Over What Hill? I Didn't See Any Hill

           Done anything stupid lately? No? Then here—you can share mine. A couple of weeks ago St. Bob and I were invited to a friend’s birthday party.

           While selecting a card, we found one we thought was pretty cute—it teased the birthday guy about being old, then inside took it back by saying, “Ok, you’re not that old…”

          But there was a misprint inside the one we were reading. Part of the O in Ok was missing:

                                                Jk

          So we looked at the others in the stack. The same misprint was on every one!

          But, not to be thwarted, we figured we could just take a fine tip Sharpie and complete the O at home.

          So I was looking for said pen in the kitchen when our daughter, Nicole walked in.

          “Oh, hey,” I said. “Look at this card. They didn’t complete the O in Okay.”

          Nicole read the card and then just stared at us. “You guys are so old,” she muttered.

          WHAT? Vivacious, energetic, youthful, fun us?

          “It says JK.  It means Just Kidding.”

          Oh.  And now you know how to communicate with young people. Jk.

Aha—but I’m not kidding about visiting my website and buying my books! Check ‘em out!

Bob's Brain

           St. Bob has a juke box in his brain. It doesn’t even require coins—it just works Around the Clock (another song) and spills out into my world. Maybe it’s called a Juke Bob.

          Either way, I am treated to random songs every morning.  Most often they’re tunes I have never heard in my life.  But he knows every word, who sang it, and what year.

          See if you have tapped into this same amazing service. Do you know the following songs?

          I’ll Be Down to Getcha in a Taxi, Honey

          Put Your Shoes on, Lucy, Don’t You Know You’re in the City?

          Somebody Done Changed the Lock on My Door

          Caldonia

          Mississippi Mud

          Thank God and Greyhound She’s Gone

          Surfer Bird

          She Got the Gold Mine and I Got the Shaft

          Short, Fat Fanny

          I Got Chicken on my Brain

          Here’s a quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)

          Way Out on the Windswept Desert

          Kaw-Liga

          You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd

          If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, it’s Me

          How Could You Believe Me When I Said I Love You When You Know I’ve Been a Liar All My Life? (This, Bob says, was from The Royal Wedding with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers)

          The list is much longer, of course. But I have to go put my shoes on and buy some chicken.

Speaking of buying, check out the amazingly low price of my books!

Some Say Tomato

           You already know that St. Bob and I went to Europe for Thanksgiving. But I now have the low-down on why so many cathedrals have scaffolding around them: If you have scaffolding you don’t have to pay taxes.

This could be the entire explanation for why the huge Sagrada Familia in Barcelona hasn’t been finished for 150 years, and will take another hundred, so they say. 

While there, I bought a mouse pad featuring the mosaic work of the famous artist, Gaudi. 

But that can’t be the end of the story, can it? Nope. Our eldest, Richie, came over and asked why I had a mouse pad on my mouse pad. Okay, it's small so it’s atop another one, in case I roll off it.

And you can be sure I said, “That’s Gaudi, by the way” to which Richie said, “I think it’s pronounced Gawdy.”

“No, Gaudi,” I said.

          Our son was smiling. “It was a joke,” he explained.

 I picked up the mouse pad and smacked him over the head with it. “Now it’s a weapon,” I said.

When you order my books, which you must, do not use them as weapons. You might hurt the books.

Seriously?

           Okay. For years you have been reading about my antics, misfortunes, and embarrassments. You’ve seen me in car crashes, jabbering away while on sleep meds, being frisked, stumbling and bumbling, bald from cancer chemo, getting hosed, correcting graffiti, getting kicked off jury duty, and falling over every kind of furniture in existence.

          But this one is the topper. Due to the risk of lymphedema, I have now been fitted with the following chic ensemble, modeled by an anonymous but undoubtedly highly paid model (not Joni):

          I know I joke a lot, but this is no joke. It’s a Flexi-Touch wearable pump that fills with air to massage your lymph system. Yes, for one hour every day I shall now resemble the fashion icon, Michelin Man:

          He actually has a name. It’s Bib, short for Bibendum. Below you can seem him in 1904, looking almost identical to the Flexi-Touch woman (although she seems to be falling off the sofa).

          Good ol’ Bib has also been a food critic

and there’s a restaurant in Paris with two Michelin stars and a picture of him on the wall:

But, hey, ingenious technology is valued for its performance, not for its appearance. So, if it works, I shall bravely don the costume.

But if you pop by and want a photo, there’ll be a small fee (see my other blog about fees right here.)

And, for heaven’s sake, buy my books!

Saving Money, Honey

           This is a time of over-spending, right? Christmas lists grow like Chia Pets, right before our eyes. And that means digging into your budget or becoming serious about coupons and discount codes.

          And then I caught that bug that’s going around—the sore throat and cough that seems to have hit every family. So that meant no more in-store shopping. It’s on-line or nothing now.

          But I managed to get some incredible bargains and had to brag to St. Bob with what squeaks were left of my crackly voice.

          “I just saved $18 because I had a code,” I said.

          And here’s his response: “You mean they would have charged you more if you didn’t have a cold?”

          Yes, this is how we get better in the Hilton house. We simply have to.

          And it’s not too late to get multiple copies of my booklet, A Little Christmas Prayer, on Amazon. Maybe the best Christmas story you can give, whether you have a cold or not.

When Fortune Smiles

          I was recently visiting with three other girlfriends and the subject turned to repair estimates. 

          It occurred to me that whether you want to hire someone to fix your car, your house, or your yard, the bottom line—below all the added items—will be as follows:

             They may as well just create a rubber stamp that says, “A Fortune” so none of us will have to actually add it all up.  

You want your ring re-set?  A fortune.

You want your wedding dress tailored for your cousin? A fortune.

You want catering? A fortune.

     You want any kind of anything? A fortune.

     I can just see a worker gently explaining this. “Ma’am, you can get another estimate if you want to, but we all have the same rubber stamp.”

          If your project requires lumber or electricity, you can double the fortune. See? I’ve just saved you the trouble of finding the calculator app.

But, good news: My perfect-for-anyone book, A Little Christmas Prayer, is not a fortune! Buy one for everyone on your list right here.

Lucy's Got More 'Splaining to Do!

           You know that my luggage brand is “Ricardo,” right? This fact is not forgotten by my family.  Nor by Karma, nor by any other supernatural powers that turn my trips into comedy routines.

          St. Bob and I just returned from a cruise. 

          The first leg of the trip took us to Chicago, where we saw this giant replica of a Bracchiosaurus that roamed Utah exactly where I grew up. Timing is everything.

          In Barcelona I tied my coat around my waist and pretended to be tidying up at Park Guell, and sent this photo to our kids:

          Brandon wrote, “I guess somebody’s Gaudi do it.”

          Then I got hooked on a jigsaw puzzle on board the ship:

          The next day I saved a little dog on Las Ramblas from getting hit by a car. He had chewed through his leash and the owner was just sitting there, eating and talking, not paying attention. You’re welcome, Spain.

          Next, off to the French Riviera. I was pointing out a building to Bob, in Monaco. I was telling about the flags, vaguely aware that Bob had worn a dark jacked and a baseball cap that day. Suddenly I looked up and it wasn’t Bob, but this good sport of a guy:                                                                

          And, of course, Bob came over and told him this is not the first time this has happened. Brandon said, "You found Dad's doppelganger."

          We got back on the bus and I dropped my water bottle. Bob asked if it broke, and was actually disappointed when I said no. “Darn,” he said, “I was hoping I could tell everyone that your water broke.”  Yep, this is how he thinks.  I texted the kids and Richie wrote back, “It’s really a shame there isn’t video of this.”

          And then, in Nice, we saw a twin of our cat, Simon, who passed away a few months ago. Maybe it really was Simon, letting us know he was now living in the lap of luxury. Or maybe he came to Nice because he thought it said Mice.

          Eventually we came home. I showed my ticket to the flight attendant and said, “2B?” She pointed out the way, and then I winked. “Or not 2B?” 

           She needs to buy mybooks. Especially A Little Christmas Prayer, the perfect Christmas gift.