Do Not Break This Chain!

           This is a chain letter. 

Come on, don’t spoil the fun; be a sport and participate.  Chain letters are a blast!  Here’s how it works.   All you need to do is follow these simple instructions.  Just send a car (new, if possible, sleek and sporty if even more possible) to the first person on the list below.  Then copy this letter with the first name omitted, and your name in the last place.  Now send it out to six family members or friends who you think will enjoy playing this game.  Within just a matter of weeks, you should receive 36 cars. It will be so fun to see where they all came from!

            If you email this letter you don’t even have to buy postage stamps!  Think of all the new friends you will make.  You can send it out to even more people for a lot of extra fun. And who couldn’t use a few new cars, right?  For every time you click “forward,” a lucky (and hilarious) leprechaun will appear on your screen, tell you a joke, and then he will deposit money in your bank account.

            I’m so excited!  Remember, DO NOT BREAK THIS CHAIN

or you could bring terrible luck upon yourself.  One guy broke the chain in Greece and look what happened to their economy!  Another guy, in Wyoming I think, broke the chain and a Wolverine got him.  I’m fairly sure that’s what happened.  It might have been a Grizzly.  Anyway, keep the fun going and watch your driveway for fun, new surprises every day!  

            Joni Hilton

            Abner Gomez

            Jill Whattingcomb

            Avery Cline

            Betsy Everett

            Toby Kitt

For an even brighter future, be sure to subscribe to Joniopolis in the little box on the right.  Hilarity will appear in your inbox on a regular basis.  And this promise is actually true.  

           

My Mom-ness on Youtube

            One of my sons recently told me to post a bunch of household tips on YouTube, for people his age (20s and 30s—Generation Y) whose moms didn’t teach them all the ins and outs of cooking, organizing, cleaning, laundry, etc.  He said I should call it

Your YouTube Mom

            Well, with four kids, being a mom is right down my alley.  Actually, being Mr. Rogers and creating a welcoming, cozy show for kids is even more down my alley, but I don’t change my shoes when I come home and I don’t put on a cardigan.  I also don’t talk to puppets, but I do talk to my pets and my plants, which reminds me to make that one of my tips for happy dogs and healthy flowers.

            Having hosted a TV talk show in Los Angeles a few years ago, I have to admit I’m more comfortable on camera than off, and since I once wrote a couple of books that addressed this same problem (moms not passing along age-old housekeeping and cooking wisdom), I decided to try it.  Bob whipped out the home video camera and we began wandering through the house as I stopped to explain, in 60 seconds or less, how to turn a dresser into a breakfast island, how to iron, how to chop an onion, and so on.

            And then I began my usual tirade (not on camera, thank you) about computer instructions no one but techies can understand.  It took me a day and a half to figure out how to locate and upload the files onto YouTube.  Yes, I have DropBox and Picasa, Twitter and Facebook, so I’m not a total cretin.  Okay, I am a cretin.  I hate technology.  Bob says one day he will die and folks will say, “It’s the strangest thing—her new boyfriend is so… so…” (they will be trying not to point out his dental and hygiene problems) and someone else will say, “But he’s a computer wiz,” and then everyone will understand the attraction.

            Finally we got the files loaded and I can’t wait to make more. I feel as if the whole world is my family and all its inhabitants my children.  How to fold towels, how to make a candle stand straight, how to store recipes, how to trim roses—soon I will have raised the entire planet and then maybe I’ll finally get some grandkids.  Sheesh. Oh, and by the way, the camera adds 40 pounds.

Check out my “Your YouTube Mom” videos at  http://www.youtube.com/user/jonimhilton  and share them with your friends.  Heck, even send them to your mother.  High time she learned the scoop as well.

               

Nature au Naturale

My family is weird.  I know that comes as a complete shock to those of you who’ve been reading this blog and marveling at my utter normalness, but it’s true.  They don’t like nature.  Oh, they like pictures of it.  And interesting facts about it.  Even PBS specials about it. Brandon says he approves of nature in a broad sense.  But if you drag them out into the middle of it, they will soon voice objections.

 

Case in point.  There are precious few places where sea otters actually live and one of them is off the coast of California.  Having a weakness for anything with a face as cute as an otter’s, I booked a family excursion on a boat that takes you out into Monterey Bay to see them up close.  As we were walking down the dock, Cassidy said, “This isn’t going to have anything to do with nature, is it?”  Quickly I stepped in front of a humongous sign that said, NATURE CRUISES, trying to block the first word.  “No, no,” I assured him, “it’s just a fun little tour.”  Ten minutes later he realized he’d been Shanghai’d on a slow boat not to China, which actually would have  interested him, but through kelp beds and bird habitats where otters resembled tree branches and other floating plant material nobody would pay ten cents to see.

Another time I decided to take the entire family to Yosemite for Bob’s birthday because it happens that Bob is crazy about waterfalls.

  Now.  Did I tell this man to have a birthday in the dead middle of summer on what is often the hottest day of the year?  A time when the waterfalls have all dried up?  It was a total bust.  Not only were there no waterfalls, but the rare yellow orchid I wanted to see was hidden deep in mountain passes unavailable to tourists, and the kids refused to walk farther than 100 feet on a hike, claiming there was nothing to see but a bunch of trees.

The pricey Ahwanee Hotel where I had booked us rooms nearly gave Bob a stroke when he saw the tab.

 Cassidy leaned against the front desk and said, “A squirrel just ran across the lobby, Mom.”  As if this were a dive in a bad neighborhood and someone had just sprayed graffiti on the walls. 

Nicole came back from the gift shop reporting a distinct shortage of good chocolate and they all elected to leave a day early.   

In Scouting, Cassidy climbed Mt. Shasta

and came back as fried as a strip of bacon, still almost smoldering as he stumbled through the door.  Nicole counted every ant at Girls’ Camp.  Brandon stepped on a beehive while helping with Richie’s Eagle Project (a bat house) and got so many stings we couldn’t count them all.  Brandon also has the family record for sunburns, stitches from mishaps on fishing boats, and battles with Poison Oak.

Richie seems to be the only one who enjoys camping and getting out in nature.   And according to Brandon, that makes him the weird one. 

Take a break from nature, sit at your computer, and subscribe so that these blogs will come winging their way into your inbox.  Just enter your email into the box at the right, and you won't get one sunburn or mosquito bite.

Get Rich Quick!

            I have never given you a million-dollar idea before, and for this I apologize.  Because I am sitting on the most brilliant idea ever to come down the pike, and I should have told you about it so you could cash in. 

            It has to do with dog food.

         First, let’s take a stroll down the dog food aisle and see the claims made on the various packages. Grain free for the gluten intolerant dog, senior formula for the sedentary dog, weight loss formula for the tubby ones, even a “Tuscan Style Medley” by Beneful, for what I can only assume is a dog who’s been dreaming of Italy all his life.

  There are kibbles shaped like bones and paws,

tiny kibbles for tiny dogs, and above all, the promise of a shiny coat.

            When was the last time you bought a breakfast cereal, a carton of ice cream, or a package of bacon because its label promised you shiny hair?

 

            How about never?  Why have we bought into this notion that a gleaming coat is the Number One priority in dog ownership?  Okay, here comes the million dollar idea.  Forget about shiny coat, and put “Now with Beano” on the label, and you will become a millionaire overnight.  OVERNIGHT.

            Seriously, is this not the biggest concern we actually have, when it comes to dogs?  And wouldn’t you grab this product fast as lightning if you saw it on the shelves?  At last—a dog food that prevents gas!

            Dogs don’t care about surf and turf.  They don’t even know where Tuscany is.  Do you have any idea—any idea whatsoever—what dogs eat when they go outside?  Well, I’ll give you a hint.  It starts with cat and ends with poop.  Yes, sorry to say, but this is the unvarnished truth.  They roll in whatever stinky thing they can find on the ground, then gobble it up the way you or I would inhale a Godiva truffle.  And I won’t even address the way they greet each other.

            You could also market a party game where people get points for guessing things a dog will not eat.  It will be a very short and very difficult game.  They make Andrew Zimmerman look like the pickiest eater on earth.  They will eat dead and rotting worms, portions of dead birds the cat left behind, bones which have been buried all hot summer long, slimy fish remnants on a dock, the list is endless.  In fact, if you like letting your dog off leash to run and romp, you need this “Now with Beano” product more than anyone else, because you will have no idea what your dog will gulp down when you can’t yank him away from it.

            Yes, we love our canine family members.  And yes, we want them to have a shiny coat if it indicates good overall health.  But I’m telling you, the gas prevention idea is a home run hit.  You’ll make so much money you can retire in—hey! Tuscany! and give your dogs Tuscan food every day of their lives.  Just as long as you add a little Beano.

Don’t be an old poot.  Subscribe today! You think you can find brilliant ideas like this somewhere else?  Nope.  Joniopolis is your ticket to fortune.  So tell your friends.  Oh—and buy my books, because that’s my ticket to fortune.

Rethinking My Love of Cats

How was your Fourth of July?  Here is how mine went:

1. I do not get to attend my friend's blowout, over-the-top, fantastic celebration because she lives on Lakeside Golf Course in Toluca Lake where they have a huge fireworks show, and I live 7 hours away in Rocklin. Not on a golf course.

2. I also do not get to attend the other phenomenal celebration of another friend of mine who actually lives just a few blocks away because St. Bob has to work all day. This family is famous for its smoker barbecue, killer steak rubs, and mounds of chocolate, all of which I miss. And not in that order.

3. It is a sizzling 112 degrees in Rocklin, so I do not barbecue so much as a hotdog.  Everything is already barbecuing anyway-- the plants, for example, right before my eyes.

4. But here's when it gets exciting.  At 9 pm, like everywhere, the fireworks begin.  Residents of our neighborhood thoughtfully chose the LOUDEST firecrackers they could find, ten times louder than the usual ones.  Mickey, of course, runs through the house barking, but this time Simon (our assassin cat, remember?)  loses it.  He runs through the house howling, hunching over, and scratching the carpet. I know what this means, so I chase him upstairs and down FOUR TIMES and put him outside each time, at which point he dashes back in through the doggie door even though it is a DOGGIE door, and even though I am trying to block the flap with my foot.

5.  Finally he rockets upstairs and dives under my bed. Still howling. I fall to my knees and pull up the dust ruffle to pull him out of there, but I am too late.  A HUMONGOUS pile of cat poop is under my side of the bed (of course), REEKING.  Bob's wrist is in a cast so he cannot help me move this heavy, cast iron, king-sized bed.  I am sweating from all this chasing around already, but now I have to move the bed alone, sweat even more, and then clean up the carpet, spray odor abatement stuff all over, and take the entire disaster scene out to the trash.  Simon is sitting a few feet away, watching like he had nothing to do with it.

  6. Bob makes a comment about the fireworks literally scaring the you-know-what out of Simon.  And I have to sit in front of a fan for fifteen minutes, just to cool off enough to get ready for bed.  Where I do not want to go, and where I will have nightmares now, and where Simon will undoubtedly revisit his scene of the crime soon.

And that's how my Fourth of July went, in six easy steps you can replicate to celebrate our nation's birth, anytime you wish.

Okay, I can understand if you don't want to be my house guest.  But you could at least subscribe to this blog, or buy one of my books.  Do it for America.

Plum Exhausted

            Have you ever had a plum tree on steroids?  Let me rephrase that.  Have you ever had a plum tree not on steroids? 

            There is something diabolical about plum trees.  They look almost dainty through the winter (right as you innocently purchase your home), but by summer they turn into Gatling Guns, hurling plums at you as fast as is humanly, okay, botanically possible.  Like those apple trees throwing apples at Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, these trees mean business and will not stop until your entire lawn and walkway are covered with sticky purple flesh.

 

            You’ll hear the first of them falling at about 3 a.m. one night, hitting your roof like meteorites. 

            You won’t know what it is, but you will look outside to see if it’s hailing golf balls.  They will bounce into your rain gutters and splatter onto your patio.  You will send your husband outside to investigate and he will hit his shin on a chaise lounge (when you’ve done this enough times yourself, you get to know the sound), then he will stomp back in to report that it’s fruit.

            You will say, “Fruit?” and he will get in bed and refuse to discuss the matter further.  You, on the other hand, will picture trouble-making kids out in the street, lobbing oranges and the like onto your house, as a prank.  You will wonder why nothing was done to send these scoundrels on their way, and you will stare at the back of your husband’s head in the moonlight and wonder why he isn’t taking this seriously.  He’d better not be having visions of sugar plums.

            In the morning you will survey the damage and realize you’ve been strafed by Mother Nature who thinks purple houses are amusing.  Crows, Blue Jays, squirrels and countless insects will be gorging on the feast before them.  It occurs to you that a person could be knocked cold and suffocated if they happened to be a sleep walker.

            And now you realize you inadvertently sent your husband out to the front lines of battle, and you consider getting him a hard hat for next time.   You look up into the branches and can see the tree is bringing in reinforcements; this fight is long from over. You make a note to turn up the sound machine so you can sleep through the rest of the bombings.

          Carefully, you gather up the fruit you can and realize you have enough to supply the entire neighborhood with plums.  You make plum jam, plum cobbler, plum pie.  You even make plum pudding, though it won’t be Christmas for six more months.

         You roll your eyes when you see them in the produce department, stacked next to the apricots, trying to look harmless. Cherries, of which life is just a bowl of, are stacked nearby.  You think about phrases like, “just peachy,” and “apple of my eye,” and realize that the only one that comes to mind right now is “plum exhausted.”

Don’t be awakened in the night with nothing to read—buy one of my books (top left-hand corner of this blog)—SISTERS IN THE MIX is hilarious, JUNGLE is spine-tingling, and PINHOLES INTO HEAVEN is “a literary delight.”  My words, but with quotation marks around them.

Why Don't Men Like Birthdays?

            This is St. Bob’s birthday month.  And, once again, I have been instructed not to throw a big bash or tell anyone (hence my writing an entire blog about it).  This is like our ongoing dispute over whether it’s okay to give snippets of people food to our dog in the kitchen.  Bob opposes this and occasionally extracts a promise from me not to do it anymore.  Last time I agreed he asked, “Do you really mean it or are you just saying it?”

            I sighed.  “I’m just saying it.”

            I could see I knew it! in his eyes.  Alas, we have each agreed to something the other wants, with no intention of keeping our word.  I promise not to pamper our dog (and why shouldn’t that darling dog have a moment of happiness?) and he promises not to stack papers, tools, and Radio Shack bags on a prominent ledge in our home. But here is the dog and there is the pile of junk.  Both are testaments to the fact that this is not a perfect world, and no matter how many changes you want your spouse to make, you’re just gonna have to give in on a few of them.

            Which brings me back to St. Bob’s birthday.  For the life of me I cannot understand why he—and many other men—are celebration resistant.  They don’t want gifts? Are they insane?  What’s better than presents to unwrap, birthday cake, ice cream, and adoring friends?

            Granted, not every guy wants his wife blowing the budget on a big gathering, but these same men don’t even want a small, thrifty party like you’d throw for a parakeet.  “Just a card is fine,” they say, as if we live in a concentration camp and a card would be all the contraband one could hope for.

            So, like many wives, I ignore requests I can’t understand and I roll out the Birthday Machine every year anyway.  Seriously, don’t you think he must be kidding?  How could he not want to be fawned over and indulged once a year?  Something tells me he will eventually come to like it. 

            One year I will admit I went a teensy bit overboard.  I wrote about it in a whole article on Bob’s TV career, which appeared in Meridian Magazine.  It was called “Bob, Tell ‘Em What They’ve Won” and here’s the link: http://209.188.95.163/article/8205?Itemid=  if you want to read it.  Basically, I provided Bob with his most uncomfortable show biz moment.  He was hosting “Let’s Make a Deal” for NBC TV, taping at Disney World in Florida.

            I sort of mentioned his birthday to the entire staff, and asked for video clips I could edit together to surprise him.  And I kind of included Dick Clark and Monty Hall as well.  I hinted that I might have mentioned his birthday to some of his pals.

            “Not Dick Clark,” he said.  I blushed.  Bob was mortified.  “Did you ask for a gift?” he whispered.  “Tell me you didn’t ask him to spend anything.”

            “Oh, no,” I assured him.  “Only some of his time.”

            Bob fell over and rolled under the bed we had been leaning against.  “That’s worse,” he groaned. 

            I, of course, found this hilarious and laughed until I cried.

            Then, to make matters worse, the show’s director had Mickey and Minnie come out onto the stage to present a gigantic cake as the entire audience sang “Happy Birthday” to him, nationwide.  Bob wanted to crawl under the flooring.  Yes, we later had a “chat” and I have scaled down considerably.

            But this year I’m certain he has come around to my way of thinking, so I need all readers to leave a Happy Birthday comment to him.  If you’re from another country, leave it in your native language.  He will love knowing that people all around the world are celebrating with him.  How could he not?