You Call This Luck of the Irish?

            St. Patrick’s Day is this Monday, and I just want to go on record saying I love the Irish. 

            I love those infectious accents, I love the whole leprechaun deal, I even like corned beef and cabbage.  In fact, to this day, whenever I see a rainbow I look to the end of it and imagine a pot of gold there.  Have I missed any stereotypes?  Whatever—I still love the Irish.

            So you can imagine how I lit up when I was visiting a convalescent home and they announced there would be an Irish sing-along.  Whoo-ee, right?  You almost want to move in, if this is the kind of entertainment they keep offering.

             I was visiting my mother, who not only had Alzheimer’s, but a broken hip, shoulder, and back.  She lived to be 93 and when she died, they found no blood in her veins—just stubbornness.  Okay, I’m kidding.  But her feisty personality is what I am sure kept her going for years.

            “How about that?” I said, beaming.  “A sing-along in the recreation room!”

            “Those are never any good,” she snapped.

            “Well this one will be,” I sang, wheeling her down the hallway.  “It’s Irish!”  The very definition of fun.

            The social director passed out some lyric sheets, then started a video as various residents gathered around the TV. 

“An Irish sing-along!” I couldn’t resist saying to the grim faces around me, hoping they’d catch my enthusiasm.  They looked at me as if I were in worse shape than they were.

The music began.  And then it hit me: All these gloomy residents were right, and I was wrong. Many Irish songs, it turns out, are about death.  And we’re basically in a rest home. 

“Uh-oh,” I muttered to myself as the tear-jerking Danny Boy started up.  This is a song about a father sending his son off to die in the war, knowing he’ll be in his own grave soon.

I was hoping the next one would be a jig. Nope.  It was a morbid little ditty that went, “She died of a fever and no one could save her and that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.”

Yeah, oops.  I looked around at the frowning residents.  This was like playing sad Barry Manilow love songs to someone who just got dumped by their boyfriend.

The social director seemed oblivious, and was trying to get various seniors to sing the ghastly lyrics about imminent demise.  I couldn’t decide if I should go along with her in hopes she was going for satire, or tap her on the shoulder and explain the grave—no pun intended—error here.

The third song was about an Irish guy who died working on the railroad, so I decided to wheel my mom outside, maybe to the cheerier garden.  Except the wheelchair lock was down and I couldn’t undo it. Of all times to be trapped!  By the time I got it undone they were singing  Down Went McGinty about some guy who survived several near-fatal accidents before finally throwing himself into the sea.  You think I’m kidding?  Google the lyrics.

Why couldn’t they just have a Disco Day and sing Stayin’ Alive?  I began humming that one, instead, as I rolled the wheelchair along.  And, I’ve got to admit, once again my mom was right.

Portions of this totally true blog appear in Funeral Potatoes—The Novel.  Check out all my books at jonihilton.com.

The Real Message of Non-Stop

            I like Liam Neeson.  I like suspense-filled action movies.  I do not like texting.  So, two out of three, right?  I still enjoyed his new movie, Non-Stop. AND, you will be happy to know, I did not let it ruin the movie knowing that nonstop should not be hyphenated.

            So, no spoilers, here, folks.  I’m not revealing any big secret when I say that  texted threats are a huge component of this movie’s story.  And, once again, I shall tell you how the entire premise of the movie could have been solved. 

            First, let me remind you that this is the blog where you read another amazing and insightful movie analysis here, where I pointed out that Iron Man 3 is entirely about menopause hot flashes so intense they make their victims burst into flames.  And I still stand by that conclusion.

            This time we have a movie whose complete danger could have been avoided if only Liam Neeson were more like me, ergo hated texting. 

             In fact, had U.S. Air Marshal Bill been as inept at it as I am, he would never have turned on his phone during the flight, would never have retrieved texted threats, and never even tried to respond.  He most certainly couldn’t have clickety-clacked like a teenager, and typed out such speedy messages.  Granted, he wouldn’t have the acrylic nails I do, which definitely hamper my attempts to text, but he’s 61 years old, already, and could easily blame his age for a lack of interest in texting.

            Anyone sending a stupid threat in this way would be ignored, perhaps even while Bill was enjoying an inflight meal and humming along with Oldies music on his head phones.  But no.  They had to have a techno-savvy marshal.  And a techno-savvy villain.

            Texting is not only an enormous danger while driving, and an annoying preoccupation of people standing right in front of each other, but can now pose a danger to anyone with an airline ticket.

            I’m telling you, if I’m in mid-air, the last thing I want is for my air marshal to have yet one more way to communicate with a hijacker or a terrorist.  If some criminal wants to pose a perilous demand, let him march up and speak personally, at which point he can get shot and—ta-da!  Problem solved.

            I just can’t believe they didn’t ask me to be an advisor on this movie.  

Something worth texting: Tell your friends to subscribe to my youtube channel, where I'm the Youtube Mom, here.

A Frisky Frisking

            It all began innocently enough.  My dear friend’s daughter was having a baby shower, so I flew to L.A. for the day to help her celebrate.  Four of us raised our kids together, and consider each other’s children more as nieces and nephews.  And we’ve all vowed to be on hand for all their big milestones.

            I needed to haul a few presents, so to save space in my carry-ons I left my wallet home, just quickly grabbing my driver’s license, a credit card, and some cash.  And the shower was a lovely tea in a hotel ballroom.  Here’s just a sampling of the beautiful party:

           

 

             But back to my driver’s license.  In my haste I had grabbed the wrong one.  The expired one.  The one where I am not standing there with a dead gnat stuck in my lipstick and my hair frizzed out as if I’ve been electrocuted (I wrote about that here).  Oh, sure, I carry that hideous baby around for when someone demands a current license, but the expired one is the one I generally show for I.D., and that’s the better looking one I grabbed by mistake.

            No problem leaving Sacramento.  The guy at security happened to remember St. Bob and me from Bob’s TV days, so I glided through without a hitch.  But in Burbank, on the way back, the sweet girl checking I.D. asked her manager over, and he explained that I’d have to be patted down.

            Suddenly I am whisked aside like the terrorist I so clearly resemble, and a fierce (that’s all I will say, just fierce) woman came over, snapping on some blue rubber gloves like she was about to do a rectal exam, and said, “I’m going to have to pat your breasts and groin area, is that okay?”

            First of all, I am not certain that anyone has ever said the word, “groin” to me in my lifetime.  I sputtered, incredulous that I was even being asked this question, and said, “No—no it is not okay!”  I wanted to add, “Are you insane?” but thought it might create an even bigger problem.

            “We can go in a private room if you’d prefer,” she barked, all business.

            Like that would be better?  Are you kidding?  Heaven only knows what happens in those private rooms!  “Certainly not,” I said.  “Let’s do this in full view of the public.”  I glared at her but she was unstoppable.

 

           

            

            “Since you have on a dress, you’ll have to hold your legs apart,” she said.

            Gads!  Seriously?  I wore a dressy outfit there and back, and could only imagine her reaching up my skirt.  I was still in shock when she started rubbing my collar, then running her hands up and down my back, sides, front, you-name-it. 

            Why don’t we just have public mammograms?

            Horrified, I stared at the other passengers filing by.  Couldn’t they see I was being violated right here in front of them?  Nobody cared, nobody came over and said, “Here, here, now,” which someone surely should have shouted.

            This was worse than the time Pluto groped me at Disneyland, when we were trying to pose for a family photo with him.  Don’t ask.

            “Stay there and don’t touch anything,” she ordered, as she went over to run her gloves in front of some bomb powder detector thingy.  What was I going to touch?  Walls?  Other passengers?  How about I just pass out on the floor and inadvertently touch the tiles?

            Finally she came back and let me put my shoes back on and gather my belongings.  And for the rest of my life, I am carrying a current I.D., a passport, and a birth certificate, and I don’t care if there’s a pelican stuck on my lips.  I’d also wear a chastity belt, but I’d never make it through the metal detector. 

Hey, at least you could buy my books so you’ll have something to read, next time you’re detained at the airport.  Sisters in the Mix is a hilarious chick-lit novel even men enjoy.

           

Rewriting History

              Before I launch into today's blog, Rewriting History, I just have to give a shout out to the amazing and talented folks who are bringing one of my comedies to life this weekend in Southern California. Award-winning Director Gina Bikales writes: Come support the funniest reading this season, Joni Hilton's Burying Aunt Beulah. Great cast. Great script. Don't miss it. March 7 and 8. UUCOD 760-345-7938 for tickets. $10.  
               Here's the talented cast, for whom I am extremely grateful:

              This play has it all-- humor, strife, tragedy, tremendous arcs of growth, and two surprises that will send you home forever changed.  Honest.

               And now, today's blog:

            I love Groupon.  In fact, I bought a Groupon just the other day. 

            But the bloom is off the rose, shall we say, now that I’ve discovered Groupon has been rewriting history.

            According to the online site, MyFoxNY.com, Groupon ran a President’s Day promotion last month, claiming Alexander Hamilton was a U.S. President.  Al, or Hammy, as those of us around then always called him, was certainly one of our founding fathers.  But he was never the president.

            Have all the videogames and animated movies around today blurred the distinction between fiction and reality? What causes a reputable company like Groupon to make such a glaring mistake?

            They didn’t just list him as a former prez, either.  They called our first secretary of the Treasury “undeniably one of our greatest presidents and most widely recognized for establishing the country's financial system." 

            Lemme get this straight.  Was this before, or after Vice President Aaron Burr shot and killed him in a duel? 

The Groupon ad went on. "President Hamilton is best known for the fiscal sensibilities that led him to author economic policies, establish a national bank and control taxes," Groupon's press release said.  

I wonder when they think Hamilton served.  Was it right after Benjamin Franklin, perhaps?  And then, when MyFoxNY.com asked them about it—and included a list of all the real U.S. presidents—a Groupon spokesperson said, “We'll just have to agree to disagree."

Yes, one of those differences of opinion, I guess.  President John Hancock would roll over in his grave.

I promise there isn’t one fake president in my books.  Check out Pinholes Into Heaven, a literary novel about a man growing up in the Fifties.  And no, it’s not Alexander Hamilton.