Eye, Eye Captain

On my flight back from Hotlanta I boarded the plane and found seat 28F by the window. A seat with a view…of a grimey wing. Can we get a can of Comet with extra bleach over here?

Lucky for me, I was sitting in a good row…which is a row of normal people. Seated in the middle was a sorority girl wearing cool shoes and next to her was a woman with cold shoulders...wearing a sweater.

I sat in my seat trying to get comfortable with the idea of flying…as flying isn’t my bag, my tea, or my thang! I tightly fastened my seatbelt (cuz I’m a good doobie) and said a few plesantries to the nice women in my row. I took a deep breath…and felt as ready as I could ever be.

Then I waited for the reassuring words from our Captain over the intercom. “Hi. This is Jillian your Captain. Etc. Etc. Thanks for flying Delta.”

Hammer time. That’s the sound my heart makes when it goes into panic mode. A WOMAN PILOT…(that’s my mind screaming.) A WOMAN COMMERCIAL PILOT...(mind still screaming.)

Anywho……….

I had to question myself: "Self, Why does the idea of a woman pilot scare you?”

I tried to reassure myself of her capablities by coming up with a number of reasons why a woman pilot would be better than a man pilot. Hmm...let me count the ways……….

In flight school, Captain Jillian probably paid more attention in class; trying to prove herself in a male dominated field.

Women are better at multitasking; making them very efficient. Captain Jillian probably can simultaneously fly the plane, mediate any disagreements among flight attendants, and make a grocery list.

Women are not afraid to ask for directions from the guys in the control tower.

Women will yield to air traffic...and not try to beat the other planes on take-off.

Even after listing all the positives in favor of women pilots…I still wasn’t quite comfortable. Then Captain Jillian had one more word from the cockpit: “Please turn off all electronic devices. We won’t leave the ground until these have been turned off. I can see you.”

Instantly I knew we would be okay. Captain Jillian has eyes in the back of her head. What man has that?

Go ahead, girlfriend. Fly the plane.

The World of Ikea

I survived the World of Ikea.

Warning: DO NOT go into an Ikea store and think you’ll easily find your way out. Dropping bread crumbs as you shop is a good idea at Ikea.

Getting into the store is no problem. You park in the garage…and take the elevators up. Then enter with hundreds of people who arm themselves with an itty bitty #2 pencil and an order form.

When you first arrive, you realize Ikea is a world unto itself…with a food court and a daycare that offers free babysitting. The daycare is reason enough to get lost at Ikea. You can enter with a toddler and exit when your child is all grown up…with a job.

The store is massively huge with a clever design that has you following arrows…taking you through the different departments of Living, Bathing, Dining, and Kitchening.

Anywho………..

After quickly realizing the stuff at IKea would BREAKea at the drop of HATea, and probably not last longer than my manicure, I decided it was time to escape the World of Ikea and head for the nearest exit.

My problem …Where is the exit? How the Hell do I get out? Seems easy: Follow the yellow brick road of signs that are posted. With each new exit sign I followed, I gained new hope of exiting. No such DEAlea.

After traipsing around to no avail…I used the itty bitty #2 pencil to write a goodbye note to my family on the back of my order form and taped it to the frig in the Kitchen department.

As my stomach churned during my futile attempts…luck intervened. I happened upon the food court and thought…Why not sit down for a little rest and burrito? The perfect Mexican combination…rest and burrito.

With new fuel...new hope…and new gas…I set out again. I was ready to take on Ikea.

After 30 more minutes of endless rambling and asking other store customers for help…I was still trapped.

I made a decision. There was only one way out: Stand there and cry: “I lost my mommy.” Someone will have to help.

I survived the World of Ikea…and all I have to show for it is my itty bitty #2 pencil.

ps. Happy Birthday to PaulA. The man I could be trapped with forever in the World of Ikea.

Michael Jackson "Gone too Soon"

Today marks the one year anniversary of the death of Michael Jackson. This is a reprint of the blog I wrote last year after his death.


I’m bad….you’re “Bad.” In the news, online, and on television…we’re all talking about Michael Jackson. And if you’re like me…you “Don’t stop Til You Get Enough.”

It’s hard not to “Beat It” over and over, but it’s only “Human Nature” that we want to talk about Michael Jackson, play his songs, and remember him after his untimely death at age 50…leaving everyone in a “State of Shock.”

Today is the memorial service for Michael at the Staples Center in LA. It doesn’t matter if you’re “Black or White”…or whether you’re “Billie Jean,” “Ben,” “Dirty Diana”, or some "P.Y.T.(Pretty Young Thing)"…people are gathering together today to “Cry” and celebrate his life.

Michael Jackson was loved worldwide. His music found a way to bring people together and to “Heal The World.” Those of you out there who loved him know that “You Are Not Alone.”

We “Remember the Time” when we first heard him sing and dance with the Jackson 5; a young MJ who easily took the stage and limelight without any nerves or “Butterflies.” From then on, he never had any privacy in his life and I’m sure there were countless times he wanted to “Scream” and yell “Leave Me Alone.”


Over the last few years…when it came down to the “Man in the Mirror”…Michael had become a controversial figure…some thinking he was “Dangerous”...a “Smooth Criminal" and others thinking he was a brilliant artist, a music icon. Regardless of your position, his amazing talent and artistry earned him the title ‘King of Pop.’

Whenever you hear a Michael Jackson song, it makes you want to “Get On The Floor” and “Shake Your Body. It makes you feel like you “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.

Not only was his music "Workin' Day and Night"…his music videos were always a “Thriller” with their innovative and “Off The Wall” revolutionary approach to telling a story and creating a short film.

As one of his millions and millions of fans “I Can’t Help It”…but I am going to miss him "For All Time." Michael Jackson had a lot of music left to give and has “Gone Too Soon.” “We Are The World” and today we remember, celebrate, and say goodbye to the 'King of Pop.'

Farewell Michael...We’ve loved every song, every dance, and any chance to “Rock With You.”


ps. Happy Birthday Sister Sludge.

"O" What a Gift

In celebration of the 10 year anniversary of “O” Magazine, Oprah gave everyone on her staff an iPad with a personalized case and a check for 10,000 dollars. What boss does that? How do you get a job working for the Big O? Sign me up. Heck, I would be happy with the iPad alone. Although 10,000 dollars would make a nice lining for my pockets.

Many companies give gifts to mark a commemorative anniversary, or gifts for the number of years of service by employees. But the Oprah gift is far and above the standard. Plus most gifts from employers are given with a reason behind them. The engraved pen is given…so you don’t steal theirs. The alarm clock…so you aren’t late for work. A gym membership…because you're looking pudgy. A package of nylons…cuz yours are snaggy.

But Oprah’s gifts to her employees didn’t come with any hidden agenda or strings attached…except the Uncle Sam tax string. But that’s not Oprah’s call…with personal gifts come personal income taxes.

Oprah could have required her staff to make a donation with some of the money she gave them. But instead...her staffers were free to do whatever they pleased with the money…no matter what the risk. Free to bet on the horses. Free to skydive. Free to play the stock market.

Because I never worked 10 consecutive years in one place…I never received the proverbial pen or pin for service. I’m not sure what they would have given me at the hospital for 10 years of blood bank service. Maybe shiny white vampire teeth? And what would I have received for my gift from my insurance job? Again…probably shiny white vampire teeth…to sink into new clients. How else can you get anyone to buy an insurance policy?

Anywho…….

I have noticed that vampires are “in” these days….especially with the HBO’s True Blood series and the Twilight movies. Too bad I didn’t stay working in the hospital long enough to receive my teeth.

"My Bad," Manute

Last week Manute Bol died at the young age of 47 from kidney disease and an allergic reaction to the drugs he was taking for the disease. Manute was known for being the tallest NBA player in the history of the game at 7 feet 7 inches. Manute’s name actually sounds like he would be of small stature…a manute of a man. But the Googler tells me “Manute” means special blessing in Sudanese.

Apparently the tall gene runs in his family. His great-grandfather was 7’ 10”. His mother at 6’ 10” was taller than his father at 6’8”. I guess with that size, if you aren’t playing basketball…you’re changing light bulbs for a living.

Bol wasn’t an All-Star basketball player, but he could block shots…like my Banana Boat blocks sunrays. After his NBA career he was very active in charitable causes related to his war ravaged birth nation, Sudan. Regardless of his basketball talent…Manute was considered to be a special blessing to the many people he helped in Sudan over the years.

Anywho…….

Here’s a fun fact about Manute Bol: Manute coined the phrase “my bad” in the 1980's. When making a bad pass to a teammate he would say “my bad” instead of “my fault.” Other players picked up the phrase, which eventually spread into urban basketball lingo and even into suburban housewife lingo.

In Manute’s honor I’ve decided to coin a new phrase. “Apolocuse Me.” So instead of saying “excuse me”…or “my apologies”…try “Apolocuse me.”

Okay, it might not have the same cool vibe that “my bad” has…but I’m thinking…Manute might have given me props. But if YOU can’t do the same…“APOLOCUSE ME.”

Who are YOU?

You are out doing errands and you run into someone you haven’t seen in a few months.

And you ask yourself, “Why didn’t I pay more attention to what I looked like before I left the house?” You figured you’d just run in fast…and be on your merry way. But you should know…odds are 100 to 1…you will run into someone you know.

Or…you are out shopping at an offbeat time. You think, “Who else is at Bed Bath and Beyond at 6:30 p.m? Shouldn’t they be home cooking dinner? What kind of mother are they?”

And wouldn’t you know…THEY are looking marvelous. They have every hair strand in place. They’ve crossed every eye and dotted every teeth. (Okay, doesn’t make too much sense….but just go with it.)

But worse than your looks…is the look that comes over your face when you try to remember their particulars…their kids name or even worse…their name. Now you’re wearing the pained, contorted look that comes when you’re having a senior moment and your brain is in overdrive trying to remember.

And it just isn’t coming. You know them. You know them well. Yep. What the hell is their name? The only thing that comes to you is your favorite 'Who' tune… “Who are You?”

And you also know…once they leave…you’ll remember everything about them. The flood gates will open and you’ll be swamped with their kid’s ages, schools, and class rank…their house color, number of bathrooms…full and half.

Anywho…………

DO NOT WORRY. I’ve heard a senior moment can happen at any age.

In those circumstances I think it is always best to go with the truth and just lay it all out in the open. That’s exactly what I do…“Oh, you must be mistaken…I’m not Kat. You must have me confused with my sister. Kat is home cooking dinner for her family.”

WWMD? What Would Metz Do?

Hey...Ho...Did you hear about the Connecticut man who got his arm stuck in his furnace? Apparently he was cleaning it. Awww…Chim Chiminey. I thought it was enough to clean my house. Now I find out I should be keeping my furnace clean.

Question: What would you do if your arm was stuck in a furnace for three days? Or…in other words: What would Metz do?

Easy. Cut it off. (Hey, he’s from Connecticut…so it makes sense. If he was from Massachusetts, he might have chewed it off.)

That’s what Jonathan Metz of West Hartford, CT decided to do after he got his arm caught while cleaning his oil burner. And how did he arrive at this decision? (Sorry for all the questions....I like asking questions I know the answer to.) He arrived at this incisive decision by asking himself: “What would MacGyver do?” And lucky for Metz, he had some power tool blades…within his good arms reach. So he started sawing away.

I wonder what went through his mind as he was cutting? (More questions for you.) “Okay, first the skin. No problem. Now the tendons...OUCH…very tender. The nerves are gonna take a lot more nerve. Almost there...one more muscle to go. I wish I hadn’t worked out so much…..this job would have been a lot easier, if I wasn’t so buff.”

And screaming for help didn’t help. Luckily for Metz, his buddy was worried about him after he was a NO show for work and a baseball game.


Metz said, “thoughts of his fiancé, his family, his friends, and his dog” got him through his ordeal. Which brings up a BIG question (Yes, another question). Why wasn’t Metz’s fiancée wondering what happened to him after not being in touch for 3 days? What the hell? (You don’t have to answer that question.)

It’s interesting that Metz’s fiancée was first in his thoughts, but apparently he wasn’t first in hers. I think he should reconsider his upcoming nuptials. Dude, she’s just not that into you.

Anywho…………………..

It was resourceful that Metz asked himself, “What would MacGyver do?” But maybe if he asked himself, “What would Houdini do?”...he might still have his arm.

TajMa Mall Return

I have returned to the TajMa Mall…back to the business of shopping. I’m sure Mr. Nordstrom and Mrs. Macy are happy. I had taken some time off from spending…which is not good for the economy, but happens to be very good for my pocketbook.

Since Christmas I have taken a breather from the Taj and focused my time on breathing life into this blog. Unfortunately, my blog wears a sign that advises: “Do not Resuscitate.”

One thing I’ve noticed now that I am baaacckk at the Taj…is how many times you hear THE computer security voice: “We have failed to remove the security device.” It seems as though every time I enter a store, I see someone triggering THE voice. Either shoplifting is on the rise, or the number of knucklehead salespeople who fail to remove security tags is on the rise.

When I hear THE voice, I try to get a good look at the person leaving the store…just in case I have to pick them out of a line up. Or just in case I need to help security tackle the culprits.

I’ve always wondered how busy the security guys/gals are that work at the TajMa Mall. Are they chasing down scads of shoplifters…or just basically chasing around scads of teenagers with nothing but time on their hands, rings on their fingers, and nothing to do? I’m guessing security is very busy ridding the mall of teenage mall rats.

Anywho………….

On my last TajMa Mall trip…I headed into Mr. Nordstrom’s and darn if some woman carrying 4 shopping bags was scurrying by me. And double darn if THE voice didn’t go off. I tried to trip Ms. Money/Shopping Bags…but she was too quick for me.

Then I entered Mrs. Macy’s store…and triple darn if THE voice went off again. But this time no one was leaving the store...just little ole ME entering.

Don’t cha know...I’ve been the one setting off THE voice. Don't cha know...I should be cutting off the security tags sewn into my shirts. (So a know-it-all saleswoman informed me.)

Security will have to be content with chasing teenage mall rats...now that Kat is in the know. And should security need me...I'm always available for back up.

Stairway to Heaven

Weeding is grueling. It requires a repetitive motion, can hurt your back…and you never feel like your making progress. Wait, I think that’s golf.

I just finished weeding our patio for a second time since this spring. There I sat…on the hot stone pavement with my head down for hours, wrapping my fingers around each tiny weed growing in the crevices around each paver…then looking up to see 3500 more blocks to go.

The daunting task gave me a case of “trigger finger”…which by the way is the name of a real ailment…but my particular trigger finger was a little different…it involved the thought of a gun and my head. Ahhh………

PaulA has a green thumb. In other words, he has his way with plants…in a fraternal gardening way. Like most gardeners his garden needs weeding…but for some reason the other grueling activity….GOLF takes precedence…so he hasn’t gotten around to it.

There is a weed that has taken up residency in the middle of PaulA’s garden that looks like Jack’s Beanstalk or the Stairway to Heaven. It is so thick, tall, sturdy and healthy, you would have sworn we planted it there and watered it daily.

I prefer to think of this ungodly weed as the Stairway to Heaven…especially because “Stairway to Heaven” is such an excellent song that goes on and on forever. It’s like 4 songs in 1. And it was sung by Robert Plant…which seems very fitting.

Anywho……………..

The only way to remove the massive Stairway to Heaven… is to get an axe, shovel, and a big strong man. Only problem is…my strong man, PaulA, is on the course. It seems as though PaulA would rather be out playing golf than at home tending to his garden.

“And it makes me wonder.”

Uniformly Speaking

How do you feel about uniforms? Uniformly speaking…I like them. There was never a man in uniform more handsome than my dad when he wore his Air Force blues.

There is one uniform, however, that wears on me. I have never been a fan of the UPS brown shorts and socks. Although I hear there are those who are real fans of the UPS exposed knees.

Back when I was gainfully employed, I wore a uniform in the hospital lab. It was actually nice to wake up in the morning and know exactly what I was gonna wear…right down to the white shoes. No decisions. Every day was a white day.

Anywho………………..

Uniforms can save lots of time and money. I would have slipped our school superintendent cash under the table if he had made school uniforms mandatory. It sure would have made it easier getting Big C out the door. Plus I would have given less at the TajMa Mall. Last I heard, neither Abercrombie nor Fitch is a tax write-off.

Uniforms also bring credence and legitimacy to the wearer. They help to prove to the public that the wearer is official. My white uniform was the way patients in the hospital knew I was legit and not some vampire off the street. Plus uniforms also help us to tell the prison escapees from the rest of the degenerates that walk the earth. The striped uniform is a dead give away.

Actually, there was a trend for inmates to wear jumpsuits instead of stripes...not that I have first hand prison knowledge. But the striped uniform has made a comeback for prison wear...because jumpsuit-clad workers and scrub-clad nurses/doctors were frequently mistaken as inmates.

Let’s face it…black and white stripes add to the prisoner’s punishment and humiliation. Neither horizontal or vertical black and white stripes are particularly fetching. Although there is one exception…my friend Patty totally rocked black and white vertical stripes when she ref-ed lax games.

I wish there was an official Blogger uniform. Maybe that would make me look legit. Pleeease...no black and white stripes.

WayBack Machine

If I could invent something…I would invent a Wayback machine. A time machine to travel KCAB…that’s back in time.

Remember the WABAC (Wayback) machine from The Bullwinkle Show? The Wayback machine was invented by Mr. Peabody, a genius dog with horn-rimmed glasses and a bowtie…who owned a pet boy named Sherman. The idea of a dog owning a human is pretty comical…but then again Duncandog owns ME…and that isn’t funny.

Anywho………….

I would love a Wayback machine to turn back the hands of time and instantly transport myself back to the days when our 3 kids were little again…under our roof. “Set the Wayback Machine, Sherman…to 14 years ago….when………

….when we first moved into this house.”

I’m feeling real dizzy now…time travel can be very disorienting. I’m going waaay back now……………..

Chelsea is in the 5th grade…Colin is in the 3rd , and Bri is in Kindergarten. It’s the only time in their school career they attend the same school. Watching the 3 Musketeers getting off the bus together couldn’t be a sweeter sight. Come to momma, my children.

They are running down the street from the bus stop, backpacks bouncing, and jackets trailing behind them. They’re busting through the front door. Everyone is talking at the same time. I don’t know who to look at first. I sit down in the kitchen to hear all their stories. They are each trying to get their story out first...“Hey, I’m telling mom something.” “No, I am.” “Me first.” My head is spinning from one to the other…

They’re digging in their backpacks to show me their art, pulling out their papers and school announcements, telling me what they have for homework, what happened on the bus, and what games they played on the playground, and most importantly…who they sat with at lunch.

Each of them has their reason why they should get to talk first….“I’m the oldest, I’m the youngest, I’m the boy.” I love looking into their little faces……enjoying their expressions, their excitement, their eagerness to share their day with me.

(((Earth to Kat…Earth to Kat….your trip is over….you are daydreaming…you are not Waybacking.)))

It is 3:30pm and no one is busting the door down to see me…vying for my attention. Where are you Mr. Peabody when I need you?

Eau de Kat

Just try and get down the center aisle of the first floor of Macy’s without women coming toward you pushing perfume samples. These women look innocent and pleasant enough…with their big smiles and nice clothes…but trust me…they are armed and dangerous.

At first glance, they appear unassuming…casually offering you a sniff of their perfume. No pressure. No pressure at all. But if you walk anywhere near them…they are on you…like dust particles to my furniture.

Once you’re in their zone…they position themselves so you have to maneuver around them. So I try to outsmart them. I zig…but then they zig. So I zag…and then they zag. They are masters of zig zag. You don’t have a sniff of hope of getting by them…unless you have an 8 foot vertical jump that can spring over them.

You think, with wearing 4-inch high heels, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with you…but no problem. These women are professionals and can master any terrain. They should really be working on the front lines against the Taliban.

When I see them coming in my direction…I’m prepared for their attack. I put up my battle shield and refuse all scents. That’s when they send in the re-enforcement perfume pushers.

I’m not trying to make their scent-of-a-woman job more difficult…but I truly can’t take the smell of most perfumes. It’s not that I’m allergic to them and go into sneezing fits, (because I would like that…as you may know, I have sneeze envy), but most perfumes give me a HUGE headache. Even the toilet water variety.

Anywho………….

It is hard to outsmart perfume pushers because they are highly trained. Only the truly skilled make it to the front lines. I’m pretty sure there is a secret training camp in the heart of the Mojave Desert where these women learn the tactics of perfume zigging and zagging. Their scent is a give away.

Good Luck avoiding the pushy perfume pushers during your next trip to Macy’s.

Short and Sweet

As kids, we did many inventive things with our food…create, palpate, excavate…and sometimes detonate...anything but eaterate. (new word)

And certain foods…we could only eat a certain way. Like cereal. After finishing a bowl of cereal, a kid will pick up the bowl with two hands and drink the milk at the bottom of the bowl. Slurp it down. You would be happy to know I don’t do that anymore.

But there are some kid things, I still do. Hey, you can’t take the kid out of the adult all the time. Can you seriously eat an Oreo without taking it apart? Come on...I can’t be the only one. I pull the cookie apart and first eat the side without frosting. Then I lick the frosting off the other…and finish it off. (This blog, in particular...is proof positive of how hard it is to come up with material every day.)

I also eat gingerbread men the same way I did as a kid...95 years ago. If the gingerbread man has eyes…I eat the head first. Off with the head. That way, the Gingerbread man can’t watch me finish him off.

But Pepperidge Farm makes their gingerbread men without eyes. So with that brand, I don’t feel compelled to eat the head first. Instead, I eat the arms and legs off...randomly ….one by one. (Very torturous.) Last time I got a bag of Pepperidge Farm Gingerbread men…I ate an entire army. Turned the platoon into a broken unit, in need of a medic.

Calm down, folks...I know some of you are gingerbread men right-to-lifers. And you don’t believe in the unnecessary cruelty to gingerbread men. You will be happy to know the men turned on me later that night and got me back. The men moved together in the bowels of retribution and finished ME off.

Anywho………..

Kids will be kids. Some adults will be kids…and this blog will be anything but intelligent. Lucky for you, it is also short and sweet...............................and over.

Holy Apple, Batman!

What the WIFI? Holy Apple, Batman!

Have you seen the new Apple iPhone 4? Is there nothing this iPhone/slash/ computer can’t do??

They say that what’s under the hood of the iPhone 4 is very impressive…probably more impressive than what’s under the hood of our 2002 Ford Escape. Last I looked…there were 3 squirrels on a treadmill looking up at me…begging for some nuts and water.

Check out the stats of this new phone:
Front facing camera, a rear camera with LED flash, high resolution display that doubles the pixels in each direction (960 x 640) for a 4X overall pixel count increase -- rated at 326ppi. IPS display, offering 800:1 contrast. Same 3.5-inch size and the A4 processor also runs the iPad. 25% thinner chassis, battery slightly larger, and the new handset is rated at 7 hours of 3G talk, 6 hours of 3G browsing, 10 hours of WiFi browsing, 10 hours of video, and 40 hours of music. Oh, and that WiFi? It's 802. The camera has been bumped to 5 megapixels, with 5X digital zoom and a "backside illuminated sensor," which now can also record HD video at 720p / 30fps.


If you don’t understand all the tech talk…that’s okay. Being the computer geek /slash/ techno interpreter that I am…let me decipher it for you. The new phone KICKS ASS.

It’s amazing to think about the huge distance phones have come. From Alexander Graham Bell’s phone to Steve Job’s phone…we are talking long distance. Wouldn’t it be cool if the two could meet?

Anywho…………….

I remember back in the day when getting a call on the family phone was an EVENT. Sisters Sledge and Sludge would yell in unison: “Kat, phone call.” And I would run for it.

During my summer vacations from college, I would occasionally get a long distance call from PaulA. Nothing beats the exhilaration I felt when I would hear…”Kat, Phone! It’s LONG DISTANCE!” Knowing PaulA was on the other end…I would drop what I was doing, run through the house, trip over the dog, knock over a chair, and break my ass. There was always a rush for a long distance call…especially the PaulA version.

There might not be the same rush to get to the phone anymore…but you can be sure…there will be a rush to get to the new iPhone.

Holy Apple, Batman! It’s an event!

Belated Birthday Wishyes

I didn’t post a blog for Brianna’s 19th birthday last Saturday, June 5th! What kind of a blogger mother blogger am I? Obviously a bad, bad mother blogger.

My excuse…should you care to accept one: I have gotten in the habit of not posting on the weekend because I do have a life…although this blog might prove otherwise. And since Wishy’s bday was on Saturday…hence, the no posting. Please forgive me, Sweet Wish.

But trust me…a celebration ensued. Bri celebrated with a theme get-together...with everyone wearing something beginning with the letter “B.” Boater, Banker, Bono, and Bindian Bhief.

Easy for me…the bad blogger. And the suggestion that PaulA dress as a bouncer was the best…especially with teenagers in the house. Although, they probably would have preferred a bartender…in the house.

Anywho…

To continue with the “B” theme…

Happy Birthday (belated as this blog may be) to our bright and beautiful brown-eyed blonde Brianna…a breezy babe full of boundless fun and benevolence.


Bouncer PaulA and blogger Kat are truly blessed.

Bootylicious Banker Booted

Does your banker look like this? I’m banking on the notion…your banker walks around in a 3-piece suit, size 55 pants, and a KFC grease stain on his tie.

Debralee Lorenzana claims she was fired from her Banker position at Citibank for being too hot. (In other words, her bootylicious bod was booted out of the bank.) She has since filed a suit against Citibank. Debrahlee complains she’s been harassed her entire life because she has a body that drives men wild. Her account: “I get harassed in the supermarket with my son just wearing sweatpants with my hair in a ponytail. I can’t help how I look.” (Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.)

Okay….all together now….Ahhhh poor baby. Poor Debrahlee…cry for me. We’re so sorry that you have to go through life looking the way you do. Maybe in a few years you’ll pack on the lbs and things will sag. But until then, you’re cursed with the burden of beauty.

I understand that being beautiful is a handicap…and I don’t want to make light of it. Being in a similar position, I can totally relate. I try not to think of my beauty as a curse. Kat’s account: "I get harassed in Walmart with my twenty-two year old son just wearing stretch pants with my hair in a bun. I can’t help how I look.” (Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.)

Debrahlee’s looks have worked for her…and against her. For her…because they are the reason she got the job. Against her…because they are the reason she got fired.

During her interview for the Banker position…I’m sure the branch manager went through his check list of criteria:
Curvaceous body…check
Large boobs and booty…double check
(Hey, he does have a bank to run and assets to think about.)

During her exit interview from the Banker position…I’m sure the branch manager when through his check list of criteria:
Curvaceous body stopping traffic…check
Large boobs and booty causing rubber necking…double check
(Hey, he does have a bank to run and assets to think about.)

Anywho………….

Debrahlee did prove that she could do the job after she was hired…and that says a lot. The real problem is the men who hired her. Their brain yield plummeted and their mind went bankrupt whenever she was around.

The men found it very difficult to concentrate on the business of banking. They could only think about making their own personal deposits…and not the bank’s. They couldn’t concentrate or calibrate..only fixate on procreate.

After all this publicity Derbrahlee will have no trouble getting a job. You can be sure Playboy will be calling. But she might prefer to stay with her chosen profession: Banker Babe. It will be interesting to see where Debrahlee ends up….

If PaulA begins to frequent our bank…(after not setting foot in a bank in 25 years)…I think I’ll take a trip down there and take a look around. Debrahlee might have found herself a new job at our local branch office.

Day 46 - Still Spilling

It’s Day 46…and oil is still gushing into the Gulf of Mexico at a rate of 5,000 barrels a day. You would have thought that we could have solved this problem by now. 6 weeks is a lot of time. According to Women’s Day Magazine, I could have made a total body transformation for the beach season in 6 weeks…and that is not an easy task either.

In President Obama’s attempt to look like he is doing something (yes, I’m Republican…don’t hold that against me…I do like the Pres’s winning smile) Obama authorized the Attorney General to launch a criminal investigation into the events that led up to the explosion of the oil rig. Okay. Obama wants an explanation, investigation, interrogation. Whatever. Let’s first get the oil spill to stop spilling and point fingers later.

Thousands of Americans have submitted their ideas for stopping the oil leak. We all want to help…and some ideas are more useful than others.

There was Hoda Kotb who offered her giant tampon idea to soak up the oil. Very absorbent idea, Hoda woman. Then Kevin Costner (who was once around water in his movie Waterworld) came up with a device that removes oil from water. The device didn’t seem to work, but then again neither have his latest movies.

But the BIG name to offer his help and meet with engineers and scientists in Washington, DC was James Cameron. Cameron has expertise with filming underwater and using watercraft technologies in the Titanic and The Abyss. At least his movies worked and weren’t totally underwater. Cameron’s movies make a lot of money…so Washington people probably figured he must know something…about something.

Anywho………..

I still claim that the perfect solution involves a MacGyver resolution. That guy could solve any problem with duct tape, paper clips, a ball-point pen, and a Swiss army knife. In order to fix this problem we need to ask ourselves “What would MacGyver do?”

I have to get Obama on the line and tell him to think MacGyver style…and forget about the engineer, scientist, and movie director approaches. And to remind him to not look at the oil spill with the 3D glasses Cameron gave him...it will look even scarier.

Bird Brain

Every morning for the past couple of weeks, while I’m sitting at my blog chair…I watch a bird fly into my window. He does this over and over. I don’t know…maybe it just feels good to repeatedly fly full speed ahead into a standing object.

Birds can be scary…especially when birds flock together. Whenever I see a flock of birds, I immediately visualize ”The Birds” in the Hitchcock movie…and my imagination gets carried away. I’m not exactly sure what this bird wants from me…but part of me thinks it would like to peck my eyes out for ridiculous blog writing.

Being the educator that I am…I did a little research to find out why the bird is throwing itself into my window. (Googling is the extent of my research.) I found that: “Window collisions are due to male birds defending territories during mating season.” (Those are the Googler’s words…not mine. Wait, I wonder if the Googler is somehow related to the Riddler…hmmmm.)

Presumably the glass acts like a mirror…so when the bird sees his reflection…he wants to drive away the intruder that is staring back at him. Exactly the same way I feel when I see my reflection.

Another thing I learned from the Googler…is that “birds can also strike windows because of disorientation due to intoxication.” They're getting buzzed from eating overripe berries that have fermented. Blitzed birds getting tipsy in the club. Watch out for these birds that are flying under the influence. They might toss their blueberries all over your shoulder.

Maybe I could help this bird brain that is interrupting my blogging…by making his reflection disappear. I was thinking that taping newspapers to my windows might be a good idea…but the cops just might think this a crack house. But then again they might cut me a break…especially if I paper my windows with The Hartford Courant. After all, The Hartford Courant is for the birds now. (That’s another blog.)

I just thought of another way I could help my feathered fiend. I’m thinking I could stand in front of the window tomorrow morning. The face of a Kat would be enough to scare a bird…or anything else…away.

Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit

I hope you said "rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" this morning. If you didn't...I feel very sorry for you. You’re doomed...or you’re shit out of luck unless you’ve uttered those three little bunny words.

“Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” is a superstition/saying that is said by our family...on the first day of the month for good luck for the rest of the month. And we never forget...no matter where we are. We know better than to test the rabbit. Never DARE a HARE.

To be the recipient of the very BEST kind of luck...the kind of luck where you say, “Damn, I am one lucky dog," you must say “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” when you FIRST wake up...and BEFORE you say anything else. You can’t even groan, “oh, my aching back.”

This morning, my eyes opened at 3:11 a.m. I looked at my alarm clock and said, “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit”...OUTLOUD. I’m not sure if that makes me a weirdo, or the next lottery winner.

I just googled “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” to find out where this superstition might have come from. And “Presto” – a whole Google page appeared regarding the hare. Apparently I am quasi-normal.

Google says the saying has been around since 1800 and is a common British superstition. There is something about the rabbit being lucky and having lucky feet. (I wonder which foot is considered the luckiest.) On a lop-eared note: I find it very interesting SLASH ironic that rabbits are commonly eaten in England. I guess the Brits like to eat their luck...for good measure.

So to make sure the five of us are covered in the luck department, we send out “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” text messages to each other on the first of every month..as a little hare reminder...because we care.

If you didn’t get the “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” memo for good luck...I would suggest eating a rabbit tonight for dinner....hare and all.

Happy June 1st.