Random impressions, opinions and ruminations from a woman who would really like to invite EVERYONE over for a good meal, a glass of wine and passionate conversation, but the dining table only seats so many . . . .
The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.
Okey dokey, then ~ we put up the birthday post and went out to do some shopping and spend some girl time. We fairly exhausted the thrift store and a used book store, checked to see whether Mike had seen his birthday party online . . . no sign of him. That's OK. We're resourceful women. Let's call him! We did so. He said he wouldn't be able to connect to the internet until the next morning. Arrrggghh! But this was his birthday. Well, nothing else for it: we each wished him a happy birthday and told him to go blogging as soon as he was able. And then we proceeded to blow out his candles and eat the chocolate muffins Rraine had brought, so thoughtfully. They were good - mine served as lunch and dinner. Sorry you missed them, Mike.
And then we thought, seeing we were three blogger women gathered, seeing Rraine is expert with a camera, seeing I have become addicted to Picasa photo collage, seeing Jenn is young and adorable, seeing Rraine and I are . . . um . . . adorable, we'd go outside and take some pictures. Yeah!
One kvetched about her glasses. The other two did not. One had us try a couple of different spots to get the best location and light. One whined that she never photographs well, so please be sure to snap two of everything. The names shall be withheld to preserve our dignity. Rraine recalled being shown how to execute a becoming pose by thrusting a foot forward, hand on hip. We all tried it and thought we were pretty cute. Jenn knew a showgirl pose, arms extended. Rraine said she wanted a big headdress. I said I wasn't doing any showgirl stuff, though I'd try the foot-forward, hand-on-hip thing. We thought we were something!
And so ended an afternoon enjoyed in female company. There were friends to be met for dinner, AA meetings to attend. We'd shared some irreverent laughs and some serious talk, giggled about vanity when the camera came out, and pledged to get together again soon. Two of us had cackled at terrible shoes for sale and wondered why selected items were considered "designer". We all talked about ideas for future blog posts and congratulated one another for being brilliant. I needed this sunny, happy afternoon. I've been under some duress. And I was reminded of at least one of the things I can engage in to keep my spirits up and my fever down. Thanks, Good Women and Mike, for making my day! Damn you, Rraine, for wearing Rocket Dogs when I didn't even think of it. But I'll be back on my game soon enough. I can feel it!
In my ears right now: An old favorite. Just because I feel like it today.
What a difference a couple of weeks can make! I believed I could not get meaningful work to save my life, and I needed meaningful work to [at least help] save my life. I rather half-heartedly made some job applications, resulting in a very quick offer of "work" with a Spam sandwich for lunch. Within days came the real and nearly ideal offer, proffered from a well-remembered shining place in my tapestry. It was both rescue and a tip of the hat for the efforts I've made to find health and peace. It has seemed a lifetime. In actuality, it's been less than one year, that quest for balance. Am I perfectly balanced? No. I'll have to work for near-balance every day that remains to me.
On January 20, 2011, Kass wrote a most wonderful post both in tribute to the writer Virginia Woolf, and to ask other bloggers about how they order their surroundings for writing. I was able to comment a bit about Woolf, one of my favorite authors and a beloved historical figure. But I couldn't say anything about my writing area, because I really had no routine, no staging. I felt both inadequate and dull. Today I'd be a little kinder to myself, remembering that I'd only returned to blogging one day before, after a 6-month breather. I'd been extremely ill, moved to a new home and was barely clearing some very dark clouds. I hadn't written in a very long time, and only once in my new location. There's no sin in that, nor in not being able to add to commentary. But it bothered me terribly. It made me feel very sad.
Now, suddenly, "writing" also means my work. I'm thinking to laminate or bronze the first check I receive solely in payment for writing. Has the reader ever divined that in addition to all of my other "-holisms", I might be classified a workaholic? I prefer to think I'm just painstaking and responsible about whatever work I undertake, but I am forced to acknowledge that I probably take it between my teeth like a dog with a bone and chew it to pulp. And there is all kinds of juju attached to my "work". Whether my work is running a little carpet cleaning company or enabling an executive committee to behave irresponsibly, trying to hit all the marks required of a union representative or simply behaving like the office monkey I can be when I won't engage, don't contribrute, refuse to participate, there is a certain sameness about my set-up for work. I've got definite ideas about what my area should look like, what items should be at my fingertips. It's not so very different now that my office is at home.
While I want my dictionary to be of the online variety, I love the heft of my Roget's thesaurus in my hand. Fully 2 inches thick, the pages have aged to a yellow-brown hue that pleases me. I play a game when I look up a word in the thesaurus. Does the word mean what I thought it means? Is there some synonym I may have never dreamed of? I find now that I win more often than the book wins. For more than 20 years, I've stored my colored pencils in small ceramic flower pots, the pencils sticking out like so many posies. I do not use highlighters ever, for any purpose, and I do not keep them at hand. I do keep complete coffee service at hand, even if there is another coffee set-up nearby. I want it at my desk. I always want a betta fish on my desk, and a live plant and several notepads, as I keep multiple lists running at all times. I keep a set of small weights and a hula hoop nearby and several small, framed pictures that are meaningful to me. My stack of CDs is about 16 inches deep, this in addition to all the YouTube links on my desktop. Yes, I know how I want my work space to feel.
It's different now. I'm still not 100% solid with being home, in "the robe", clacking away at the computer, and having it constitute my work. What do I need to do, start up the car, drive around the block into my own driveway and "arrive"? Organize a small faux "lobby"? Maybe make mens and womens separate restrooms? I could dress professionally for myself and then allow myself casual Fridays. I could start an office grapevine of gossip . . . or I could make some small changes to remind myself that my work is now different work, of the sort I've longed for, and it's going to look different.
In my home there is a small studio upstairs, presently unused. It is warm in the winter and hot in the summer. It has a large expanse of windows and French doors leading out onto a deck that overlooks the pool. It is well suited to host land-line telephone, internet and coffee service. It is rather removed from the rest of the living area of the house and, therefore, quiet. The cats thoroughly enjoy this little spot and wouldn't have to be enticed to join me. Should I make this my little atelier? I'm artsier now. Perhaps I should wear a beret. I own 3 genuine modern-day German military berets in different colors. Hmm . . tilted toward the side of my head . . . I have an Edith Piaf CD I could play loudly. I'd take up my antique crystal inkwell and my Waterman fountain pen with the 18k gold nib. I thought I might like a beautiful bottle of absinthe on the corner of the desk - no, I wouldn't drink any. I thought of it as decor. Then I decided what I'd really like are some of the sexy little absinthe spoons. I looked on eBay, the same place I spy out beautiful inkwells for the collection and - oh, yeah! Absinthe spoons. David and George brought in people from both coasts for me to interview and I've already got more writing assignments. They were impressed with the work I'd done in 6 days. They were amazed I could talk pop art. They were pleased to see that my personality has returned, my vitality, my sense of excitement. I pleased myself in that I asked good questions during the interviews, connected well with my subjects, sparked new ideas. It was a good meeting. I met a most fascinating and pleasant man, and I'm not talking about the heat of sexual tension, but human warmth. "Can I take you out for a meal?" he asked. "No, not while I'm writing about you." "OK, I'll wait." Very nice, indeed.
On the way home, I decided to stop and pick up some things I needed. I'd been housebound for so long, even if by tethers of my own making. It had been a long time since I'd been out anywhere in the middle of a weekday, in the old neighborhood. I stopped at a nationally known megastore I detest. I don't like the trek through the place, I don't like to give them my money. Their prices are the best, however, and sometimes I bite the bullet. I got goo for my hair and moisturizer for my face, food for my cats, litter for said cats. I found a book I'd like to read, diet Dr. Pepper and some bits and pieces for the dolls I'm making. Finally my list was exhausted and it was time to check out. The lines weren't long, but what the hell? Every female customer in the place was carrying an armload of newspaper ads. It seems this particular store will honor any other store's lower advertised prices. I watched, fascinated, as matrons negotiated oranges priced individually vs. oranges priced by the pound, bickered about whether an 8-pack of light yogurt was the same as an 8-pack of regular yogurt, and just exactly what is the weight of those bags of Doritos. My eyes widened when the woman directly in front of me was busted for using as comparison the sale sheets that wouldn't go into effect for 2 more days. A young kid with a mullet highlighted much like my own hair stood behind me. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" "No, never." I looked at his purchases. A package of socks and a package of underwear. "You can go ahead of me. You've only got the two items." "Thank you, but haven't you been standing here a long time?" "Well, apparently not long enough, kid, because I'm still enthralled." Who knew? How long has this gone on?
Lying in my tub this morning, ears underwater, I enjoyed the distortion of sound, floating in the deep, deep water, and decided I want and need to write about something that isn't a particularly pleasant subject. April is Poetry Month and I was blown away last spring by all the wonderful presentations the various bloggers made. Mine will not be so pretty. I will be writing a series of posts under the heading of April Alliteration - Alcohol. I need to. It pleases me that I will write it from this end of the tunnel. Sunday I was journaling. Sometimes the writing takes on a life of its own as one's hands move involuntarily along the Ouija board. Without thinking about it very much, I found I'd written "I don't have to hide things and I don't have to drink." And that's what moves me forward toward doing the next right thing.
Something that charmed me: My BFF would know if it is some special time that honors women right now. I'm not as good about keeping up with such things, and - in fact - I rely upon her to tell me about special recognition or celebrations. However, in my own small world, I am celebrating women this week. Women older and quite young, women I know from different places and for different reasons. Of course I love my men friends, but this week, I appreciate the women. I had to get to a pretty advanced age to genuinely treasure what women can and will do for one another. Thank you, one and all. Sincerely.
Someone who knows me very well and cheers for me and who watches me write (both the physical process and the end product) asked, "You're writing about something difficult or painful, aren't you?" I wanted to know why he asked that. "Answer the question and then I'll tell you." I admitted I was working on a couple of pieces that were difficult and that had stirred up some ghostly activity in the soul. I asked how he knew that. "You're flogging The Field Trip and writing about the home dudes and I saw you draft your next about the desert, but your face says that's not where you really are 100%." Oh. Exposed. It is true that I have to leaven the emotionally troubling posts with some donkey laughs. I am driven to tell both kinds of stories. But I can't write all the angst-filled chronicles in a linear manner. One could bleed to death.
This will be the final chapter telling about the field trip to the wrong place. I've already finished touring the reader through the establishment. Now I want to share my fascination with one of my purchases. Yes, I do think this is funny, fascinating and wrong.
I spent an amount of money it takes me seven minutes to earn on a tiny box of peppermint artifically flavored (with attitude) Cat Butt Gum. I am not sure I knew that flavors or gum have attitude at all, but OK, I'm a quick learner. The box contains 8 miniscule pieces of gum with "kiss my ass" attitude. All right. Gum and flavor not only with attitude, but with "kiss my ass" attitude. I like to think I am a modest, amateur wordsmith, but I can't come up with a way to describe what I think I could taste and then think, "Oh - definitely - the message in that bite was 'kiss my ass'." And if what I tasted was peppermint, I assure you, I'd only think "peppermint". This marriage of kiss my ass attitude to peppermint flavor is difficult for me to comprehend. But the mysteries on the front of the tiny box don't hold a candle to the puzzlements on the back.
Made in Canada for a company located in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, the gum's box was designed by Modern Dog Design Co. OK, all well and good. I understand a bit about commerce and advertising. But it's about the text on the back of the box! It makes me laugh out loud every time I read it, and at the very bottom of the box, in typeface so tiny I can barely see it with or without trifocals, is this: "P.S. Copy by Jun, he's a bitch." WTF? 7 Helpful Occasions to Chew This Gum 1. When you suddenly need to change your mood.I know chewing gum always helps me to change mine! What???
2. When somebody yell at you and you don't want to listen.Earplugs or leaving the room might be as effective, but OK.
3. If you are lack of attitude. Attitude is not what I lack, but I don't think the gum would give me any. 4. When you need to refuse.Um, wouldn't you just say no?
5. When you want to be picky. I'm picky without the gum.
6. When you want to be selfish.I'm not sure I ever want to be selfish and I don't think the gum would help me to be that way.
7. When you definitely want to say "kiss my ass".I think I'd just say it if I felt so inclined.
*Chew more than one if you need extra attitude.No, it's already been decided. I'm not chewing any.
In my ears right now: I love it. I have always loved it.
Something that charmed me: Boris charmed me. "Boris Putznik, The Human Contortionist" it says on the back of the card I bought at the Bonanza. I Googled "Boris Putznik" and came up with nothing. Do you suppose Boris is not real? Or is Boris Putznik such a common name, Google can't sort out one from the other? The reason Boris charms me: there he is, doing what he does, and that expression on his face, to me, says "having a great day at the office!"
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. I love a holiday/celebration that celebrates love!And, like the Dixie Chicks, I believe in love . .
Preface: Most readers will want to have reviewed Chapter I of this adventure before proceeding. Those with good recall and humor won't need to do so. One may also want to click on the images contained herein to be reminded that the overarching theme of this outing and this destination is "wrong". I don't like this stuff. I'm fascinated by how wrong it is. Who thought it up? Why is it here? Who in the world would buy it? And why would they buy it here?
Please rejoin me at the World's Largest Gift Shop where we are about to make our way from all the lovely bacon and toast items and Naked Men In Oven Mitts to the "what the hell?" section and then to the Mother Lode ~ Naughty Town. Having rushed through the departments that don't draw us, now we tend to inchworm our way along, guffawing in an unbecoming way. The Bonanza gets high marks from me for carrying merchandise that will fulfill all the souvenir and gift-buying needs of every visitor who comes to Las Vegas. Come on! Get out your list and follow me.
Possibilities for one's fun and kicky friends and relatives:
I know those things always keep me entertained on a Saturday night!
Here in the garden section are some lovely potential gifts for your friends who enjoy cultivating plants. It thrills me that these icons of the desert southwest, the Joshua tree and the giant saguaro cactus, germinate in 11-21 days and 3-10 days respectively. The packages say they are easy to grow, although I suppose they would not flourish in some parts of the world. A bigger problem, however, is the age of your gift recipient. One would want to present these thoughtful presents to a younger person. The Joshua tree grows five feet in a decade and begins to bloom after about 12 years. The giant saguaro grows one foot in 15 years and ten feet in 40 years. They actively grow for about 100 years and live up to 200 years. If you're looking for the gift that keeps on giving, these may fit the bill. For decades and centuries and generations of the gift recipient's descendants.
If there's a cook in your life, this item might be a hit! One could backtrack to the bacon and toast and Naked Men in Oven Mitts to fill a brunch-making basket. Remember there are bacon placemats and bacon mints. The shop abounds with ceramic Las Vegas bowls, dishes and coffee mugs . . .
Who has a pious little auntie? The Deluxe Miracle Jesus Action Figure with glow in the dark hands can't fail to please! He turns water into wine and feeds 5,000 with 5 loaves and 2 fishes. It says so on the box. Or perhaps St. Joseph, the patron saint of real estate would be appropriate. St. Vivian, the patron saint of hangovers might hit the spot if auntie enjoys a nip. Or if she keeps a pet, here's a lovely St. Gertrude (patron saint of cats) figure.
My mother is a world traveler and an avid Egyptophile. She has a beautiful home filled with fine art reflective of the things that please and intrigue her. I know I'm always proud to add to her collection of antiquities with another purchase from the Bonanza. It's so convenient, too! Who has a little boy's or girl's name on their list? What child wouldn't want a fun and furry little jackalope?
Or dolls? Beautiful dolls!
May this be fair warning to the more sensitive reader: We are about to enter Naughty Town. If this distresses you, take a detour. But be forewarned. Naughty Town features some delightful items for still others on your gift list.
Speaking of dolls, we are greeted at the gates of Naughty Town by Mayor John and his wife Judy. Judy still hasn't received the memo saying turquoise eyeshadow was outlawed, but she's the first lady of Naughty Town, so we slide her some slack. As both she and John are inflatables, a foot pump may be a nice addition to the gift. Judy is an old stereotype. John intrigues me more. While both are guaranteed to "not snore in bed", I "get" Judy's function and purpose, but I'm not so sure I "get it" about John. I shall have to think about that. His look does not appeal to me, for I like dark eyes, not blue. I'm not sure John and I would be a match. But then, I am not Judy.
Should anyone have a gentleman on his or her list with an approaching birthday, this lovely lady might be a hit. The birthday boy wouldn't even need any actual humans to celebrate with. This sweetie will sing "Happy Birthday" and pretend to throw the pretend birthday cake in his face. No mess on the carpet from a virtual cake throwing. Birthday Girl is a veritable party in a box. Is it just me, or does anyone else think Birthday Girl might benefit from a large competent brassiere?
Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows I love the desert and most everything in it. The package caught my attention immediately. After all, I have been dubbed The Queen of the Reptiles. I wanted to open the box and look at the little fella ~ truly one of my favorite animals in the world. Maybe I'd even hold him in my hand and stroke the little lizardly spikes on the back of his head as I do when I nab one in the Mojave in the spring. Oh. They look so different in the Preserve. Not green. Hmmm . . moving along.
I will forever regret that it was not I who spotted the piece de resistance. I heard him say, "What the hell? Come here, look at this!" We chortled like snarks, and then it hit us at the same time. We weren't actually looking at the kit. The display box was empty. Here at the Bonanza, the World's Largest Gift Shop, the place whose motto is "If It's In Stock, We Have It", this very wrong item was SOLD OUT! It must be their best seller. OK, stick a fork in me, I'm done. "Ready to get out of here?" "Boy, howdy!"
It has been my true pleasure to serve as tour guide and personal shopper on my (approximately) biannual trip to Destination Wrong. As usual, I drank deep from the well and I won't feel the need to return soon. In my hand you see the familiar yellow bag with my $5.36 worth of purchases. That's about what I spend every time. I bought three postcards with the vintage images I so enjoy. I bought one box of Peppermint Cat Butt Gum with which to make the home dudes howl. The Peppermint Cat Butt Gum will require a post of its own.
In my ears right now: Can't get enough R.E.M. My little birds love "Shiny, Happy People"! No, I don't think parakeets have musical taste, but some upbeat tunes make them chirp happily while ballads cause them to make quieter, throaty little noises.
Something that charmed me: "Les, how does that gum taste?" "I wouldn't know, homes. I don't chew gum."
Photo credits:
Bonanza Gift Shop exterior, LimesNow and the Gift Shop denizen - J. D. Morehouse
Gift Shop wares for sale - LimesNow with her point-and-shoot
"What do you feel like doing?" "I don't know, what do you feel like doing?" "Oh, I'm not sure. Let me bubble on it." It didn't take me long to land on it. "I'd like a field trip. It's been more than two years." "OK, that sounds like fun. Let's each take a camera." Good idea! I wasn't a blogger last time I made this trip.
I have a long association with Las Vegas, with some sizable gaps. I arrived here to live on the Bicentennial Day (July 4, 1976), remained 7 years, stayed away 18 years and have now been back for 7 years. I've worked at or been closely associated with real estate sales, escrow, construction, mortgage lending, land purchases, property management and now in a service industry catering to the general populace. I know the place pretty well. It is an unusual city in that it takes on new appearances seemingly overnight. When I returned in 2003, I was stunned that so many new buildings I knew from the 1970s were gone. But not entire city blocks of them. Piecemeal. So that one can't quite get comfortable. There's the old Alpine Inn, but I can't quite place the buildings on either side of it - they're new. Tall buildings mixed in among short, squat ones. There are tracts of land that have never been developed since the city's birth in 1905 - some of these vacant places completely encircled by development.
The route to our destination took us ten miles along a major east-west artery of the city. We weren't two miles from my place when we began to take in the most amazing sights. Neither of us uses this boulevard very frequently. The first stunner was that two favored restaurants situated next to one another had gone out of business. One was boarded up, the other had changed hands. A "WTF?" look was exchanged between us. Soon we noticed entire professional plazas that appear now to have only one or two businesses open where there used to be 50. My god. Several major chain grocery stores had gone down, now empty or housing the latest indoor swap meet - oh, they're thriving. I'm not sure I can count high enough to tell the number of huge car dealerships now out of business. Dear readers, yes, we do read the news and we do know there's a recession in full bloom. We know that from the neck up and from the effects that has had on our personal finances and lifestyles. The impact of the ghost town, however, was not intellectual. It was visceral. This is bad. And it's going to take a long time to revitalize. We, great communicators since 1968, were very quiet in the car.
We arrived at the intersection we'd aimed for. On one corner is the Sahara Hotel & Casino, directly across from the enormous lot that's never been built upon. Another corner is home to a vast one-story building, vacant and painted entirely black - walls, windows and awnings. Near our corner were some old familiar sights and some startling new ones. A block east sits one of the most venerated eating establishments in Las Vegas. The Golden Steer has remained in the same location since 1958, gradually annexing all the space in the commercial building it occupies. It looks exactly as it did when I dined there on my first wedding anniversary in 1978 when it was already 20 years old. But strolling eastward, there's something new. Where once squatted the tattiest wedding chapel of them all - the one with the pink plastic posies stabbed into the ground on approach to the place where one enters marital nirvana - soars all 41 stories of Allure. Finally, on the corner, hunkered at the heel of Allure, our destination.
"If it's in stock, we have it!" Yes, that's the way I've always heard it goes.
I can recall no change in the appearance or ambience of the Bonanza Gift & Souvenir Shops since I first spotted it in 1976. It is tacky, trashy, objectionable, wrong and funny in most every way. From its location to its merchandise, my field trip subject is wrong. And just as I enjoy venerable things and the beautiful desert, wonderful music and some intellectual writing, I like knowing about the wrong contained in the Bonanza. Yes, I do want to peruse the wares in the Bonanza's Naughty Town. I want to see the T-shirts that surely no tourist would buy. I want to pick up things that must have been invented or created by people crazier than I. I want to shock my companion and make him laugh out loud. I want him to point out the wacky stuff he sees before I do. Just about once every two years.
The fun begins in the parking lot. It's filled with people who have come from near and very, very far and it's loud. All that's missing is calliope music. As the photographer bent into the car to get his camera, he recoiled from a resounding roar and the sound of people scremaing. "No worries. It's the roller coaster on top of the Sahara." He regained his composure and set about getting the exterior shots. I had trouble concentrating on photos as I was drawn to watch the certifiables' circus. I saw a man in bad thrift store clothing riding a bad thrift store bicycle, circling and ringing a bell for all he was worth. He had an adequate jacket and he was the happiest man I have seen in a long time, kicking his feet off the pedals and shaking his legs in the air. He greeted everyone he encountered as he circled and I greeted him, "Happy new year, happy home dude." Of my companion, I asked, "Do you think he's a serious cyclist?"
We aimed for one of the many doors, each featuring a uniformed armed guard. "Do you think they have a prohibition against cameras and photos?" I never had considered that! If they did, mine could easily be slipped into my purse or coat pocket. His requires a sizable case. We stepped up to the same door we always use (come on folks, we're orderly!). "No shirt, no shoes, no service." We had on shirts and shoes. "No smoking." We don't. "No public restrooms." We went before we left my place. As we crossed the threshold, my reaction was the same as always. My pulse picks up a little and I get ready to laugh. The big grin spreads from one side of my face to the other before I see any of the goods. We always follow the same route through the store - hey, we're hikers and campers, we follow maps.
We first encounter all the Elvis stuff, and there's a lot of it. I'm not an Elvis fan. My mother (who shares the king's birthday) and Ex were big fans. I'm fried on Elvis. We don't even stop in that football field-sized department. Glass shot glasses, ash trays, ceramic bells and vases celebrating fabulous Las Vegas? Nope. We don't slow down for that. Miles of racks of jewelry similar to that found in any 99-Cents Store? It doesn't even register on our radar. Finally, less than 10% of the way through the establishment ~ the T-shirt section. Now this bears some attention! There must be 1,000 T-shirts of every imaginable description. Some are lame, some go beyond naughty all the way to obscene. Some are simply hard to understand. What, someone is going to come visit Las Vegas and buy a T-shirt with a rebel flag or the ocean on it? OK, whatever. The cowboy and southwestern themed shirts make sense to me. A lively debate was held surrounding what a particular T-shirt depicted. It was gray with black line drawings. I thought it was a monkey's face. He thought it was a big, fat guy's chest and abdomen. Regardless, it was stupid and ugly. And we were ready to move on.
We stepped into the 100 Acre Woods that whets my appetite for this peculiar trash cruising. No, we weren't in Naughty Town yet, although I could see it just a few miles off. We had entered the area of "small stuff". Magnets, desk accessories, stationery, soaps, snacks, purses and things that defy description. Racks, bins, baskets and rows of these things. I need to handle them all. Lest the reader think my companion becomes bored or testy as I cruise, be assured: he's touching and checking things out, too, calling my attention to things as frequently as I say "Hey!" or "Look at this!" to him.
Some of my favorite hits this time:
Bacon stuff! (Here we go again with bacon!) Bacon placemats and bacon wallets - I know I'd enjoy pulling that out at Bath & Body Works just to watch the reaction of the cashier as I purchase Warm Vanilla Sugar bath products. Bacon bandaids and bacon mints. Mints? Are they minty or bacony? Look, while I don't eat it, I understand that people love it and enjoy it with eggs or in a BLT. But who decided it was funny? Who decided "We'll make bacon funny stuff and people will buy it"?
Toast bandaids. For those who don't care for bacon, I guess.
Safety measures for all the bacon and toast preparation workers, I imagine. Who'd buy these? Who'd put these on their refrigerator door? Oh, I can stand in the shop and laugh like a donkey, but I wouldn't buythis stuff. It's pricey. Shockingly pricey. And stupid. And funny. And wrong.
So, is the Bonanza the world's largest gift shop, as the sign proclaims? I don't know the answer. I'm not in charge of that. But it's large, no question. And we'll visit it again soon in Chapter 2 before I go away this weekend.
In my ears right now: In the continuing theme of "wrong", it doesn't get more wrong than this. It's so wrong it makes me ashamed I was alive in the 1970s. I challenge the reader to watch it all the way through. Better yet, watch it, make a list of how many wrong things you see and tell me the number. I'll send a prize! Not to be missed: Bowie's black bodice that moves independently and separately from his body when he shakes his narrow booty. It must have been made from cardboard!
Something that charmed me: The Electronic Yodelling Pickle. I worked hard to think of some meaning it might add to my life, for I certainly wanted one. It was loud and it was stupid and it was pretty wrong. Alas, I left it behind. I couldn't think of anything I'd actually do with it. There's a recession on and I'd just driven through a deserted city. Electronic Yodelling Pickle notwithstanding, one wants to be mindful of expenses.
The Badger sent an e-mail to say "I need to get some yard work done while the days are not so blazing hot, but would you like to go cruise the bookstore before we have dinner?" Well, yeah! I've never been known to turn down a trip to the bookstore and maybe iced coffee could be tossed into the mix . . . When we arrived, we talked about which sections of the store we planned to visit, and went our separate ways.
Finally, the Badger called me on my BlackBerry. "Where are you?" Folks, I'd been in the Seattle's Best getting iced coffee, then to the Gifts & Stationery section where I bought so much Girlfriend Giveaway stuff I'm a little embarrassed to tell it. I bought bookmarks featuring Virginia Woolf (the author, not the cat), another glorious bookmark to send to my BFF, a number of pricey cards to write and mail, a pair of sweet little inspirational books of the sort that women send one another, a sarcastic book of the sort that women of a certain age send one another, and a serious book I intend to actually read . . . . I'm short and could not be seen over the shelves from which I shopped feverishly. We met at the checkout area. The Badger had a couple of serious items and his bill was $2.16. I had a haul and my bill was not $2.16.
I also found a little kit that constitutes a desk accessory since I have been dealing with particularly snarky people on the telephone most recently. I truly feel beaten up and require some new skills to keep my good nature going forward. There is a book of instructions that tells how to take care of The Despot, The Puny and the Petulant, The Nitpicker and The Sobbing Diva. I've spoken to at least half of them in the past week!The book suggests that the doll can be tricked out to resemble the object of one's wrath, but I'm keeping mine generic. Remember, I never get to actually see these people. I don't know what they look like.
Monday I came in and set up my desk accessory. The guys all poured in at the start of the day and we chattered sufficiently to get my little parakeets charged up and chirping for the day. "OK, guys, let's huddle before you start your day." We talked about good jobs and potential pitfalls ~ just like every morning. As they shuffled off for their clipboards, supplies and paperwork, one daring soul spoke up. "Limes, who is new home dude?" Said I, "The general public, homey. Everyone I talk to all day, every day." I swear relief could be seen on his face! "Glad to hear it, Limes. Glad to know it's not . . . " "Oh, home dudes, never! "
In my ears right now: Carlos Santana, "Black Magic Woman".
Something that charmed me: On my fridge at home is a magnet I've had for a few years since my friend brought it back from a cruise to the Caribbean. It is a voo doo doll. It's not generic white like new home dude. Who knows how or why, readers, but it looks an awful lot like Ex. I've had that magnet on my fridge door for 6 years straight. Its pins have colored pearl heads and really sharp points.
