My mom just got back from a trip to Ohio to attend her 50th high school reunion (the only reason, really, why one would travel to Ohio, let's be honest).

I asked her how it was and she said the biggest shock was when she arrived at the swanky hotel where the reunion was held.

She said: "You know, honestly, I got off the elevator and thought I was in the wrong place at first because----well, there were all these old people! Sometimes you forget that you're old."

That made me think of Maggie--a lovely woman I worked with years ago. When she turned 60 we took her to the Olive Garden for lunch. One of our co-workers remarked about how lovely Maggie was for 60. Maggie smiled and got a wistful look on her face and said: "I feel like I felt when I was 20, you know? Sometimes when I look in the mirror in the morning I'm so surprised."

One more thing: Mom said that a woman named Mary sought her out at the reunion and said: "You were the only friend I ever had in high school and I'll never forget you for being so kind to me. Thank you."

Mom barely remembers spending time with Mary. She does remember Mary being picked on by the other kids at school. And she said a guy at the reunion seemed to be dodging Mary and finally he sheepishly admitted to Mom that he had been a huge asshole in high school and had treated Mary like shit and how embarrassed and ashamed he felt seeing her at the reunion. Mom encouraged him to go have a chat with Mary and cop to his asshole behavior. He did. How cool is that?

I turned to Schmoopie and wagged my finger and said: "You listen up. Weigh your words and your deeds carefully. You never know what people will carry with them the rest of their lives." I really didn't need to say that because my kid is the epitome of kindness and compassion. But it was a great reinforcement opportunity too good to pass up.

"Yep," Grandma said. "Kindness costs you nothing but it can mean so much to someone. You just don't know."

I was driving the 13-year-old home from school today and she said: "You know what, Mom? The average human being sheds 40 pounds of skin in a lifetime."

I said: "Wow, I am so glad you are back in school. There is just nothing like the awe of the discoveries of middle school science." Seriously. That bit of esoteric trivia made my day. I hope you enjoyed it too.

is the cooler ready?

we are in the strike zone again and that means one thing to us salty hurricane vets: beer run.

so we did the wig shopping.

Will the old ladies at the wig shop ever recover? Not likely, no.

PS--Barb really loves her new temporary hair.

surprise! mental illness really can cost you your job

so here's my theory on the whole firing thing and the cult thing: I am 99.9% convinced that TC is probably bipolar. No, I am not a psychiatrist but I've spent enough time among the mentally ill that I usually recognize the symptoms. So TC is mood swinging, manic one minute (see: Jerry Maguire), unbelievably boring and dull the next (see: Vanilla Sky).

The good folks of science fiction cult-land tell him to skip the standard mental health treatment and meds, he can cure himself with their version of Star Trek-esgue religion. Why else would he cling to his misguided and ill-informed beliefs so vehemently and attack poor depressed Brookie like he did? Because it's all about him,(he is a GUY after all) not depressed Brook.

And now finally peeps in Hollywood are starting to look at one another and say "Dude, TC, he isn't the greatest actor of his generation, no, he's just fucking nuts!!! Plus he's short. And not very smart and uneducated. And sort of a pedophile. Ew. Cancel his contract pronto and somebody get me Ashton on the horn..."

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
~ Edgar Allen Poe

Our friend, the lovely Barbara, is doing well. The chemo and the steroids are a bitch but she is approaching every day with grace and humor and determination. She decided the other night to up and shave her head. Here's an e-mail she sent about it:


I did the deed.

Picture this, unable to touch your hair or wash it, being hot and tired. Trying to go to bed and your bed is filled with hair, it is itching your nose and in the back of your throat. So, I just went in by myself (sorry Mary) and shaved it bald as can be. I then took a full, long shower and feel like healthy Barb again. I can sleep now. It was freeing and it makes me feel so much, much, much better. When your hair is dead on your head and you can't touch it. Outta here! I look like a Sumo wrestler, but I can work on that too.

I guess what I am telling you is that there are no right answers, you just constantly have to ask yourself and whoever your support people are (Mary and I have deliberated over this for days) you have to figure out what will really make you feel better. If you can get past the looks of the deal, it is so easy. I feel 500% better than when I came in here to sleep tonight. I feel like I crossed a threshold and now I am waiting for the hair to grow back. Very positive. B

we went to the ball game today and of course, our team received a severe spanking, although, like the collaborates-with-the-enemy kind of gal I am, I wore a shirt supporting the out of town (spankers) team which was an homage to where my mom was born. Did she appreciate it? She did not wear a shirt supporting her place of birth team. She wore a where she lives now (spankees) shirt. So did my child. We are a mixed family.

I went to the ladies room by myself and as I exited a guy walking past with a big group of what looked like his family sort of leaned toward me and said in a low hissy whisper only I could hear, "Well, why don't you go back to ______ (name of the out of towner's town)?" as he passed."Oh, go fuck yourself, schmo," I thought, though I did not say it out loud. Just thinking it pleased me and so that was enough.

When it was time for the Star Spangled Banner we all shuffled to our feet.I was intrigued by the honor guard presenting the colors. They were from a local fire house and one of the firemen carried a huge, shiny silver axe at the ready. It looked just like the one my uncle received enshrined in a walnut display case when he retired as the state fire chief of a Midwestern state many years ago. (This is the association of all the chief's in one state. They too have a chief. It's a big deal to be the state chief). It is hanging in his den in a place called "The Villages" in Florida, which is kind of a surreal Stepford-ish town for old geezers. A lot of good the axe does up there on the "wall of me" collecting dust.

Anyway, I wondered why one would need such an axe to carry next to a young man brandishing the stars and stripes with much pomp and circumstance. It's not like the axe is necessary. Not like it would/could be used in the event of a fire at the ball game. Would it be used to beat the fire out of the flag were it to catch fire? These things are a mystery to me. But there is something about a guy wielding an axe that makes me all gushy inside. And the SSB, which was sung in four-part harmony by four old gals in matching red, white and blue denim outfits made me misty. This took me by surprise. I thought about how Randy would have hated what they were wearing. They sang lustily.

I was wondering if the four older singing gals were lesbians when a kid started running up the stairs next to where I was standing. He had a ball glove in his hand and was obviously on a mission to find the best possible position in the ball park from which to catch fly balls.

But not yet."Hold it!" An usher stuck his arm out and stopped the kid who would have been clothes-lined had he not stopped in his tracks.

"Turn around and put your hand over your heart. Have some respect, kid," the old guy commanded. (Our ushers are retirees. They demand R-E-S-P-E-C-T). The kid did as he was told. He stood motionless. I am a statue.

The ladies wrapped up their warbling, beaming at one another as their voices blended perfectly, smooth and fluid. I thought of my friend in Paris who is struggling to communicate with her neighbors and says she will weigh 600 pounds when she gets back here in two years because she is living on sausage and baguettes. I thought of how much she loves baseball. I missed her. I was glad I was at the game. I wished she was too.

I watched the usher watch the kid like a hawk, moving his lips to the words. I inhaled the smell of the peanuts and the beer and yes, even the disgusting nachos smelled like baseball, and then I got a lump in my throat and felt all sentimental.

When the ump yelled "Play ball!" I thought, "Shucks it's good to be alive."

happy birthday, schmoopie!

Angel girl,
Whom we adore,
In praise of you we sing.
Each day we love you
More and more,
Such happiness you bring.

(second sweetie from the right).

tell me you don't want to eat Joe up with a spoon. And a cherry on top.

I'm not sure what these images say about my neighbor.

One could deduce that folks around here walk out the front door with Fido and make a beeline to her yard in order to leave a steaming pile of doggie poo.

But in 10 years I have not ever seen a dog in her yard and I am a daily dog stroller. But for some reason, Miss Daisy has a powerful urge to want to pee in this--and only this yard in the whole 'hood. Okay, one time I let her. But she only poops at home. Like me.

But anyway, one could also deduce that folks in this neighborhood are thieves. But I can tell you that everyone has fruit trees out the wazoo in my little 'hood. Who wants her fucking oranges anyway? They never look ripe and full and brilliantly colored like mine, which scream to passers-by: "See my deep, pretty colors? Want to take me home and juice me? I'm so ripe I'm about to tumble off this tree limb. Go ahead, reach out and give me a squeeze...I know you want to eat me..."

My neighbor seems to be a pill. And she always turns her lights off on Halloween and pretends not to be home. The dead give-away is that every other night of the year the place is lit up like a maximum security prison.

This is just a guess, but I think my neighbor has probably not gotten laid in a long time. Or maybe ever. Which would be sad. Maybe not getting laid and having no hope of ever getting laid makes one so bitter and pinched that one places asinine signs in one's yard that really seem to say: "I am incredibly unhappy..."

I have always missed you more than you missed me and this is the explanation for all of it.

as my friend, one of the Judys, exclaimed when she sent me this one: "What's the point?" Indeed.

(But to be fair, I think maybe this was Photo-Shopped. Who knows).

Hiking in August in Inferno (I mean Florida) is not advised for the under-hydrated nor those who do not appreciate insects large enough to mate with turkeys. And the thing is, we really get no relief from the heat and humidity until about October. Bitch, bitch, bitch...

I dropped Schmoopie off at the grandparents' house at the crack of dawn today. Actually, it was the crack before dawn. The GITB had already left for his own weekly before-dawn rendevous with his golfing commando buddies. Once the kid was dropped off for her weekend sojourn to the World of Rat in Orlando with the two people who made me crazy at her age, but for some reason have become incredibly cool since they became grandparents, the dog and I sat on the beach to witness the actual dawn. She snuggled next to me in the sand and sniffed the air as I sipped coffee and enjoyed the quiet and the view. And it was good.

the best bumper sticker I saw this week:

my friend's cancer has apparently spread rapidly and her oncologist changed her status from Stage 3 to Stage 4. They are doing a full-out bombardment of chemo for two weeks that will amount to double the chemicals, then surgery. We are all wide-eyed and very quiet. We love her. She knows it. What more is there to say? It will be okay? I want to say this. But I can't force it out of my mouth because I can't be sure it will sound like me forming the words because right now I don't think it will be okay.

Call someone up today and tell them how much you love them.

uber asshole

Welcome to August.

I borrowed this image from Frank at PostSecret. Hope he doesn't get all huffy about it. But I loved this and with all the shit hitting the fan with my friends lately, it spoke to me in a loud and insistent manner. Go visit Frank, by the way. He is the keeper of our deepest, longest held secrets and he treats them with humanity, love and respect. He posts new secrets every Sunday. Make him part of your weekend wind-down.

Hope August is a good month, my homies. Here are your assignments: Grace, pull yourself up by your bra straps and get off the couch. No man is worth it. Hey, eb, draw me a pretty picture. Judy, stop lurking and post a comment, girl, no one will know it's you. Mel, keep hammering that treadmill, baby. And BHD, make at least one new girlfriend this month who is worthy of sharing a bottle of wine and reminds you of your gal pals you miss so much. And BJ--glad you stopped by. You should do it more often.