Ants Not in Your Pants

          I wish this weren’t true.  Something fell out of my pants in the middle of an intersection.  No, it wasn’t ants.  That would have been a blessing, right?  Plus ants are so small that no one would have noticed.

          Nope, it was something many times the size of an ant.  I will tell you what it is so you can stop guessing. It was these two GIGANTIC HEATING PADS that they put on my hips after injecting me with those two shots I told you about recently.

          Here’s the thing.  Those shots take a minute and a half each, so your rear end is a tad sore when all is done. Kindly, the nurse offers you a hot pad to place in your pants over the injection site.

          But I forgot that I’ve lost weight on this vegan diet and by the time I got outside and was CROSSING THE STREET, thank you, they slipped down my pantlegs and out the ankle.

          Mind you, I now have to stop in the middle of traffic, bend over, and pick up these suspicious items that have just fallen on the asphalt-- in front of everyone, especially others crossing the street and those in cars awaiting a green light. I can only imagine what they were thinking.

          But you can’t just leave them on the road—that would be littering, right?  So, humiliating though it may be, you must bend over (which now hurts to do because you just had the shots!) and pick them up.  Oh well.  At least it went from me to you in this last paragraph.  So there’s that.

          I can pretty much guarantee that my books will never fall out of your pantlegs. Buy them here and see if I’m right.

Truly a Fan

          You know how, sometimes, when you give a gag gift it turns out to be the favorite thing?  This happened recently for St. Bob’s birthday.  Thanks to side effects from his cancer treatments and mine, we both have hot flashes.  So I heard about a little $3 item and thought it would be hilarious to give him this:

          It’s a tiny fan that plugs into your iphone.  It has rubbery blades, so it can’t hurt you.  It also plugs into your ipad:  

          Needless to say, I didn’t try it out before buying it, but once we plugged it in, wowza!  It whipped up a serious breeze.  Suddenly we are fighting over this (I need to get one for myself) and holding it up to our faces like it’s a slice of heaven. Which it kind of is. 

          Actually, since we’ve had 100 + temperatures for a few weeks here, we aren’t even sure if we’re having hot flashes or if it’s just the weather.  Either way, it’s kind of nice to know there’s a husband out there who relates to what we women go through.  And nice to know he’s mine.

          Stay in where it’s cool and read one of my books!  Check ‘em out here.

In the Groove

          I am so cutting edge, such a trendsetter, than I’ve been writing lyrics for Bob Marley and Ariel Pink.  Okay, I’ve been doing it after they already had the same ideas, but still.  I’m dialed in. 

          Speaking of dialed in, do young people today even know what that means? Nobody uses a dial; it’s all buttons.  Whatever.

          But back to me. Twice in one week I’ve been told that I’m speaking the lines from two popular songs. (This could be happening ALL THE TIME, right?)

          First I learned that Ariel Pink has a song called “Baby,” where he sings, “You’re so baby.”  Excuse me? I have been uttering this to our Chihuahua mix for years.  Mr. Pink probably overheard me.

          And then I was complaining about a blender—remember I’m vegan now, and making smoothies like a fiend—and I said it kept “jammin’, jammin’, jammin’.” That is an exact quote AND, my daughter tells me, the lyrics to a Bob Marley song.

          Yes, I am totally hip and clairvoyant to boot. (Does anyone who is actually hip use the phrase, ‘to boot’?) Yessir, I am definitely on the right track.  Of course, as Will Rogers once said, “You might be on the right track, but you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” And yes, I expect young people to know who he was.

Check out my YouTube Mom channel--hundreds of fun life hacks in short videos. But so far, none on how to channel various rock stars and their lyrics.

Sprucing Down

          Folks, I have just been attacked by two porcupines. 

          Okay, that is only a slight exaggeration.  I have just hefted two dead Dwarf Alberta Spruce trees into the green waste container. They barely fit. And, in their parting opinion, they shot hundreds of sharp little needles into my skin.  Gloves and clothing were no barrier from these darts of doom.

          Here is what a healthy, happy Dwarf Alberta Spruce looks like, in an urn similar to the ones by my front door:

          Interesting side note: In springtime, you can eat the tender light green buds. 

          But here is what one looks like when it dies—it is a mass of brown needles that think they’ve been drafted into acupuncture duty. This is someone else's, but you get the idea:

          I’m chagrined and embarrassed that I could not keep them alive. We think they may have succumbed to spider mites, but then the temperatures here have been over a hundred for a couple of weeks, so it’s also possible they simply fried.  And they aren’t happy about it. (Hey, none of us like this weather, but you don't see us going around stabbing people.)

          So now I have to replace them with something else, something French topiary-looking I hope, and something that doesn’t break the bank (ka-ching has turned to ka-blooey in this case).

          An impossible quest? Perhaps.  But I have done battle with porcupines, so do not underestimate me.

          Stay in, away from marauding Spruces, and curl up with one of my books.  You can find them all right here.

Ode to Odin

          I have a grand-dog.  Perhaps this is because I have no grandchildren, but it’s also because our middle son, Brandon, has a humongous Great Dane that weighs about 170 lbs. Here they are, in L.A. where they live:

          The dog is named Odin, after the fierce Nordic god similar to Zeus. But this Odin is not fierce; he is a lovable lug and even a bit of a baby.

 We had a Great Dane years ago, and found they are the gentlest of breeds. Odin is scared of firecrackers, for example, and doesn’t want to go out after dark. To hug you he presses his forehead against the crook of your neck (or tries to sit on your lap). It’s almost as if he’s surprised by how big he grew, and hopes you won’t notice.

   Brandon captured this great shot of Odin at a Los Angeles dog park, where Odin was looking for gophers but couldn’t quite find one:

          And another shot of Odin playing at the beach:

Once or twice a year Odin comes to visit. They were just here for St. Bob’s birthday, and we had a blast watching our grandson—I mean our granddog—enjoy himself at the mountain cabin of our dear friends, the Theriaults (Thank you!).

Odin is mobbed by fans wherever he goes, all wanting photos, all wanting to pet him.  Brandon says it’s basically like traveling with Brad Pitt. And Odin is so used to all this attention that he reacts with patient boredom.

So no, this is not a traditional lyric poem which odes usually are.  Maybe it’s just a love letter to a dog that’s not only a grand-dog, but a dog who is truly grand.

Have you watched my YouTube Mom videos, lately?  Scroll through hundreds of short life hacks right here, and watch for my own dog, a little Taco Terrier Chihuahua mix!

Call Me Crazy

          I think we’re all crazy.  I mean, a little bit.  For example, I have several friends who are afraid of irrational things, all of which can be traced to their childhoods. Here are just two:

          One of my friends is scared of eggs, because her big brother told her these are actually forms of chicken poop.

          Another one is scared of snakes to the point that she can’t even see a photo of one without getting hysterical (again, older brothers may be thanked for this neurosis). Here's a fake one, in case she's reading this:

          One is scared to sleep with her ears uncovered lest something creepy crawl into them (scary movies seen at a tender age are the culprit here).

          I am personally scared of cherry tomatoes.  Not seeing them or growing them, but eating them. I am convinced they will explode in my mouth and shoot tomato juice down my windpipe and choke me.  Even worse, this fear is confirmed by several people who’ve said, “I’ve had that happen!” This does not argue in favor of forsaking my phobia.

          Add to this every newly-labeled condition that comes down the windpipe, I mean pike. Someone who’s simply tidy thinks she has OCD.  Someone who tends to worry now describes herself as having Anxiety Disorder. People with messy houses think they’re Hoarders.  And a person who rightfully shouldn’t trust a crook now wonders if they have Trust Issues.

          I am first to agree that the whole world could benefit from therapy, but I think we need to stop collecting alphabetical letters that excuse our nutty behavior.  Let’s just agree that we’re all bent in some way—or several ways-- and admire the artwork of it all.  See? Doesn’t that take a load off your mind?

          Have you read Sisters in the Mix yet?  It’s about two crazy sisters who can’t stand one another. Find that comedy novel and more, right here.

Having a Hot Birthday?

          St. Bob is having a birthday soon.  Very soon.  So, in an effort to plan festivities, we thought we’d check the forecast for that day. California is having a heat wave and the projected high for his special day is 103 degrees.  Yikes.

          “Hey,” I said, when we learned this, “that’s the very age you’re hoping to hit one day!”  Some time ago we both imagined our top age on this earth, and that was his prediction for himself.

          So, of course I began wondering, what if you live to be the temperature it is on your next birthday? Great news for summertime babies, right?  But not such hot (no pun intended) news for those born in the dead of winter.  In fact, what if it’s minus-something on your next birthday?

          When we lived in Iowa it was not only below zero through much of winter, but waaay below.  In fact, 70 below.  Granted, that was with the wind chill figured in, but it was still 40 below without wind chill.  This, my friends, is crazy.  Anyone who lives in cold like this should either be a penguin or a lunatic.  I think I’m the latter, although sometimes I feel a bit like both.

          And summertime birthdays, while great for projecting your ultimate age with my silly formula, can cause a few problems themselves.  One time the kids and I decided to surprise Bob by painting the garage walls for him.  But again, it was during triple digits and without air conditioning.  I also made his favorite meal of fried chicken on many of those birthdays, and standing before sizzling oil when it’s sizzling outside again qualifies me for the lunatic label.

          Probably the worst attempt at a birthday surprise was to take him to Yosemite to see the waterfalls, which that year had dried up entirely due to, you guessed it, hot weather.

          But however old Bob is or will be, I will always see him like this—movie star handsome as he hosted a TV game show. Even when he's 103.

          Bob’s birthday wish is for you to buy one of my books right here.  Okay, that’s a lie.  He has no idea I’m even writing this.  But it’s my birthday wish, and you can never start shopping too soon.