawn. She has been my friend for nearly 25 years. We met while working in jewelry store, called “RJ Walker” (not the real name). I was 20 and Dawn was 18. I had taken a semester off from college and Dawn was working to prepare to move to California, in a creepy van, with her then-boyfriend, Ryan.

This jewelry store wasn’t normal. This could be the understatement of the year. It might be the understatement of the century. Let me try to explain.

The jewelry itself, predominantly, was sterling silver. The owners bought in bulk, therefore getting exceptionally low prices. Even with their mark-up, the retail prices were very reasonable. Earrings ranged from $7 to $50, with most being in the lower range- $7 to $20. They were perfect for birthday presents – one kid to give to another. Plus the store provided free gift wrapping. And the selection was CRAZY. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of earrings to pick from. They also had bracelets, necklaces, charms, rings, crystals (yeah, it was the 90’s).

The store also had an “Estate Jewelry” section. Dawn and I were not allowed anywhere near the estate jewelry cases. Only the owners and the store manager, Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover, were allowed to go into those cases. While I’m sure the pieces were fairly priced, our grubby little paws were not permitted to touch those cases.

The stuff of my nightmares

Because they had such a huge selection, the jewelry cases were packed with stuff. And it all had to be straightened and arranged, and straightened, and polished, and straightened and the tags fixed and straightened… you get the picture. The bulk of the day, we would straighten the cases. And then around 2pm, the rush would start.

May I help you?

The store would fill up with people browsing. Then they would buy and we would write up the sales slip by hand, box and wrap the item and send them on their merry way. The customers LOVED the store.

Behind the scenes, it was an asylum.

The owners were a married couple, Ray and Jan Neurotic (again, not their real last name. I got the last name by opening the dictionary at random and pointing to a word. No joke, that’s the word I picked at random.). They were both nerdy and unattractive. My guess is they were probably around 40. They seemed old to me, but in truth, they could have been in their mid to late 30s. Jan could have been very pretty if she used a little make-up and wore some non-circa 1973- librarian clothing. She had long, straight, red hair. She always wore it pulled back severely in a tight bun. She had beautiful, alabaster skin… but she had a huge, unsightly, hairy, annoying growth… his name was Ray, her husband.

Ray

Ray and Jan were making a fraking bundle with this store, the customers loved them… but if you worked for them, it was a whole different story.

Jan was nice, actually. I always felt like, maybe, she had been tricked into marrying Ray. Like, maybe she lost a bet or had been sold into some type of white, hairy slavery. Jan had a few little quirks, but she did snicker, under her breath at Ray, which was always amusing. Jan was not nearly as self-important as Ray. I think she hated the customers, she didn’t voice it as much as Ray.

The physical sight of Ray could be daunting. He was a tall man, and was on the enormous side. Ray resembles something out of a 70’s horror p*rn film. He is Ron Jeremy-esque, only not as sexy, and hair-free.

That’s right, I’m the SEXY one

Ray had a white man’s afro, a full moustache and beard. And when I say full, I am talking about Grizzly Adams-full.

Ray looked like Grizzly Adams. Well-Grizzly Adams if he had fought a bear for a ham sandwich. Ray, also, wore wrap-around mirrored Oakley sunglasses.

I’m so cool

Some guys could get away with wrap-around mirrored Oakley sunglasses. Ray is not one of them.

He was always dressed in a suit and wore an “interesting” tie. In fact, customers would comment on his tie, to which he would reply “Oh, I decided to tie one on!” Har Har Har Har. Har.

Let’s tie one on, shall we?

Ok, the first time, maybe it is slightly funny. Slightly. But after hearing it every day, at least 4 times per day… I’m over it. I wanted to “tie one on” to his throat and pull tight.

Ray is great. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Ray believes he is, absolutely, the smartest person in the room…and by “room,” I mean universe. He knew more about everything than anyone.

INCONCEIVABLE!

Vizzini stole his line from Ray’s mindset “Have you ever heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates? MORONS!!”

Ray believed he was, certainly, better than Dawn and me, but also better than the people who shopped in his store. As soon as the store emptied out, he would nitpick, criticize and laugh at each customer that he felt was not as perfect as he was- which was all of them.
• Whoa. She needs some plastic surgery.
• Whoa. She should stop getting plastic surgery.
• She should spend more money on her wardrobe, especially if she wants to keep that husband of hers.
• She should STOP spending so much on jewelry, especially if she wants to keep that husband of hers.
• Could you imagine waking up next to THAT every morning. (oddly, not said to his own reflection.)
• Maybe she should lay off the Baskin Robbins.
• She should shop down the street at that OTHER jewelry store.
• That guy is an idiot.
• Go have another drink.
• Ha! He can’t afford to shop here.
• Honey, stick with The Food Emporium.

It was endless.

Normally, I love that crap. However, these were the people who were supporting him. These were the people who, time after time, patronized his store. There were the people that paid for him to have a home and clothing. These were the people that laughed at his stupid jokes. These were the people who kept him in ham sandwiches. In my opinion, thinking something shitty and inappropriate is one thing, but saying it out loud is something entirely different.

Don’t get me wrong, both are BAD, but he was saying it in front of employees… employees who did not, as it turns out, sign a privacy or non-disclosure agreement. In my opinion it was irresponsible and frankly, it was just a shitty thing to do.

Dawn and I worked in the shop from 8 to 6, Monday through Friday. The pay, at the time, was GREAT. The Minimum Wage in 1991 was $4.25. We made $8 per hour. Which would have been great, except a considerable portion of my salary went to pay for the parking tickets I would get- literally EVERY DAY.

The town had parking meters, and even though I would feed the meter every two hours, they would ticket me because my car was in the lot for longer than two hours. So thanks Gottrocksville, CT- I’m sure my parking tickets put a new wing on the Town Hall. Jerks.

Ray and Jan had a few rules.

1) No perfume in the store (if you had perfume on, Jan would stand over you while you scrubbed off)

2) You could not leave the store for your lunch break – this way, if they got busy, they could SNATCH you, mid-bite, from your soggy, stale sandwich at any moment.

3) Conversation in the store was prohibited. Ray, Jan and Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover could talk to one another, and they could talk at us, but Dawn and I were not permitted to speak to one another, unless it was jewelry related.

To clarify, Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover- phonetically, must be pronounced:

Liz Hooooooooooooooper Lessssssssssssssbian Lovvvvvvvvvvvvah.

Are we clear?

We had a radio in the store. And the station we listened to played the same two songs over and over and over. Whitney Houston’s Star Spangled Banner and Gloria Estefan “Coming out of the Dark.”

I‘m coming out of the dark

Gloria had just recovered from her bus accident and had to have a steel rod put into her spine. Despite Dawn and my unwavering love and concern for the health of Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine- we heard that song so often we wished she had died.

Ray and Jan did not anticipate a friendship developing between Dawn and me. Dawn and I developed an entire language of talking with our eyes. Their No-Talking Rule only drove Dawn and I closer together. Every evening after work, we would regroup in the parking lot out back, and rehash the ridiculousness of the day.

Each day would start with Ray sending one of us (usually me) to a local Deli to get his lunch. The Deli was about ½ a mile away and the sandwiches were pricey. Like $6 or $7 (in 1991) Keep in mind, the time is 8:30am… and I’m ordering his LUNCH. Even the best sandwich is not so tasty sitting for 4 hours in a musty, hot back room of a jewelry store/ asylum. Every day, I’d take the lunch order. Jan would get varying meats- sometimes turkey, sometimes ham, sometimes tuna… Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover would eat nothing but celery sticks and Dawn may or may not order a sandwich. Ray would always order the same thing: HAM. Every. Cotton. Picking. Day.

It’s what’s for lunch…every day

Me: Ray, what do you want for lunch?
Ray: Hmmmmmm, Ham. On a hard roll. Actually, double ham- they never put enough on there, swiss and…Oh, I’ll go crazy, have them put a little chutney on there too.
Me: Ok.

(Not for nothing, but a typical Deli usually puts a TON of meat on any sandwich. But Ray realllly, loves his ham.)

I realize this isn’t Ham, but you get the point.

And then Ray would peel off a $20 from his fat bill-fold and place it on the counter in front of me.

Ray’s wad

He never handed it to me, he just laid it on the glass counter. He had plenty of $20’s in the bill fold and I have to say, monetarily speaking, Ray was generous and he would often treat us to lunch, which was nice. Of course, he was such a colossal douche that when he bought you a sandwich, you felt it was well-earned.

Every day, Ham. Monday? Ham. Tuesday? Ham. Wednesday? Ham. Thursday? Ham. Friday? Here is a shock, Ham.

One day, I saw a glimmer of hope. Change was on the horizon.

Me: Ray, what do you want for lunch?
Ray: Hmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmm. Today, I am going to have a hard roll, with egg salad.

Dawn and I both looked at each other… WHAT?!?! Egg Salad?!?! Wow. I’m pretty sure Egg Salad is the 6th sign of the Apocalypse.

Oh yes, it’s right there in the Bible- “And I saw the seven angels which stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets and an Egg Salad Sandwich.”

Look it up.

I grabbed the money and the order and started to leave and Ray stopped me “Oh Rachel…. Can you have them put some Ham on the side of that sandwich?”
I replied “Right. Side of ham.”

(Yeah, there was a girl that worked there on the weekends named Rachel. Rather than learn our names, Ray just called both of us Rachel.)

When I was hired, we did not review the roles and responsibilities associated with fetching Ray’s lunch. I did, however, assume a reasonable level of responsibility in insuring Ray did, indeed, receive lunch each day. Before I would leave the Deli, I would check to make sure I had the entire order. Any idiot knows not to poke a hungry wookie, so I always checked the bag to make sure Ray’s sandwich was there. I knew it was Ray’s because it was four times the size of every other sandwich. Ok, maybe not four, but it was noticeably larger because 3 pounds of ham tends to take up extra space.

The sandwiches were wrapped in white butcher paper, secured with a piece of masking tape. Because they were wrapped in opaque paper, I could not, visually, check the sandwich to insure the meat was correct. Well I could, but I would have had to un-tape the parcel, remove the paper and inspect the sandwich. I was a good employee, but even I wasn’t going examine a ham sandwich in the alley between Pongetti’s Flooring and the Texaco station. Net/Net, I had to place a modicum of trust in the Deli Dude, I believe his name was Scott, to make the order correctly.

One day, I returned to the store, with two sandwiches and, what I thought to be, Ray’s whole suckling pig…on a hard roll…with a little chutney.

Ray’s lunch

At Ray’s designated feeding time, ham was dumped into his trough… and there was a problem. His ham was, in fact, chicken. You thought Apollo 13 presented a problem???

Ray bounded up the stairs, with the sandwich in paw “Rachel! I ordered a HAM sandwich. This is a CHICKEN sandwich.” shoving the sandwich in my face, chicken remnants clinging to his beard and his “interesting tie.”

I apologized.

He asked me if I checked the sandwich.

I told him, Yes, I checked that I received a sandwich FOR him.

“Why, Rachel, did you not check to make sure you bought me the correct sandwich.” Ray spat.

I stood there looking at him. “I assumed the correct sandwich was put in the bag.” I replied.

As soon as it was out of my mouth, I new it was a mistake. I ASSUMED. And you know what happens when you assume, right?

Apparently, Ray thought I should be standing over the guy making the sandwich so I could guarantee he made the sandwich WITH HAM. Because that wouldn’t be weird for anyone involved.

I wanted to tell Ray to get his own goddamned sandwich and to stop being such an ungrateful jerk. Plus- eating ham every day can’t be good for you. Ever consider a salad you big, hairy oaf?!?!  I, however, kept silent.

Ray turned away from me. I thought, perhaps, he might be taking a moment to collect himself, we were, after all, talking about a SANDWICH. I didn’t steal from him. I didn’t crash his car. Nope. Ray was looking for a weapon.

Ray’s weapon of choice

Ray picked up the adding machine and threw it at me. Thankfully, Ray has the throwing skills of a sightless, armless baboon. The adding machine hit the counter and shattered into multiple small pieces. He grabbed his chicken sandwich and stormed downstairs.

I looked around. Jan had her head down, straightening a jewelry case. Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover assumed the same stance a few cases down. Only Dawn looked at me. She smiled her toothy grin, brought her fist up to her chest and quickly mimed “jacking off” in my direction.

Excuse me, do you mind if  I wax my porpoise

I proceeded to drag the cumbersome, ancient Electrolux vacuum out of the closet and clean up the pieces of the adding machine- biting the inside of my cheek to suppress my smile and laughter. Thank goodness we had Gloria Estefan to drown out my little snickers.

I fantasized, across town, Stan Brooks, CPA opens his lunch bag and finds a Ham Sandwich instead of his usual Chicken. In my mind he does not yell. He does not pout. He does not hurl electronic mathematical aids in anger. He puts his feet on his desk and says “Cool. I haven’t had Ham in a long time. But who the fuck put chutney on this thing????”

I learned two things from that episode. 1) Ray is spoiled child and 2) I had found a true friend in Dawn.

~TO BE CONTINUED~

A Rose by any other name…

My mantra, in general, is “I hate people.” And believe me, at times, it is warranted.

I am constantly amazed at the rudeness and cruelty I come across. Me? Yeah, I know, I tease and joke, and I judge … but anyone who knows me- truly knows me- knows that I would give a stranger the shirt off my back.  I am nice.  And many times, I get treated like garbage. One would think I would learn my lesson, but I don’t. I would rather give to someone and have them crap on me, and be able to sleep at night knowing I did the right thing than ignore someone who needs help.

That being said, when I see someone acting mean, I will call them out.

Today, something crazy transpired, normally I would say I’m speechless, but let’s face it, that rarely happens. Boy, oh Boy, do I have speech!

Of course, this stems from Facebook- or as I like to call it:  the root of all evil.  This afternoon, a “friend,” for these purposes let’s call him Dick (no offense to those named Dick or actual penises) – posted the following on Facebook:

“For today’s poll, who is more repulsive? Roseanne or Rosie O’Donnell? Feel free to vote.”

He then posted these photographs of them.

Ok, not the most flattering of either one. The photo of Roseanne is taken from her unfortunate performance of The Star Spangled Banner at a MLB game. Yes, it was horrible- I love my country and I thought it was disrespectful. BUT Roseanne has since publicly express regret and remorse for this “performance.” And actually sang the National Anthem again, nicely, to try to make amends.

The photo of Rosie… yeah, I can’t even explain it. It’s unflattering, sure. And she’s picking her nose… jokingly. But I defy you to say you have never picked your nose! But you probably haven’t done it on web cam, but I digress.

I was the first person to post a comment. I posted this:

“Why do you think they are repulsive?”

I was hoping that maybe he would say “These pictures are both gross.” Ok, I could have accepted that. As I said, they were not good pictures of either women.

A few other people chimed in saying things like:

“It’s a tie.”
“Roseanne”
“Rosie is a fat pig.”
“Roseanne is a disgrace”

You get the idea.

Then Dick posted that everyone should “you tube” Donald Trump vs Rosie O’Donnell. And that Roseanne’s performance of the National Anthem was disgraceful.

Everyone has feelings about Donald Trump. Rosie and Donald Trump argued publicly. Mean things were said on both sides, however, in my opinion, his attack of Rosie O’Donnell was ridiculous. He attacked her weight and her appearance and I consider those things to be low blows. Certainly Donald Trump is an intelligent man- he would not know such success if he was not. However, these types of attacks only show ignorance and make him look like a jerk.

A few more people chimed in that both are repulsive, etc.

Now, I’ve heard extensive interviews with both women and watched their shows. I know there is much more to both women than an ill-conceived singing performance and a web-cam nose picking. I felt compelled to comment.

Let me preface it by saying- these are my words, I stand by them. I knew it might cause an “issue.” But as I said, when someone is mean I don’t stand by quietly. Do these women need me- Kristin- a NOBODY- to defend them? No, they do not. But by the same token, the post was mean spirited, and thoughtless. I could have ignored it. But it was mean, disgusting and made me mad.

I posted this:

“Hmmm, let’s see which one is more repulsive…
Roseanne broke the “glass ceiling” for women in comedy. She’s been nominated for countless awards and employed hundreds of people for the better part of 10 years.

Yes, she sang the Star Spangled Banner badly, in 1990- an incident she has publicly expressed regret over. She has since sung the National Anthem- nicely at other baseball games.

Wouldn’t you love to have your nose, repeatedly, rubbed in a mistake you made in 1990- 23 years ago?

Roseanne lives, almost entirely, off the land, growing her own vegetables and fruit on her Macadamia Nut farm. What she doesn’t use, she donates to the poor in her community in Hawaii.

Rosie donated her $3MM book advance to start her For All Kids foundation to help institute standards in day care facilities across the US. The same foundation has given over $22MM in grants to over 900 non-profits, and helped local non-profits to assist people displaced by Hurricane Katrina.

When P&G announced she was the most “Un-kissable” celebrity, she donated donated bottles of Listerine mouthwash to her audience and donated $1,000 to charity every time a guest would kiss her- she donated more than $350K through that effort. Her “broadway kids” foundation benefits more than 4,500 teachers, students and families. She has donated $50MM of her salary to other charities, and has contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to war veterans who have lost limbs in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Oh, and she has given a loving home to 4 adopted children.

Hard to say which is more repulsive.”

I don’t claim to know everything about either Roseanne or Rosie. I’m sure they have both made their share of mistakes and have regrets. But both women, pretty much, put it all out there. Both have had trailblazing careers. You may love them or hate them, but can you think of anyone who has changed “the rules” and not had supporters and detractors?

Shortly thereafter, whist on the treadmill, my phone “peeped” with a Facebook message from, you guess it: Dick.

Dick: I deleted it in your honor. Did not mean any harm.

Of course I responded.



Me: You didn’t “harm” me. Just thought it was mean. Don’t delete in my honor, delete it because it was not a nice thing to say.

Dick: It’s already gone. But, I still don’t care for them at all. Nice that they give back. Just find them historically obnoxious. 



Me: It’s obvious you don’t know much about either of them other than what they look like or a few missteps. Maybe read more about both and you won’t be so repulsed.

Dick: a few? ok. I’ll get on that.


Me: Ok, list their missteps for me and i would be happy to reconsider their repulsiveness.

Dick: I care not to waste time on such silliness. Have a nice evening.



Me: Silliness. The post said more about you than it did about them. Maybe consider that.

Dick: Wow! Apparently several others saw it for what it was, a joke. had a laugh and moved on. You make more fun of your husband than I did about them. Consider that. 



Yes, I do make fun of my husband. But I never say anything truly hurtful about him. And I never say anything that he would not say about himself. Furthermore, I tell my husband I love him a thousand times a day. I know I am lucky to have him and we are partners.

But Dick wasn’t finished with me. He decided to REALLY let me have it. He was REALLY going to show me the kind of person he REALLY is.



Dick: You are bounced. huge loss in my life. maybe you defend them because you are fat too. maybe you defend them because you are ugly too. maybe you defend them because you are a lesbian. either way, I don’t care. Grow up.

Obviously, I couldn’t respond because I am blocked. Boo Hoo. I’m not sure how I will be able to go on. How will I ever be able to live without his ignorant, homophobic rants? Good thing I have a blog!!!

Am I fat?  Yeah. Most people would probably say I am fat.

Am I ugly?  Maybe. But my husband tells me I am beautiful every single day.

Am I a lesbian?  Well no. But I have a lot of gay friends and let me tell you, they are amazing people. They are authentic and are living honestly. They have to struggle in life just to be themselves. They have to fight for the same rights as every other member of society. I love, admire and respect each and every one of them.

Do I need to grow up? Yeah, probably.

And I would rather be a fat, ugly, childish lesbian than to be an ignorant, hateful, superficial homophobe who gets off on being mean to other people.

I think we both showed our true colors.

The Mom Cookie

I have a friend, she lives in Connecticut and her family lives in the Mid-West.  She doesn’t get to see her Mom very often.  However, whenever she does, her Mom makes her chocolate chip cookies.  We always laugh about how many cookies she is going to inhale.   One day I texted her a picture of a plastic wrapped cookie from our office cafeteria.   I said I’m sure this cookie “pales in comparison” to her Mom’s homemade cookies.

Not a MOM cookie

As I sat there and stared at my pathetic little plastic wrapped cookie, I realized I was sad.  I haven’t had a “Mom cookie” in a long time.  My mother died in 1989 and had been sick for several years prior to her death, so I don’t think I’ve had a “Mom cookie” in 25 years.

Sure, I’ve had other cookies that other Moms made- and they are delicious.  I am a chef, I can make a cookie- and it would be delicious.  Let’s face facts,  even the worst cookie is still pretty good.  But somehow a cookie from my Mom isn’t just about the cookie.  It’s about more.

If your Mom makes you cookies or pancakes or anything… she loves you.   Even if she just gives you a tiny box of cereal on the breakfast table… she loves you.   If she reads to you, she loves you.  If she plays a game with you, or colors or helps you with your homework, she loves at you.  If she screams at you for being a stupid idiot, your Mom loves you.  I wish I had appreciated these small things more when I had the opportunity.

My Mom

I didn’t know how much I loved her.  You only know that kind of love by its absence.

It’s not that didn’t tell my mother I loved her.  I did.  I had the opportunity to say everything I wanted to say.  However, I was 19 when she died… 43 year old Kristin would probably say very different things than 19 year old Kristin.

My Parents

If I could have my mother back for 15 minutes… or even 5 minutes, I would tell her the following:

• Thank you for making me call you to check-in wherever I went.  As a teenager, I hated it.  I rolled my eyes and cursed you, because I wanted to do things and go places that you would not have allowed.  That check-in call kept me out of a tremendous amount of trouble.  I still got in a, more than, acceptable level of trouble, but I would probably be in jail or living under a bridge without the upbringing my amazing parents gave me.
• Thank you for sticking your cold hands under the bed clothes- jolting me out of a sound sleep.  You taught me not to waste the day, get up and GO.
• Thank you for providing me with a freshly prepared dinner- Every.  Single. Night.    And thank you for insisting we sit down as a family for dinner nearly every evening.  This is SO rare today, but I am happy I had in my childhood.
• Thank you for making me eat lima beans.  They disgust me to this day, but this taught me to be polite and eat what I am given and not to be a pain in the ass about food.
• Thank you for allowing us to have dogs.  The bulk of our dogs were complete head-cases, and this made me appreciate the dogs I have now.   I have good dogs.
• Thank you for teaching hard work pays off… eventually.
• Thank you for teaching me to not to be selfish.  Being able to give to or do for another is a gift.
• Thank you for threatening me with death if I was rude or mean or out of line.  That taught me how to speak to people with respect.  A lesson MANY people in this world don’t get.
• Thank you for teaching me manners.
• Thank you for teaching me that good things come to those who wait and not to settle for anything less than you deserve.   I have a terrific husband.
• Thank you for teaching me to value an adventure.  Sometimes she and I would drive down roads we had never driven down before… just to see what was there.
• Thank you for teaching me that adventures are great, but coming home feels awesome too.
• Thank you for teaching me that it’s ok to laugh and to be silly.  Silliness is where I live.
• Thank you for bringing me Hostess Cherry Pies when you would grocery shop.  Of course, my fat ass and thighs aren’t so thankful, but you knew I liked them and wanted to make me happy.

And most of all:

• Thank you for allowing me to hate you for being a mean Mom.  You loved me enough to let me hate you.   (“Hate” is strong- perhaps “dislike due to teenage angst” might be more fitting.)  You were not my friend.  You were my mother.  You were mean because you were trying to turn me into a functional, contributing member of the human race.    Mission accomplished.

It’s these, seemingly, small things, that are actually BIG things, that we can take for granted.    I see kids having screaming fits and I think… that wouldn’t have happened on my Mom’s watch.  Well, it might have, but I would have wound up in a coffin.

I read about kids who get in trouble, stealing or doing drugs and I appreciate that I grew up in a prison camp.  I learned how to behave and when I didn’t you reminded me.  Sternly.  And sometimes with weapons.

My Mom, me and my sister, Patti

I try to live my life with without regrets, and honestly, I have only one true regret in life, and it is something I can’t fix or undo, so I just try not to think about it.   Even though I would give anything to have my mother back, I don’t regret losing her.  I am so grateful that I had her for as long as I did.  I wouldn’t be me otherwise.  My Mom lives, tucked away, inside my heart. I wouldn’t know how much I loved her if I hadn’t lost her.

Although… a “Mom cookie” would be nice.

Mary Ann 

May 18, 1938 – April 20, 1989

Text Messages, when isolated, can be funny:

I haven’t posted in awhile.  I have some thing written, but am not certain they are funny.  They might be, but I need to mull it over.  So until my mulling is complete, I give you the following.  I went through the text message conversations between me and 3 or 4 of my friends.  While the full conversations are funny, I find single isolated texts to be rather amusing.  Perhaps you will too.

• I REQUIRE tacos

• Brandon Fernandez is getting a shellacking!

• Just washed dog’s butt with a soapy washcloth.  It was awkward for both of us.

• Maybe you will inspire a second book about horse tampons.

• On the bright side, maybe she is just doing meth.

• Hail Mary full of Butter.

• You should be able to distract them with your tatas.

• Texting like an illegal Mexican Immigrant is more challenging than one might think.

• Poor James Brolin

• Tell Dan to take his pants off.

• I am in Victoria’s Secret… how do people wear this shit outside of porn videos?

• I think I’m going to buy you an inflatable beard of bees for Xmas

• She is drunk and on our couch

• My application to hell was accepted in 1984 so it doesn’t get much worse than that.

• I really wish he and she would start f*cking each other so they can stop junking up my wall.

• She said you were helpful… which didn’t sound like you.

• Does this mean I’m in a 4-some now?

• Most problems are solved with a good log flume ride.

• All life lessons lead back to The Brady Bunch.

• We need someone heartless to tell her she is a constant complainer who brings everyone down.  We need a German to handle it.

• Perfect… hopefully I will just be getting off.       My reply:  That’s what she said

• As a reminder: You are gross.

• If it makes you feel better, I hurt my back and can’t wipe my own butt.

• That email made me want to pee in the plants.

• From what I can see, your “drill” is out most of the time.

• I only go down at night

• I got macaroons.  But I see you tea-bagg’d your other hags.

• You, normally, love a good rear-ending.

• I woke up behind a potted plant.  I am missing a shoe and my hip seems to be out of place.

More to come….

The Joys of Womanhood

Being a woman has countless  many  some  few  ONE perk.  They are  It is:  I don’t ALWAYS have to take out the garbage.

Beyond that…I am stumped.   What, exactly, are the joys of womanhood?

I know what I am supposed to say.   Woman is the most beautiful, amazing and unique creature in the universe.  Woman can conceive, incubate and give life.  Woman nurture and shape the human species. Woman is earth. Woman is light. Woman is peace.  Woman is love.

The Ideal

Now that we’ve gotten that happy nonsense out of the way, let’s talk turkey.  Being a woman is, sometimes, akin to being given a burning bag of dog crap.

The Reality

Let’s start with the obvious:  CHILDBIRTH.  I have never been through it, but I saw the video and it didn’t look like something I was interested in attempting.

Blood, pain, goop, and in the end you wind up with something that screams, projectile vomits and emits exploding poop for months, sometimes years on end.

Looks fun!

No thanks, I’ll pass.

If men had to go through pregnancy, give birth and breastfeed, you wouldn’t be reading this.   Why?  Because earth’s population would be ZERO.

Hello?

Seriously, men cannot handle that kind of pain!  If my husband has a big lunch and he complains so much I want to gag him and put him in the basement.

I’m stufffffffffffed

A few years back, I had two male friends who both had ingrown toenails.  Oddly, I had one too.   They both came back from the podiatrist, limping like Virgil Kint, with their feet bandaged, wearing sandals, in the middle of winter, because it hurt TOO MUCH to even THINK about putting on a sock or shoe.  They continued to wear sandals for a full week, as the pain was “EXCRUTIATING.”

photo credit: Bruce Barta, Blizzard of 2013

Ohhhh Crap.  What am I in for?

I went to the same podiatrist.  I was panicked.  I didn’t want to wear sandals in January!!  I relayed my nervousness to the Doctor.  He told me to “Relax.”  The doctor is about to assault me with a tiny hammer and chisel, but his merely saying “relax” puts me totally at ease.  Yyyyup.

Surgical weaponry

Approximately 45 seconds later, the Doctor said “Okay, you’re all set.”  Wait.  When, exactly, was the pain supposed to start?  And where was my big bandage?  I got a teeny Band-Aid®.  Do you know the one I’m talking about?  The little circle bandage that no one ever uses.

That one

I put my sock on.

I put my shoe on.

I was walking normally.

My male co-workers were certain I did NOT have the same procedure they had.  Trust me, I did.  I know because I asked.  As it turns out, the consensus from the medical community is, my co-workers are two cream puffs with low pain tolerance.

Topic #2: Periods.  Again, men could not handle this type of discomfort and inconvenience ONCE, much less every month for decades of their lives.

I have a good friend who, sadly, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and had to have a hysterectomy at the age of 36.  I went to the hospital with her.  I knew she was having surgery, but I wasn’t aware it could be cancer and the thought of a hysterectomy had never entered my mind.  When the doctor came out to inform me of her situation, I was devastated for her.  I cried.  I cried because I knew she wanted children.  I realize she can still have children through other means and /or methods, but I was sad for her, nonetheless.

My thoughts immediately went to God- which is odd because normally in times of crisis, my thoughts immediately go to Krispy Kremes.

Specifically the one in the top right corner

I asked God to take away her suffering and give it to me.  Well, God did.  I don’t know how much you know about God, but TRUST ME, he loves to “punk” people.

Since that day, my “flow” has been like the flow of TWO women… on blood thinners!!!  Thanks, Funny Guy!  I buy special Horse Tampons- only sold at Target…in the “agriculture section.”

Neighhhhhh

I use these in conjunction with various maxi pads, which I weave together with Tyvek and a Red Solo Cup, to make a quilt.

A quilt with wings.

The darn thing’s got wings

I’m a Menstrual Cycle MacGyver.

I can fix it.  I just need an orange peel and a paper clip

This is the level of equipment required to handle the carnage that is my monthly curse.   At my yearly gynecological visit, the doctor informed me, if my “flow” was too much to handle, I could elect to have male hormones injected and /or have my uterus cauterized.   Just what I always wanted– a lush, flowing man-beard and a burning bush!!

My future

Topic #3: Feminine  Foundations.  Undergarments, if you will.   Thanks to my Granny Grace, I was blessed with porn boobs at the age of 10.  I was gigantic.

This is what fell out of MY family tree

My boobs were so big, people felt like they could touch them, without asking, as if they were their own entity.  What? Why?!  I have no idea, but those things were colossal .  My boobs had their own zip code.

When I was 20 years old I had breast reduction surgery.   My mother had passed away the year before, so arranging this surgery with my DAD was super-uncomfortable, as you can imagine.

Post-surgery, my friends called me:  Frankenboob.

So, great, yippeee!!! I have smaller boobs.

Except now, 20-some years later, I am blessed with a phenomenon I call “side boob.”

Guess again

And I’m not talking about cute side-boob like Miley Cyrus shows at The Grammys- I’m talking about- What is that?  Where did it come from?  HOW DO I CONTROL IT?!- side boob.   It looks like I am carrying a French baguette under each arm.  T

Hot and Crusty

here is a show on the Discovery Network dedicated to the tracking, photographing and eventual capture of my side Boob.   It’s called “Hunting Honey Boob Boob.”

It’s a real show, y’all

And bra fittings?  Women who perform bra fittings (and I’m not talking about the 32AA chicks at Victoria’s Secret) are a breed of their own.

Show me your tits

As a rule, they are heavy set, mustached, thick-accented-Eastern-Europeans, and they can’t wait to get their hands on your boobs.  When I was a teenager, my mother would bring me to the “Old Lady Underwear Store” (not its actual name, in case you were trying to Google it) to visit “The Booby Lady.”  She made me look small.  This woman had two Hindenburgs attached to her chest.  I got whacked with those things, more than once, while she tried to shackle me into my 36DDD rhinoceros harness.

My sister lives in Brooklyn, and is also blessed the “Giant Juggs.”  I recently went to a bra store there.  I was told they know their way around a boob.   The owner has been sewing bras since she was 8 years old.  She was manhandling boobs before she HAD boobs.    I was literally two feet inside the front door when the owner was tearing my shirt off and feeling me up.

 Seriously, she could have at least OFFERED to buy me a drink first?!?!   15 minutes later, I left the store $350 in the hole and immediately placed a call to Law & Order SVU.

Pantyhose, Spanx, Underwire Bras, Girdles, Thongs:  INVENTED BY SATAN.

Final Topic: Men.  If men had to deal with men, again– we would be at population zero.  I love my husband dearly but, outside of his career, he has minimal ability to learn new things.  At work, he is a genius.  He invents stuff and writes ground-breaking computer code, he is admired and revered.   At home, I might as well be raising a non-English-speaking toddler.

For years, he would put his dirty dishes on the counter.  Dish after dish, encrusted with food, left on the counter mere inches from the empty dishwasher.

I begged.  I pleaded.  I yelled.  I cried.  Six years in, I did manage to get him to put his dishes in the sink.  Baby steps, I figured.  The dishwasher is only one step further than the sink.  Perhaps, with proper training, one day we could get there.

They couldn’t be closer

I put in the time, taking him to “Husband Obedience Class,” hoping to, one day, reach my our goal:  put his dishes in the dishwasher without any wifely intervention.

I tried Scooby Snax, I sprayed him with a water bottle, I shook a coffee can filled with pennies at him, I called him “Good Boy,”  I even rubbed his nose in the dirty plates- nothing worked.    The answer was always the same “I’ll wash them later. “   Just to be clear?  “Later” never comes.

Finally, after having to clean one too many bowls encrusted with pasta and sauce, I snapped.  “Why, Tony? Why????”  I wailed, “why can’t you put your dishes in the dishwasher???”

“I JUST CAN’T DO IT, OKAY?!?!?!”  he yelled.

I burst out laughing.  I had my answer.  He just can’t do it.  Sounds silly, doesn’t it?  He just can’t do it.  But there are things I can’t do despite tremendous effort, like pee standing up and math.    We all have our limits, and Tony’s limit, apparently, is the invisible line between the sink and the dishwasher.   I can’t be mad at him, he has admitted defeat.  The dishwasher is his Achilles heel.

And why would I be mad??  As a woman, I have so many other wonderful gifts to celebrate.  I’d list them here, but unfortunately I need to take out the garbage and head to Target to restock my horse tampon supply.

Fearful Flyer

I have a love / hate relationship with Trader Joe’s.  While on one hand, I love them- it’s relatively quick to shop there, I always find yummy stuff.  On the other hand, I hate them.  I find that I always spend more than I intended, I feel like some of the products are not as fresh as they could be, and, by far, the biggest issue I have is, it’s a stable of the dysfunctional humans.  I hesitate to call them humans because I’m not, entirely, sure they ARE human.

On my last visit, I was on a mission to get 2 limes.  Because I wanted needed a Cosmopolitan when I arrived home.  I was also looking for Lychee juice… which I did not find.  I had not been to TJ’s in awhile, so I was happy to just browse.

I was tipped off in the parking lot, I saw a man getting out of his car.  Odd?  Well, no, not in and of itself, but he got out of the car while wearing a full-size camping backpack.  I would have thought he was a nomad, had I not seen him leave his vehicle.  I would have thought it was some type of back brace, however, I saw him wrestling with carts in the cart corral.  He was nimble, and he was feisty.  He did not appear to have a back injury.

Pack Mule for Hire

The man was wearing a fully-packed camping backpack, complete with a yoga mat and sleeping bag.  And a canteen hanging off the side.  Peculiar to take these items shopping.  Maybe his backpack is one of those “recyclable” grocery bags.  Yeah.  Maybe.  An already jam-packed recycle-able grocery bag.

But wait, there was something I failed to notice before.  The man was wearing hip waders.  He didn’t appear wet.  Nor were we experiencing a flood.  Hmm.  I could think of no other explanation than:  This man is a freak.

Sorry, the Internet isn’t teeming with pictures of Sherpas in Hip-Waders, so this will have to do

Moving on.  I don’t dwell on these things.  I am a freak magnet- so, honestly, business as usual.

As I entered the store, I see, two packs of foreigners huddling in various areas of the produce section.  A French Pack and a Chinese Pack.  Both packs are speaking among themselves, LOUDLY.

Oh wait, there is the Nomad, with a basket, I guess wrestling with the carts didn’t work out.  Sadly, I didn’t even notice because I was so focused on his costume.  I’m in the store for, roughly, 30 seconds at this point, and his basket is, literally, overflowing with produce.

Yes, he was in the store ahead of me.  But not an hour ahead of me.  He was in the store, maybe, 10 seconds before me.

So he’s a nomadic, fisherman/backpacker, vegetarian/vampire.  Or maybe he’s on the Amazing Race.  I can’t be sure.

Back to the Foreign Diplomats.  The French family is picking through the vegetables and are not happy.

I’m French.  And Miserable

But the Chinese family… they are all laughing at the yogurt.   There is a bountiful selection, and these Chinese LOVE it.

Say CHEESE

Suddenly, the oldest member of the dynasty blurts out “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”  The rest of the crew yell at him in Chinese to “Simmer down.” Or I guess in their language, it would be “现在冷静下来”

As I stand at the shelf selecting my limes, I see a “demo” happening.  A nice-looking, very well-put together, older lady is doling out Cheese and Crackers. She looks like Paula Deen, only with slightly less “butter.”

Hey Y’all!!!!

I see a TJF (Trader Joe’s Freak) bending her ear.  Well he’s more than bending… her ear is a pretzel. He is educating her about cheese.  Hmmm, maybe he should find that Chinese dude, I hear he is interested in Cheese.  The TJF is one of these dudes who has no ability to regulate the volume of his voice.  Hence, it’s MAX volume, all the time, I’m sure his neighbors love him.

He looked like this dude

I move into the frozen food aisle, nothing too out of the ordinary happening here. Unless you consider a woman stopped dead center of the aisle, talking on her cell phone, while her 3 misbehaving brats use the cart like a jungle gym and beat each other with packages of frozen salmon, out of the ordinary?  I don’t.  I call it Tuesday in Fairfield, Connecticut.

I attempt to navigate around her and her spawn, all the while, hearing the TJF still torturing poor faux-Paula Deen.

Please.  Someone.  Help. Me.

I come around the top of the aisle and hear “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese” coming from Little Beijing, currently in the Grains and Cereal aisle.  I proceed down the juice aisle, vaguely looking, but not expecting to find, lychee juice.  I loves me a lychee martini- in fact, by the time I get to the juice aisle, I could use one.  Or seven.

In “Juice,” I see a creature.  She’s, sort of androgynous, vaguely “Pat-ish.”

 She’s talking loudly, to nobody.  She’s wearing a dark blue satin jacket, she obviously reads Vogue… from 1972.  And the nicest part is, she has, what appears to be, kosher salt, sprinkled all over her shoulders.  And by kosher salt, I mean gargantuan flakes of dandruff.  Ew.  How does one have dandruff, to that degree, and not realize it.   AND wear NAVY?!?!!

She appears to be properly salted

She’s walking along, scratching her head, making it snow… and I hear her bellow “Well, I assume if you are going to buy 100% Pomegranate Juice you would know what to do with it!!!”  Oh!  She’s a comedian.  She starts to back up.  She is backing up into me, I am about to be hit with a snow squall. Noooooooooooooooooooo.  I pulled some type of limbo/ breakdance / contortionist move and avoid her.  She realizes there is a ruckus behind her, turn and meets my eye and says “What?  Are you drunk or something  Har har har har.”  I normally would be polite and just laugh with her, but I felt compelled or, more accurately, REPELLED, and said “Yeah, I was just to avoid you backing into me.”   She replied “Well, you are right, I have no concept of my body mass.”  Yeah, well, obviously.

I’m in an obstacle course of buffoonery.

“Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!

The TJF is STILL eating cheese and cracker, spitting crumbs all over the dead, bloated body of “Paula Deen,” who has, by now, suffocated herself with a recycle-able canvas bag, y’all.

I’m dead, y’all

I grab some vitamins, Lutein, because clearly, my eyes don’t see normally… I’m almost home-free.

“Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”  Uh oh. I’m face to face with Chucky Cheese or as they call him in China:  Chucky乳酪 .   At least now, he’s in within acceptable proximity to the cheese section.  I am very, very close to the package of Genoa Salami I am seeking, when a large arm splits the air between me and Mayor McCheese.   Oh my god!  It’s Jabba the Hut, live and in the flesh.

Can you pass the salami?

His rotund arm reaches into the refrigerated case and pulls out 3 large packages of hard salami.  To me, as he was borderline “maximum density,”  the multiple salami purchase warranted no explanation, but Mr. the Hut offered me this “I eat 110 pounds of Salami per year.”  I smiled and said “Consistently?  Every year?  110 pounds?”  Four of his seven chins quivered in confirmation, and Mr. Cheese chimed in with, yup, you guessed it “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”

I ran to the checkout, knowing I had to escape soon or become one of them.  I stepped in line behind John Wayne Gacy.

The cashier undercharged him and he was guffaw-ing “I WISH I could pay THAT price!!!  Then I could give a nice donation to The Church.”

I turned to survey the wreckage.

•       The Nomad, as you would expect, has moved on.  He’s at a Trader Joe’s in Montana by now.

•       French family still in produce, hating everything.

•       “Paula Deen” down!!  TJF has eaten all of her samples and is now gnawing on “Paula Deen’s” heel, which he has covered with a thick layer of organic pimento cheese spread.

•       Pat is creating a Nor’Easter in Bread

•       Jabba perusing the cured meats

•       Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!

I locked eyes with the cashier, I thought I detected “H E L P  M E” being blinked at me in Morse Code.  She finished Mr. Gacy’s transaction, and began mine.  I said to her “There are a LOT of odd people here tonight.”

She replied “What do you mean?”  Oh no… She’s one of them.

Can you give me directions to Stepford?

I was so freaked out that I, completely forgot to pay and they had to stop me on the way out to remind me that Trader Joe’s is NOT a food pantry.

Yep, I become one of them.

Epilogue:

I returned to Trader Joe’s today.  My eyes were peeled.  My freak radar had been calibrated.  And… nothing.

I browsed the aisles freely, unencumbered by weirdness, kookery and The French.

Until, I got into the Express Checkout Lane.  I was behind a woman who had 25 items and was yakking on her cell phone the entire time.

The cashier looked at my basket with FOUR items in it and said “I’m sorry, I’m only taking 10 items or less.”

Does he not know the meaning of the word “less?”  Does he not know how to count to 10?

“Noted.”  I replied.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, I expected it to be, the lovely, Deb DePass Jones, who has been known to accost me in strange places.  It wasn’t. It was Gollum.

I’m lying.  She looked more like this:

Hey Pepper is out of Briarcliff and is a Crew Member at Trader Joe’s!!

She was the rare creature- “Cross-eyed Dwarf Von LadyStache.”  I froze in terror, as “little people” are my undoing (I know, I’m going to hell- tell me something I don’t know.  I’m not proud).

“Come with me,” she beckoned, “If you take a walk with me, you will learn I am a really fast ‘checker-outer.”

I rest my case.  #freakshow

Newk at Night

My husband, Tony, is British. He is the Brit in “Me, a Brit, a Pit and a Nitwit.” Like, British from England, British. Not just an American who had great, great, great, grandparents who were half British once removed, British. He was born in England, raised for the most part there (by wolves) and left England to marry me. Yep. I tricked him.

We, from time to time travel to England to see Tony’s kids, and other family and friends. People always think everyone from England is from London. “When are you going to London?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you going to England?”

“Yes. But we go to Northern England, to Newcastle. Tony is from Newcastle.” Yes, like the Brown Ale.

“Oh. Hmmm.” As if they didn’t know there WAS anything other than London.

London Skyline

Yes, there are other parts of England besides London. Newcastle is just like London. I mean it’s a city… and there’s a river… and, um, pints of beer. I mean, there’s no Big Ben or Buckingham Palace. There’s no Eye and there’s no Harrods. There’s no big theater district and there’s no Tower.

Newcastle Skyline

Ok, maybe it’s not just like London, but it is England. And that’s where his family is and that’s why we go.

OH!! There are fish and chip shops!!! “Chip Shops” or “Chippys” as they are called. And late night eating- called Kebab. It’s a plate of undistinguishable meats and sauce and grease.

The Kebab

The Kebab, generally is served in styrofoam container, and is dropped on the ground at some point during the eating of- as the eater is normally too drunk to see and stand up-right. After said “kebab” is dropped on the ground, there is normally a “moment of truth.” Does the eater a) honor the 10 second rule and eat it off the ground (it’s too much of a mess to actually PICK it up) b) abandon the kebab and go home and pass out or c) and C is the most likely, return to the “kebab truck” and get another kebab. And then REPEAT the above until the eater chooses Option B, which usually comes after they have performed every other option, at least once.

The Four Stages of Kebab

One of the greatest things about Newcastle is their nightlife. They have a HUGE party scene and people there love to drink and have fun. The best part, for me, is the people watching. Having visited several times, I have learned a few things:

1) Women do not feel cold air. They dress like strippers, no matter what the time of year, and no matter what their weight.
2) Women drink their adult beverages through straws, which enables them to get drunk faster
3) People dress up for Stag and Hen Nights! (Hen Night = Bachelorette Night)
4) Regardless of the availability of a toilet, Men would rather pee outside and normally in doorways
5) There will be vomit

We’d never get drunk without these straws.  Obvs.

I absolutely LOVE the girls in The Newk. They dress like total Hos. They get their clothes at Ann Taylor: SLUT or Whores & Spencer. When I go out there, I wear long pants, a top of some sort, and probably a sweater. Tony tells me I look like a Nun. Well, yes, in comparison, I do.

God bless them though, they are completely comfortable with their bodies and frankly, I think that is great.

There are a few sections of The Newk, where the partying is better than others. Personally, I like this place in “Wallsend” called The Anson. To me, it’s like “The Winchester” in Shaun of the Dead. If we can just get there… we’ll be fine.

The Anson.  Personally, I think, the Granny in the wheelchair is a nice touch.

The Anson is a small pub, families go there, you can get your drinks, you don’t have to fight your way to the bar, it’s just more my speed. However, Whitley Bay and The Bigg Market are the “preferred” party spots for The Newky Revelers.

Whitley Bay is a lovely area by the sea coast. However, there is one street of club after club after club and I liken it to a tsunami. Each bar has a 30 minute limelight. The entire partying population rolls into a club, it’s packed and crazy. And then 30 minutes later, the crowd rolls out and goes into the club next door.

And the crowd is nuts. Scantily clad chicks and the dudes trying to get laid. There is a lot of sloppy making out, butt flashing and normally a fight or two.

At one bar (and I’ve tried like CRAZY to figure out the name and find pix) they had a little balcony dance floor area that was about 6 feet off the floor. It was round and the dance floor is about 6 feet in diameter. Because everyone there wants to be noticed, tons of people where fighting to get up on the balcony and it was JAMMED with sweating, mostly naked, drunk people. Seriously, probably 30 people on this tiny balcony. It was packed to the point that people were pressed up against the balcony railing, crushing their internal organs. There was one Meat Head dancing and leaning over the balcony and hoisting girls up to make out with him. I loved him because he THOUGHT he was hot, but he was gross. Inevitably, the first chick he hoisted would have a fist fight with the second girl he hoisted and so on and so on and so on. I kept hoping that the balcony would break and this idiot would go crashing to the floor, in a crumple pile of flesh, bones, and SoCal by Hollister… but it never happened. Too bad. THAT would have been exciting. I am kicking my own ass for not having my camera.

I have a love/ hate relationship with another bar in Whitley Bay. It’s called “The Hairy Lemon.” I mean, with an name like that, how could you not love it.

Le Hairy Lemon

The décor in the Hairy Lemon will not win any awards for design nor for being cutting edge.  Or nice.  Or clean.  In fact, the whole bar is carpeted. So, imagine the combination of, 30 years night after night, drink spilling, toilets over-flowing, vomit and NEVER cleaning the carpet… imagine the smell, and also the squish, squish, squish of the carpet and you walk on it. Vile. Right? I wore open toe shoes which I promptly burned when I got out of there.

At one point I went to the rest room, which, was overflowing, as I am told it does every night. I left my Louis Vuitton bag with Tony. I came out of the bathroom and Louis was ON THE FLOOR. I was like “WHY IS LOUIS ON THE FLOOR?!?!?!!?!??”

My son, Louis

Needless to say, Louis was Purell’d the moment we got out of there. And he’s been in therapy 3 days a week since. The Hairy Lemon is gross. But there is a certain charm about a place with squishy floors, 70’s music and old man falling off their bar stools WASTED.

Hairy Lemon patron taking a disco nap

Another great section of The Newk is The Bigg Market. It’s another area of just bar after bar. They have this place called The Gate. It’s an indoor mall of bars. It’s kind of, a great idea, in my opinion. And it has a nice alley next door for the men to pee in and for couples to “get down” in the bin (garbage) juice.

Bin Juice = Sexy

Our friends Darren and Paola, who are normal and don’t, generally, partake in all of this horseshit, have a great story about walking down that alley (that alley was a short cut to Darren’s old apartment) and they saw a couple “coupling” on the ground. In the alley. In the run-off juice from the industrial garbage dumpsters. Can you imagine anything more foul? But hey, that’s The Newk.

Stag and Hen Nights are GREAT too. Well the Stags are. The Hens all just dress up like hookers and wear sashes that say – Whatever the bride’s name is “Hen Party” and plastic crowns. But the Stag Nights are great. We saw 25 guys dressed like Pilots and the Groom dressed as, the lone, Stewardess. We saw The Justice League and the Legion of Doom. Bananas in Pajamas, Oompa Loompas.

Legion of Doom, picking up some cash at the ATM

Of course, the bloom was off the rose, slightly, when I saw, from our flat window, Batman peel off his foam-sculpted uni-tard to pee in a doorway of the restaurant across the street. Bleh. Underneath that unitard he was pale, hairy and pimply. It was a sight I didn’t need to see. I just wish I had a picture!!

Upon our last visit, I VOWED to get some good pictures of The Revelers of Newcastle. So I did. Well, actually, I told them I was a photographer for a US publication and wanted to take their picture. Not a SINGLE person questioned me as to what magazine I was with or when they would be published or anything. haha. I have, since, been told, that this was “something a creepy dude would do.” I thought about it…. and, well, I guess I’m a creepy dude.

Here they are, The Revelers of The Newk:

I look normal, but I’m about to fall down.  And I’m not wearing underwear.

Wheeeee!  We forgot to wear pants!!

4 different gals, who all shop at the same store.

Real Housewife of Newk Jersey

Screw salad, we NEED Chicken!!!

A lovely tranny, in a baby-doll nightie, out for a stroll

Someone stole my clothes!!!!

It ain’t a party without Da Ali G

He’s dressed in long pants, a shirt and a hoodie.  She isn’t.

Kebab time

Chick in the background…

wearing THESE

Finally!  A girl dressed for the weather!!

I love a good sash

They’re GREAAAAAAT!

Real mean wear pink.  The question is, which one is a man?

Doesn’t this make you want to rush right out and book a flight to The Newk?!?!?  Yeah, it does.  BTW, Ladies, all of your “going out” clothes should fit in your wallet.