As I don’t recall, yesterday was Memorial Day and I had to deal with a procession of dead beets here at the hound dog bus terminal on the beach.  It was a grave scenario down by the sea of sorrow as a pile of live wires dug their own holes into the fresh soil then drifted off into Neverland.  God rest their sickly souls.

Can you dig it?

At the end of my rope and ready to retire from life as we know it, I padded down to the dirty pool deck underground for one last swim in the sea of life.  Dead tired, I took a low dive into the murky water and once surfaced, performed my famous “Dead Girl’s Float”.  From high above on the condo-minimum’s top floor, some old spirit caught sight of me, presumably dead as a buoy hung poolside on the Titanic.  She called nine eleven and reached a savior on the tenth ring.  She was attempting to save my life before I was five feet under.  Otherwise, everything seemed terminally okay.

I lived to tell another sick story, this one about my favorite living sun—the kid who graduated with deadly honors and third degree burns in physics and philosophy and home economics.   He is the reason I suddenly come too most mornings, prepared for life and living it.  God bless his saintly soul.  (The lad is also a ghost writer of murder/romance memoirs and is so supernaturally talented it is spooky.)

I digress.  The day of the funeral of a fellow ghost who lives underground in our basement, my sun chooses to head over to the local swimming hole after spending what seems like a lifetime at the local watering hole—“TANKED UP TOMMY’S”—kept alive and running by Dean Martin’s ninth wife, Deana, who died prematurely in her early sixties after nearly giving birth to a still- born infant.

Four sheets to the wind, my lively sun now at the swimming hole, as you might remember him, mimics me by allowing his pumped up arms and dead- weighted legs to fall into a perfect “DEAD MAN’S FLOAT.”  At which point a Hearst driving past spots his corpse and sends sympathy and para phenalia in a futile attempt to save his short life.

God Bless Him.

He blew a casket.

May He nap in peace?



Late one dark, rainy night, all alone, I realize my hair is drying out.  I jump out of the davenport and grab a bottle of unfiltered/100% Italian/cold pressed/thick, golden liquid and pour it over my bleary head. The stuff sloshes all over the bar stools and I waste time falling down in the mess.  Thinking slowly, I pour the rest in the CUISINART bender AND mix it up.  Then I pass out.

While sobering up I catch Letterman Live and talk on the phone long distance and munch on a PAYDAY.  My friend Susie Case is on a “biz-ness” trip to Malta and wants to tell me about their beer.

She knows lagers make me sick and tired but she still tries to tempt me into embibing.  Is that the word???

I favor sipping sparkling burgundy w/a brandy chaser and she knows darn well I don’t drink…

Shot, I get the munchies thus order another round of candy bars.  Ripped, I tear open the white, blue and orange package and realize my lips are cracking up.  I locate our rolodex and flip open the “C” section.

Suzy answers after 11 and a half ring- dings.

“Chapstick Residence”…

And smacks her lips.

“How may I help you??”

I hang up and dial the Popeye and Olive Oyl  residence in Sweethaven.  Olive can’t talk as Sweetpea’s diaper is full of a spinach green- substance she prefers not to discuss.


I just shuffled over to the fridge for a soft/hard drink and once inside it was dark.  Now, our icebox is relatively young—a Frigidaire purchased on an unseasonably cold day in December of lost year…

“What the hell?” I asked our old/expired  “I can’t believe it’s not BUTTER!  The fridge is dead AGAIN?”

At that precise moment I felt a minor (2 or 3 on the Richter) quake beneath my slippers.

“Ah Ha” I exclaimed to fat old Lady Hellmann, (who always claimed she could bring out the real, best in me).  “Right”.   I once added ½ a kilo tossing her into my infamous tuna salad delight.


Back to the problem at hand:  Midnight in the Refrigerator of mustard and ketchup.

Concurrently, you should know…construction workers are renovating our basement which we respectfully call “lower level”.  Follow this drift downward?

My body vibrates, the chandeliers shake, rattle and sway, and my freshly cut bangs (friNge to you Brits) stand on end– so call me Sherlock. The hammered people on the lower level have banged the cord out of the unreachable socket above them.

P.S.  Anyone know whom to call re:  Tugging heavy refrigerator from wall and re-hooking plug so nothing goes ROTTEN?

It will be a warm day in purgatory  when I can cool down and blog again.

Try tonight or tomorrow—

Weather permitting.


I have not been “bloggy minded” for the past phew daze as I attended my sun’s graduation from tertiary school.  Without degrading him nor me, I will tale you he sometimes studied at the UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA—also touted as “The Ivy League Party Place of the South”…

His claims to fame are he does not drink hard substances, and his diploma states dual majors in Physics and Philosophy—Thy kid you not.  And “NO” we smoke neither weed nor crack.

Enough about hymn and thee.

Let’s talk/write again about another favorite—Mr. Clean.  While in Charlottesville for the ceremonies, our family lodged at a dorm–not the norm. The sweets were not as nice as those one can find at HOLIDAY INN or DAZE INN or INN AND OUT—but we stuck it out.  Wearing the advised “shower shoes” mine adhered to the moldy tile floor so I did jumping jacks and felt fine and fit after a few exercises.

Still, not solo in the lavatory, I pined for Mr. Clean.  Recognizing his somewhat soiled past, I had left him in the dirt before heading off to Charlotte’sTown.  I focused instead on my squeaky clean son who’d left our immaculate nest and matriculated regardless of the Tide.

I want the world to know that Mr. Clean is a good friend of the Jolly Green Giant—“HO HO HO”.

Despite the fact there is a thirty year age difference, (84 vs.54), they often double date.  No, not the two of them—the large green bean escorts Aunt Jemima, while his friend takes out the elusive Mrs. Butterworth.

The Golly Giant was born in Minnesota but at some point must’ve relocated to Manhattan or Queens to have met Mr. Clean. How he got together with Mrs. Butterworth, I have no clue.  She appears older, but is careful not to reveal her age.  I have tried to find her on Intelius but she seems not to exist.  HA!  Next I intend to hit Spokeo to pin her down.

Then we have my heroine (NOTE the final e) –Aunt Jemima.  When I was young(er) she wore a babushka and looked plumply old.  Today when I pick up a box of her pancake mix I notice she has slimmed down, cut her hair, sprung for a perm, nipped, tucked, and whitened her teeth.  Actually, black people are gifted with white teeth so she probably just chews “Trident White” after her daily merlot—while I resort to Crest White Strips—a pricey product I will research and blog back to you within the next season.

Truthfully, I relate to the old Jemima.  I don’t know why; it could be because one of my high school boyfriends liked her so much.  In fact, if and  when I toasted myself into beef jerky every summer as a lifeguard, he liked to refer to me by that name…


Speaking, I mean writing about roommates, my favorite was a tiny red fish named “Scarlette”, whom you can read about in my first book: “Naked Joy”.   If you carefully read each line— you will catch slimy little Scarlette in the swim of things.  She was from the same school as Mark Spitz, Diana Nyad and Michael Phelps; all frog-like creatures who loved reading Huck Fin while doing backstroke.  And at one time or another each played the accordion with “Back Splash”.  Gil Trout, the originator of the group, takes credit for reeling in all this slippery talent.

My least favorite “roomie” was a sociopath called “Terry Van Hussy”, whom I did NOT invite into our Manhattan apartment years ago.  In reality (I must go there now and then) my actual roommate was a southern belle named Rebecca Hannah.  Hailing from Concorde, NC (home of not only the Hannahs but Cannon towels as well), she provided material for several books, once I could decipher her drawl.  She called me “Nanny” and I think down deep she thought I was hers.  I scrubbed the toilets and  lugged home  frozen T.V. dinners, ramen noodles, fruit loops, Miller Lite, Gallo wine and Marlboro Lights  from D’Agostino’s, the neighborhood market.  I also vacuumed under her feet as she puffed away watching “Love Boat” and “Marcus Welby” reruns and answered the phone to fishy callers and snapped open her beers since she had professionally manicured nails.  At night, when she was in town, I read to her from my latest work in progress until she drifted off…

Besides being lazy, Becks was perfect.  A correspondent banker for MANUFACTURERS HANOVER, she was gone most of the time so I had the pad to myself.  UNTIL…

She meets another poor banker down in Heartford,  they fall in love, he gets fired, and she invites him up to live with us.  How can I make this long story short?  Welp, Becks goes on the road, leaving
“Terry Van, the Ladies ‘Man” alone with me.  Only we are not always alone.  Terry likes his beers and bars, so most nights he goes out as I am going to bed.  Around 2:22 a.m. I hear a commotion and he has a “guest” in the next bedroom and they are not quiet.  And I am not happy.

So I confront TV and he is still drunk so   tells me—“I have had 1,000 women in my life, Nanny!”

I think fast and reply.  “So…what number is Becky? 899?” At which point I pack my clothes, books, fake jewels, and vodka and bra collections and move in down the street with my fearless friend Susie Case.  You will also meet and get to know Boozy Susie  in “Naked Joy”, should you wisely choose to buy it.  If you do, please read it and tell all your friends, relatives, co-workers and complete strangers to do the same.  Find room in your heart and home for a struggling new author.


Betty Crocker knows the Jolly Green Giant from elementary school in Minnesota, where she was several years ahead of him.  Some mornings they rode the same yellow bus although legend and logic have it the tall green lad was forced to ride with his head and neck sticking out the window…

Betty, admittedly one smart cookie, has a textured past.  Sure, she did well peddling all the food products we know and love, and even has a cookbook in her name.  But there is more to her rich story.

It is not common knowledge that Miss Crocker got mixed up with a burnt-out guy who liked to beat her up and whisk her off to seedy bars and steamy nightclubs. This was a recipe for disaster, and she felt like a battered, half- baked tart when he was done.  What’s worse, she had a bun in the oven within months, and delivered a pudgy, pasty-skinned kid they called the “Dough Boy”.  Having no dough to support them, Betty cooked up the idea of working as a hungry housekeeper.  One tepid day the woman, not frigid despite her past, ran into Mr. Clean at the local Wal-Mart, where they discussed household cleaners and favorite recipes.

Noticing his tight buns and creamy skin, Betty was swept off her feet.  Within weeks they moved into a tasteful 2 ½ bedroom condo in Baker, Oregon(o), strictly for economic reasons.  Betty poured every thought of her ex down the drain like a flat rum and coke, and Mr. Clean told her she’d achieved a “job well done”.

Once back on her feet the culinary specialist bought a new set of Farberware and some nifty glass bowls that stacked like cupcake papers.   She was back in business and within months had created “Bac-O’s”, “Hamburger Helper” and “Warm Delights” while her roommate’s career blossomed like a cheesy soufflé. To a certain degree, the two tastefully blended their bitter sweet lives, did a complete 360– and lived happily ever after for approximately 375 to 400 months.