Igual Mente

Strange, this phenomenon of “igual mente” that seems to be occurring between Mony and me. I was all set to write about peach pie yesterday but got too busy. Today I open her blog and she is writing about pastries. Coincidence? I think not!

When I worked at MAPI, one of the Hispanic employees said “igual mente” to me one day. He said it means, “we think alike.”

Yes, there is a stupefying parallel that is happening between two sisters. Now, if she should start writing about pasties instead of pastries, then I don’t know what is going to pop into my head but it could be alarming.

I mean, WHICH one of us is leading the thoughts of the other – or do we switch off? Does it take the both of us to create the one thought? And what if she starts thinking about something for days on end – will my mind go there too? Do we drag each other around through various “thought gardens?” Am I at times an unwilling “thought tourist” in the holiday of her mind?

And conversely – can I begin to affect her thoughts by concentrating hard enough? Can I make her think about Republicans and red meat if I want? And of course, the question we really need to ask is – was she REALLY born 3 yrs and 8 months after me, or was she born at the same time and is my twin? Was her existence kept secret at birth, to be revealed at a later date? Is she REALLY already 50 years old????

Squirrels of Mass Destruction

Squirrels love the hang out in the tiny “woods” behind our house. I’ve seen these squirrels do some cool things: I have watched a squirrel bury a nut and pat the dirt around it with his little “hands” until you can’t even tell the ground was disturbed. Well, actually, it wasn’t the ground, it was the mulch in our flower beds in the back yard. Another thing I saw a squirrel do this summer was to pull the tops off of the toadstools that had sprung up, and eat them! How cute is that?

Lately, these squirrels are out of control. They’re tearing the hell out of those mulch beds, leaving big holes. The other day, two of them were digging and playing in what was left of a pot of impatiens. On Sunday, we were sitting on the patio WHEN I NOTICED THAT MR & MRS TOAD WERE MISSING. What diabolical fiends had removed or dislodged my beloved toad couple? Damn squirrels!! I found Mr & Mrs lying face down at the bottom of the little mulch “hill,” no doubt knocked over during some extreme squirrel rumpus session.

Well I have had it! This means war!! I’m thinking about hooking up an electrical charge to Mr & Mrs Toad. Tha-aa-t’s right. Mess with the toads – circuit overload, baby!!

Magic Bean

Warning: This blog is inappropriate. If you are uncomfortable with a departure from Propriety, this blog may not be for you. This blog has been rated BM for.......well, you'll figure it out.

Glorioski, Pilgrim! It’s been so long since I’ve had a fully-caffeinated cup of Joe, I had forgotten! I had forgotten the magical, medicinal properties of the bean!

I drink coffee every day, but I had taken to mixing mine half-caffeine/half-decaf, because I drink so much of it, after a while it can make me nauseous. The other day I was out of coffee and I had to hit the Caribou Coffee drive-thru. Well! Katie bar the door! The difference was quite astounding.

You might think me indelicate (I am) but can we talk? Because I have been PLAGUED by a digestive tract only slightly slower than the Earth’s orbit around the sun. I have tried various and sundry remedies. My pantry has enough fiber in it to weave a sturdy rope and swing safely over a pit of alligators without fear of falling. But I get no results. I get nuthin. I get gas.

The truth is, it’s probably a short-lived remedy. It’s probably only a matter of time until the “Ol’ Stagnant” figures out what this stuff is and steels its girders or girds its steel sides against the onslaught. But for now…

I’m light as a feather! A new woman! I have vim! Vigor! Pep! There’s a twinkle in my eye and a spring in my step – and I owe it all to the Magic Bean.

Morning Rant

I didn’t come to work to listen to the never ending soap opera of your life, your child, your baby daddy, and your other baby daddy. I didn’t come to work to tell you to hang in there, to listen to how hard your life is, what a jerk your ex is, about your latest diet, about your latest medical ailment, your latest family drama. I don’t feel like hearing about your latest on-line college class – in which you had to do all the work because you volunteered to be the team leader and now the others aren’t pulling their weight, so you will have to sit up till the wee hours writing everyone else’s stuff (again), and you will be sooo tired tomorrow morning you will probably show up looking like hell so that everyone will ask you what is wrong.   

Believe it or not, I come to work to do my job. I don’t come here for the social benefit.  It's just not classy to share every detail of your sordid life with whomever will give you the attention you so obviously crave. I don’t need to get involved in your personal life and I don’t expect you to get involved in mine. In fact, I would prefer to keep you out of my personal life. It’s none of your damn business.

Why do you assume that everyone wants to hear the minutiae of your child’s every moment? Do I really wanna know that he eats the foam from your throw pillows (and you do nothing to stop him)? Does anyone? Do I NEED to know that he “gave you a poopy when you got home,” or that his nose runs because it’s allergy season, or what his teacher told you on the phone yesterday about what he did and didn’t eat for lunch??

Don’t get me wrong. I consider myself a caring and supportive person. I love kids. I have two of my own. I feel that when circumstances call for it, I can be very understanding of your absences. I don’t even comment when you can’t come to work because your live-in loser didn’t come home all night and you have been crying and frantic and haven’t had any sleep.


But let’s be clear here: don’t assume that I care, because I don’t. Leave your personal life at home. We’ll all be better off.

Places You've Been

Has this ever happened to you: you revisit a place, and as your eyes roam the physical structures of that place, your mind is reviewing the unique memories you have had there before? Whether or not there was someone with you or not when it happened, they didn’t experience it the way you did; their minds’ eye cannot see what you see; they will never feel what you feel.

This happens to me a lot.

I might be riding in a car with someone, and we drive past a building, a park, a fountain. I’ve been there before.

But I say nothing.

I keep these memories close. I ponder them in my heart. I let the little vignettes play on in my head. I bask in their afterglow.

For some reason, it gives me a weird satisfaction. “I was here before. I remember these stairs attached to the outside of the building, and how I felt as I climbed them, three stories high. I can still hear the ringing of my steps on the metal. I remember dropping a penny and hearing it fall to the pavement below.” 

You can’t possibly record every memory, or share them all with another person. But you can go back to these places sometimes…all by yourself.

Madonna Moon Face

The Body wants to construct a wall of fat 3 inches thick that circumvents my midsection. It plots and maneuvers. It’s pretty hard to keep vigilance against this while I am sleeping. This is when The Body makes some of its biggest plays.

The Body has recently completed one of its pet projects, entitled (I suspect) “Madonna Moon Face.” When I looked in the mirror the other morning, I saw a cross between a kitchen Madonna and parade balloon. Chalk one up for The Body.

On a mostly unrelated vein, the term “Moon Face” has recalled to my brain one of my favorite Dr. Seuss poems, “Two Many Daves,” from the book "Sneetches and Other Stories."
Enjoy..............


TOO MANY DAVES

Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons, and she named them all Dave?


Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one, and calls out "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!

This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn.
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt.
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt.
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate . . . .


But she didn't do it. And now it's too late