TRUFFLE IN PARADISE

Jamaica is a lovely island get-a-way. For anyone but me.

In 1983, when I married my second husband Mark (second in my trilogy!), we flew to Jamaica for our honeymoon. Our ‘Just Married’ matching T-shirts scored us a bump up to First Class and it was bubbly champagne, bonbons and legroom all the way to the land of Reggae and Rastafarians.

Within ten minutes of arriving, we were offered some local ganja (a.k.a: marijuana/dope/weed/wacky-tabacky):

Luggage Boy: (toothy grin at Mark) Hey mon...your bag says you be a doctor. I am a doctor too. I can make you feel real good, mon.

Denise: No thanks. We’re married now. We aren’t supposed to feel good.

Luggage Boy: (determinedly) No problem, mon! Every ting criss...I get you anyting you want! Just ask m...

*POLICEMAN ROUNDS THE CORNER

Denise: (to Mark) Where’s our luggage boy?

If you would have seen me poolside the next day, you might have thought I was a mighty poor excuse for a thief, blatantly hording my stash out in the open: mounds of cigarettes in small bundles, neat piles of matches, a stack of monogrammed hotel napkins and an impressive array of empty glasses and beer bottles. This was an all-inclusive, all-you-can-eat/drink/smoke resort and I wasn’t going to diet or cut down on a single vise for the week I were there. This small-town prairie girl was taking no chances and I stockpiled as much as I could just in case they changed their hotel policy midweek. Sure I got a few odd looks, but I felt invisible. Nobody knew my name, shoe size or was even remotely related to me. It was unlike anywhere I ever had been before...it was an emancipation!

Late in the afternoon I waved off the chance to water-ski in the warm Caribbean Sea (I adhere to the belief that playing in areas where wildlife can swallow you whole should be avoided) so I was left to my own devises and chose to read on the beach. The sun was brutal and the ocean immediately in front of the hotel was protected by a high-tech safety net, so feeling uncommonly adventurous (and admittedly a bit wimpy for not skiing) I decided to go snorkeling.

The fact that I couldn’t swim nor had I ever snorkeled, failed to register in my mind. The self-preservation portion of my brain had been fully cooked in the blistering Jamaican sun and was set aside to simmer.

The resort lent out free gear and I taught myself the basics quickly, setting off along an exceptionally long pier jutting out into the crystal clear waters close to where I had been lounging on the beach. The panorama below me was entrancing: such an alien, delightful world! But soon I noticed, directly underneath me, a hard-plastic cup from the resort embedded in the ocean floor. Usually, this object wouldn’t cause a stir (save being a piece of unfortunate litter in such pristine surroundings) but it dawned on me that these over-sized tumblers were normally quite large in my hands, and this one was very tiny. Itsy bitsy, even. Two things were immediately obvious: I was way too far out and there was a lot of water between me and that cup! To give myself credit, I did not panic, but quickly snorkeled back to the beach. I had just turned to sit in waist-high water and was taking off my mask when I heard the first scream.

People were running down the pier and yelling, pointing to a massive ripple in the water, utter horror stamped on their scorched, lotion soaked faces. The sinister ripple was in the precise spot where I had seen the tumbler just seconds before.

I didn’t know then what had caused all the excitement, but I knew that I had just missed a personal introduction to it. An ice-cold sensation doused me from the top of my head fully down to my toes. That was how tangible the shock was. I wanted to scoot further back out of the water onto the dry, safe sand, but I was frozen solid. A shark could have slid past and looked me over like a pork roast at Safeway and I couldn’t have budged an inch.

After a few minutes, I finally made it shakily to my lounger and sat down. A staff server came to me and asked if I would like a drink or a snack.

Denise: Do you know what all the screaming was about by the pier?

Server: (naively honest) I heard a Moray eel broke through the netting, mon! A big one too! But no problem, mon...they don’t usually attack humans.

Denise: Where is our luggage boy?

I am nobody’s fool. I know bloody well that this particular giant eel had not accidentally passed through a breech in the netting but had sniffed a rare delicacy, a pure 100% fresh Ukrainian/Canadian hors d’oeuvre and it had chomped clean through that net looking for the buffet table.

I was the Truffle Of The Sea. 

Now, how many people do you know can say that?

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**ADDED: a screen shot of one of many comments on this story on FB:

THE CON ARTIST

If a child is being too quiet, they are up to no good.

Truer words were never spoken.

While renovating our bedroom, we realized we hadn’t heard a peep from our youngest daughter Katharina (who was just over 3 years old at the time) for over 15 minutes. I had set her up with an easel, paper and paints in her bedroom just down the hallway and told her to create a masterpiece for us while we were busy tearing down a wall.

Quietly peeking into her room to see what she was up to, I was startled to see that she had stripped off all her clothes and was happily painting, wearing nothing but  a pair of sparkly, ruby red dress shoes that were too small on her. She must have dug them up from her closet for she hadn’t worn them for a long time.

As her back was towards the door, she hadn't seen me, so I tiptoed back to get Peter and when we giggled at the priceless scene in front of us, she whirled around in surprise and quickly hid her left hand behind her back.

Looking extremely sheepish, it took some cajoling to get her to show us her hand. With a wary half-smile, she finally lifted it up to us ... and it was completely red!

Denise: (laughing) You painted you hand!

Katharina: I’m finger painting!

Denise: But you do know you shouldn’t paint yourself, honey...and why did you take off all your clothes?

Katharina: (embarrassed) I pee my pants.

Denise: Ah! I see. Well accidents happen once in a while, but you don’t have to take off all your clothes! And why are you wearing those shoes? They don’t fit you anymore!

Katharina: (averts eyes; dead silence)

Denise: Now take them off and I’ll get you some clean clothes and your slippers.

Katharina: No!

A little perplexed, I tried to talk her out of her shoes, but she adamantly refused. It was time to get sneaky. Ya don’t mess with Mama.

I cheerfully told her that since she had had an ‘accident' and needed to wash her painted hand right away, she might as well have an early bath. Instantly thrilled, she shrieked and ran as fast as she could to her bathroom! Bathtime was the ultimate funtime in her small world.

As the water ran and she threw in her bath toys, I casually reminded her to take off her shoes before getting in the tub. She quickly pulled them off and immediately realized her mistake. Looking down at her horror-stricken face, I glanced down further and saw two perfectly green feet!

That was why she had crammed on the first shoes she could find in her closet! Too small or not, she was hiding the evidence. A 3 year old shyster! Maybe she’d grow up to be a lawyer.

Now we never say anyone is caught red-handed, but green-footed!

STOPPIN' TOM

I was asked recently what my most embarrassing moment was.

Where to begin?

Let’s start with Stoppin' Tom. His last name is now lost in the merciful grind of Time, but I remember every other detail in Blu-Ray High Definition.

I was 14 years old and going to my girlfriend Marianne’s house for a sleepover. I was walking on the road as there wasn’t a sidewalk on that particular block, and just before I got to Marianne’s, a car slowed down and stopped beside me.

I saw that it was Tom, a boy from school that graduated Gr. 9 the year before and was now at the Senior High School. He must have just got his license and was cruising the town. I always thought he was a nice enough guy from what I knew of him, but he wasn’t anyone I had really thought about.

But what the hell...he was 16, obviously interested and he had a car! A major bonus. And I was extremely flattered. I didn’t need the ride, but by accepting it, I was letting him know he might have a chance at dating me if he worked at it.

I was already on the passenger side of the car, so I popped in and sat down with a smile.

Denise: Hey Tom! I don’t really need a ride ‘cause I'm just going to the end of the next block, but it was nice of you to stop!

Tom: Yea.

Denise: (sensing his shyness and obvious discomfort) I’d love to hang around, but I’m going to my friend’s house and she’s  expecting me.

Tom: Okay.

Denise: (5. 8 seconds later) Well, here we are. Thanks Tom! See ya!

Tom: (small wave)

How I would gloat to Marianne! I was all a-flutter, feeling quite good about myself and my newly discovered powers of attraction when it hit me like a brick...

Tom hadn’t pulled up to ask me if I wanted a ride. He had stopped for the STOP SIGN at the end of the block! I just happened to be at that point when he had to brake. That was why he was so quiet and tongue-tied. Not from being overwhelmed by the mere presence of such beauty, but because I had hijacked his car!

36 years have passed and it still makes me cringe.

ANAL SPHINCTER TOURS

“Come! Where your bowels don’t stay full for long!”

This isn’t a real slogan, but Babel Travels, a company in the U.S. who are ‘offering packaged trips to war-torn and inaccessible countries’ have my permission to use it.

“Tired of coming back home from vacation with the same old 2 arms, 2 legs and a body void of shrapnel? Come see us for your next holiday adventure!”

They can use that one too.

This isn’t a joke, but a real company who will take you and your loved ones to a number of countries that have people waiting to kill you if you look them in the eye. Actually, that is a little misleading. They will also kill you if you just happen to get in their line of fire. You don’t even have to offend them by being a foreigner. It’s nothing personal.
 

On the menu for your choice of travel destinations are Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Somaliland and Sudan, North Korea and they are gearing up to add Sierra Leone, Liberia and other hotbeds of frolicking family fun to their list. The travel agency is teamed with a noted thrill-seeker, Robert Young Pelton, an author and explorer who runs a website called Comebackalive.com.

Yes. That is a real website.

They advertise that this type of vacation is not for sissies: "This is a trip for those who 'do,' not watch". Only Schwarzenegger/Stallone type manly-men need apply, I guess. Or G.I Janes? I confess that I fall into the ‘watch’ category myself. I like to watch someone bringing me a birthday cake. It means I made it another year.

And what is the cost of this dip into Dante’s Inferno? A pittance really, a paltry $8,000 to $19,000 CDN (excluding airfare and insurance, of course) for a trip lasting 11 to 22 days. A bargain if you feel your life is worth a lot more than that. I wonder if it is customary to tip the waiter in these places? What happens if you don’t? 

Taliban Dan (your waiter): And here is your dessert Mr. Infidel, sir. Let me just pull the pin. Have a nice day.

I bet their gift stores are interesting as well: bullet-proof vests, Depends adult diapers, Living Will Kits and T-shirts that say "THERE IS NO 'I' IN FEAR!" and  “teRRoR! The Only 3 R’s That Count!”. They may even sell pretty little gift boxes just the right size for your finger or toe should your potential kidnappers want a ransom.

And you know those large cartoon paintings of people where the face is cut out and you stand behind it and put your face in the hole? There could be an execution scene where there a group of decapitated heads are on spikes and you can get a picture of your face in one! And your wife could show just her eyes in the little rectangle cut out for her in the head of the grieving wife in the background! The possibilities are endless. If only this company had been around back in the 40’s! They could have offered Jewish people a trip to Nazi Germany. What an adventure that would have been!

What’s next? A Weight Loss Spa?

“Come! Where gut-wrenching spectacles of public hangings, beheading and stoning help you kill that appetite!”

I personally would never dream of booking such a trip, but I know a few people who would buy their ex-husbands or ex-wives a gift certificate.

PS- I realize this commentary could be seen as free advertising for this company. But honestly, do you really care if anyone dumb enough to use it ever comes back?

DARTH VADER CHEWBACCA JONES? WHY NOT?

Has there any child been more aptly named than Richie Rich? 

Speaking of names...

Do you know where you’d be if you saw this list of given names? (no surnames added):

Daisy Boo

Zowie

Poppy Honey

Camera

Seven Sirius

Puma

Diva Muffin

Blue Angel

Jermajesty

Moon Unit

Dweezil

Rufus Tiger

Tiger Lily

Sailor

Kal-el (*Superman’s birth name)

Fifi Trixibelle

Little Pixie

Peaches Honeyblossom

Ever Gabo

Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily

Banjo

Free

Spec Wildhorse

Rumer

Moxie Crimefighter

Pilot Inspektor

Bogart

Reignbeau (pronounced: Rainbow)

Freedom

Rocket 

Elijah Bob Patricius Guggi Q. Hewson

Kyd

Racer

Destry
Rebel
Rogue

Audio Science

Sage Moonblood

And of course...the infamous Apple.

Yes...you guessed it! You’d be in Hollywood! If everyone listed here went to the same school at the same time, this would be the graduation list of children of the rich and famous. Nothing life or death, for sure, but an interesting study of the celebrity mind nonetheless. And I admit, a good chuckle.

I will break the rule here and mention just one surname: actor Rob Morrow named his daughter Tu. As in Tu Morrow. 

It must be a medical condition. Some people are just born without the DumbAssIdea gland that monitors ones judgment. It is usually located directly behind the Pituitary gland.

I don’t know...it just seems to me that childhood can be hard enough for some kids without the added stress of a cocaine-inspired moniker. Would you name your kid ‘Fire’? How could you ever call his name out loud without causing widespread panic?

*NOTE- I wave all responsibility for influencing any celebrity who now names their child ‘Fire’. If you have issues with this, call my lawyer. Her name  Krook Skumsucker Brandt. She's in the Yellow Pages.

CELEBRITY NAME GAME

I notice weird things.

They just pop out at me. For example: celebrity names.

When there was massive coverage a few years back about the birth of Tom Cruise’s daughter Suri, everyone was going mad trying to figure out what her name meant and how they chose it. Such a mystery!

Suri comes from the four middle letters of  the name ‘Cruise’. Seemed a bit obvious to me but when I mentioned it to a journalist online, he was stunned and printed my ‘clever observation’ in his next column.

I had noticed the same phenomenon in other famous people. Their names were actually in their surnames:

• Uma Thurman
• Elliot Gould (real name Goldstein: short an L but what the hell)
• Tom Cruise Mapother III
• Donny Osmond (Don is in there!)
• Marshal Mathers a.k.a Eminem (I wonder if his friends called him Marsh as a kid? It would explain a lot of his angst)
• Pia Zadora (real name Schipani)
• *Unless I am getting paid to do it, I won’t spend time digging for more...

So...this begs the question, “Is this a key to their success? A lucky charm that brought them fame and fortune?”

If so, I would like you to now call me ‘Buch’. My maiden name was Buchy.

And NO, Chubby won’t work. I am short a B.

Thank God.

WORDSCHMIDT

A single word can change your life.

When I was singing in a small opera company, I met many interesting and talented people. One man in particular, Peter, was an attractive and brilliant tenor from Germany who lived in Canada intermittently, singing in our productions whenever possible. He could not speak English so we rarely did more than nod and say ‘hello’ in passing.

Before he returned in 1997 to perform with us, he learned from a rather musical grapevine that I was newly separated and on my own. I was flattered to find out later that he quickly enrolled in an English course so he could talk to me.

He should demand his money back.

Talking with him was like a continual game of charades, but with his thick accent and shy, thoughtful manner, it was all very charming. I decided the concert hall where we rehearsed had far too many ears in the walls so I asked Peter to come over to my house for a coffee. I wondered if he was quiet and serious all the time, or just in crowds.

It was the afternoon that one word altered my world forever.

Denise: Would you like some more coffee?

Peter: Yes. Sank you.

Denise: So...as I was saying, I like reading the newspapers to keep up on world events. In fact, a U.S. politician is making headlines right now for wearing woman’s underwear. How funny is that?

Peter: I don’t know vy? Zer iz nussing wrong vis a man verring vomans underver.

Denise: Really?

Peter: Of course!

Denise: (incredulously; louder and more slowly) You don’t think there’s anything wrong with a man wearing woman’s underwear?

Peter : (sensing a problem developing; smile waning). No. I don’t sink zer is anysing wrong vis zis...

Denise: Would you wear woman’s underwear?

Peter: (looking uncomfortable; laughs weakly) Vell yes...vy not? Especially somesing pretty on Walentine’s Day or a birsday! Some men are too embarrassed for zis but I am not.

Denise: (eyebrows raised, ready to clear off the table) I can see why you’ve never married.

Peter: (looks around nervously like a trapped animal, then suddenly turning a violent red, places hands on both cheeks in horror) Iz zis zee right word ‘verring’? You go to ladies boutique and are ‘verring’ a nice present for her?

Denise: (hopeful) Did you mean ‘buying’? Men buying woman’s underwear is okay? For a gift?

Peter: Ya! Ya! Buying! Oh Got! Zis English iz so schtoopid!

Greatly relieved and laughing until our sides hurt, the ice was thoroughly broken and we had a few more cups of coffee. And we got married in the summer of 1999.

To this day, the poor man cannot go shopping without me asking him if he is going to wear some woman’s underwear for me.

SIGNS Part 1

I believe in Signs.

Not your Burning Bush type of sign, although that would definitely catch my attention in an “OMG! What the hell was I smoking?” kind of way, but the clever, subtle signs that are there if you pay attention. There have been too many unexplainable things that have happened to me over the years to doubt it.

Some of the signs are small and easy to miss but others are a jackhammer to the head that are pretty hard to ignore.

For example:

When my youngest daughter Katharina was four months old, I wanted to put a ‘Happy First Valentine’s Day’ announcement in the newspaper, but I hesitated.

We lived in a small town and I had just re-married and had a new baby after a long, bitter divorce from the father of my four older children, a prominent dentist in the community. My choices to marry again so quickly and have a fifth child at such a ‘advanced’ age (I was 39) made me happier than I had ever been in my life, but I knew the town gossips were feasting on my every move. If I continued my scandalous ways, they would explode like Mr. Creosote (the outrageously obese man in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, remember?). I didn’t miss the ‘life in a fish bowl’ I had endured before and I wondered if I should just keep things low-key and not add any more fodder to their troughs: Oh look! The kid has a hyphenated last name! I bet her ex won’t like that...blah, blah...projectile vomit...blah...blah...

Did I want to keep their slavering tongues wagging?

I thought about it for a while and finally decided to do it. I would not let others dictate how I lived my life. I sent in the details with a cutie-patootie picture and waited for the paper to come out on Valentine’s Day.

A couple of hectic weeks later, I had just dropped of the older kids at school when I realized I was driving near the newspaper office and still hadn’t picked up the issue that had Katharina's picture in it! As I pulled into the parking lot, I decided I needed five copies; one for the baby book and a few to mail out to family.

I asked the girl at the counter for five copies of the February 14^th paper and she said that there would be a big pile of back-issues on a tall metal rack off to the side. I looked but couldn’t find a single copy. I asked for help in case I was doing something wrong and after a few minutes of searching, she said she was sorry, but it looked like they were all gone. An odd thing too, she added, because there were usually plenty of extra copies around even a year after printing.

I was devastated. No clipping for Katja’s baby book! I could have cried.

I was about to walk out the door when I noticed a small stack of newspapers lying on a lone chair by the doorway. I glanced down at the date out of curiosity and could not believe my eyes; February 14^th!

I looked up at the girl at the counter and asked , “Did you put these here? They’re the date I was looking for!”

She was shocked and said she hadn’t. Then she asked how many copies were there.

I counted five.

After looking at each other in silence for a moment, she said, “Somebody is looking out for you, aren’t they?”

I just nodded and took the papers to my car. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had such a feeling of ...I don’t know...elation would be the closest word I can find to describe it.

And I thought, ‘Okay...I get it. I believe. You have made your point LOUD and CLEAR!’

I had been given a very significant sign: You are where you should be. You are on the right path. I felt emboldened.

Was it a Guardian Angel? God? Zoltar from the Planet Nekron? Who knows. But I do know one thing. Some things are just too amazing to be a coincidence.

Suck on that mint Mr. Creosote!

A RADIOACTIVE ADVENTURE

Around 1995 when I was in my mid 30’s, I was diagnosed as having Grave’s Disease (a catchy name that offers such hope and comfort) which is a type of hyperthyroidism. Apparently I’d had it for many years, but doctors in the 70’s and 80’s were usually suffering acid flashbacks from the 60’s and often missed things like this. Gym teachers were just as clueless I guess, as I recall our class once took our collective resting pulses and the teacher, upon seeing mine was 110, laughed and joked, “What boy are you thinking of, eh?”

Imagine that! What I thought was love at first sight (about twice a day) was only an undiagnosed medical condition. How droll!

As an adult, the symptoms lay hidden in the chaos of perpetual pregnancies and the constant chasing after multiple rugrats. I ate like a horse and stayed slim. Why mess with that?

Among the dozen symptoms, most of which I had, the most life altering were difficulty sleeping and extreme body heat; I used to walk around in runners without socks in -40 degree winters and nobody thought twice about it. I was called The Human Furnace (I was hot before Paris Hilton made it a catchphrase). I do thank The Fates though, that I did not have the one very conspicuous symptom that 50% of sufferers acquire: exophthalmos (protruding eyes). The actor Marty Feldman had it but it actually helped his comedic career!

 (*I was never a raving beauty but I don’t think I could have scored half the beers and shooters that eager Romeos bought me on the weekend if I’d looked like that!)

It all started one afternoon when I took my eldest son to see Darroch, our family doctor and good friend, and he looked at me quizzically and pointed to my throat...

Darroch: I don’t think singing in the choir is supposed to give you a big lump on your throat. You have a goiter.

Denise: I disagree. It looks more like a crocodile than an alligoiter.

He didn’t laugh.

You didn't either.

Tough crowd.

He referred me to an endocrinologist near Vancouver...a LONG way from Dawson Creek, my Northern BC home. I didn’t want to go because I felt perfectly healthy. My throat may have been a bit lumpy but nothing a 200$ silk scarf couldn’t fix. Besides, it would be too expensive and troublesome to fly down for just a silly 20 minute exam.

Alas! The Fates would not be thwarted.

The next day, Murray, a good friend who flew up monthly from White Rock to work as an Oral Surgeon out of my then-husband’s dental office, told me about some tickets he’d scored.

Murray: I was working on a patient in the hospital last week and the anesthetist looks up and says, “Does anyone here like that Pavarotti guy? I have some tickets for his concert and don’t want them.” I got them for half price at $400.00 each! Do you want one? Dorothy will take the other and you can go together.

Denise: Holy shit, YES! (I am nothing if not exceedingly eloquent)

I booked my appointment with the specialist to coincide with the concert and a couple of months later, I was on my way. I met at length with Dr. Mary Blair, a tall, distinguished looking woman who told me that I had handled my disease amazing well:

Denise: Thanks. I do feel quite fine actually. I have four active children and a hectic schedule so can I just leave well enough alone a carry on as usual?

Dr. Blair: Sure you can. But your heart is beating 10 times faster than normal and if you chose to do nothing, you will probably be dead by time you are 50.

Denise: What time is the surgery?

I was a little shook-up with the image of my impending doom clearly formed in my mind’s eye, so to lighten the mood before I left, she tried a little small talk...

Dr. Blair: So... enjoy the concert tonight! I'm going as well, so maybe I’ll see you there?

Denise: You’ll find me easily enough. I’ll be the one stripped naked and screaming, hanging onto Pavarotti’s legs onstage.

I guess I wanted shake her up with a nice little image for her mind’s eye too.

I put the fear away for later and that night, Dorothy (Murray’s lovely and accomplished wife) and I went to see Luciano Pavarotti and it was worth every penny. To add to the excitement, I was even shushed at one point by an elderly couple who looked so rich that they brought their servants to turn their program pages for them. Thurston Howell III and Lovey from Gilligan’s Island lounging in $800.00 seats. Back in Dawson Creek, I was a well-to-do dentist’s wife but in Vancouver, I was one of the Clampett’s, thrilled that my hotel had a cee-ment pond.

A week or so later, to avoid surgery, I was advised to try to kill off my overachieving thyroid (the only part of me, physically or mentality, that had a desire to work harder than it should, I might add) with Radioactive Iodine. I was told I would be considered ‘radioactively contaminated’ for 24 hours and should stay alone for that period of time and for three days afterwards, I should avoid children, pregnant women and flush twice. It did not inspire confidence. Little did I know that inspiring confidence was not their strong suit and soon to hit an all-time low.

I was led into a small room with white walls, doors and floors that was barren save for a small metal stool in the corner. Sitting on the stool, I was given a lead-lined bib the size of a washcloth for me to place over my chest. I was informed that I would be given Radioactive Iodine to drink and it would be colorless and tasteless.

Just like my cooking.

What happened next can only be truly appreciated if you are familiar with The Simpson’s.

The door opened and a man (I assume it was male and of my own species) dressed in white from head to toe, walked in and closed the door slowly behind him. Imagine Homer Simpson in his radioactive work suit or an astronaut: stiff, lead-lined bodysuit with rounded, shoulder-length headgear that covered the entire head like a Star Wars Trooper, sporting a small rectangular viewing window. His/Her/It's white boots looked thick and clunky.

Walking towards me with his arm straight out, as far away from his body as possible, he wore thick white lead-lined gloves that looked like massive BBQ mitts. At the end of the mitt he was holding long silver prongs that looked like an extended hotdog holder and at they very end of those, was a small glass vial of clear liquid.

Sitting there in my jeans, open-toe sandals and short sleeved T-shirt I clutched my lead-lined postage stamp over the general area of my heart and started to laugh. You know, that ‘I-am-so-fucked’ giggle that comes out when you know you’re in way over your head..

Denise: (in a nonchalant, joking voice) Should I be worried?

Homer: (in a muffled, robotic tone) Drink this.

Denise: With my bare hand?

Homer: (raises vial a little higher; viewing window fogs up)

Denise: (grabs vial like a shot glass and salutes Homers good health) Bottom’s up!

I admit, being left alone in glorious, uninterrupted silence, blowing dust off of movies not meant for innocent eyes and eating my favorite pizzas (slid under the door) was a treat at first, but I soon missed not being able to kiss my kid’s amazingly smoochable cheeks, and it ruined what should have been a fabulous, glow-in-the-dark holiday.

FREDDY MERCURY WOULD APPROVE, i think

Okay...here is another Canada Writes project I did. If you haven't read the first one, scroll down and sing along. It will get you in the mood. *nudge nudge wink wink*

This time, we were to re-write the lyrics to the ubiquitous and legendary hit song by Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody, and once again, give it a personal spin. If you don't know this one, I can only feel sadness for the sorry-ass life you have lived thus far. Get yourself to a pub or bar quickly and you will probably hear it at least twice before your first drink comes...

Original lyrics:

Is this the real life-
Is this just fantasy-
Caught in a landslide-
No escape from reality-
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see-

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy-
Because I'm easy come,easy go,
A little high,little low,
Anyway the wind blows,doesn't really matter to me,
To me

...............................................................................................................

 My lyrics:

Have I reached mid-life

What is this paunch I see

I had a waist once

But its somewhere below my knees

All full of gas

I once had an ass that killed,

Why are you screaming, I can hear every word

Your thinking, she is fat, she is old,

she has pits full of mold;

Don’t you get so cocky, soon you’ll be an old fart, you’ll see,

Like me.

 ..............................................................................................................

Yes...I know what you are thinking. I missed my calling. A song lyricist is hiding deep within me, dying to get out. Don't worry. I will keep her subdued and under lock and key.

For now.

RE-WORKING ABBA'S 'WATERLOO"

*NOTE: If you don't know ABBA's hit song Waterloo, pass this entry by. You won't get it. (But I urge you to find it on YouTube immediately and become One with the Rest of The World).

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Canada Writes offered a fun-type project once wherein they asked you to write new lyrics to the ever-famous Waterloo and give it a personal spin. I did just that and here is my creation. I must say, that I rather like my song much better. It's more...I don't know...meaty, I guess. Sing along and enjoy!

Original lyrics:

My, my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender
Oh yeah, and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way
The history book on the shelf
Is always repeating itself

Waterloo - I was defeated, you won the war
Waterloo - Promise to love you for ever more
Waterloo - Couldn't escape if I wanted to
Waterloo - Knowing my fate is to be with you
Waterloo - Finally facing my Waterloo

My, my, I tried to hold you back but you were stronger
Oh yeah, and now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight
And how could I ever refuse
I feel like I win when I lose

(Chorus)

........................................................

 My lyrics:

The scale! I cannot bear to look where I am standing

Two ten? That used to be the number of my locker but no more

My God... I’ve got so... much to lose

Can you... see if I’m... wearing shoes?

Middle age! Here it is knocking on my back door

Middle age! I’m finding hair where twern’t before

Middle age! Back is shot, where’s my pot, got a light?

Middle age! Total... denial... will make it right

Middle age! Haven’t got... energy... left to fight...

Before! I used to eat all day and never gain weight

But now! I gain a pound by looking at a picture of a cake

Forgive me for being so crass

But it all... seems to stick... to my ass!

(repeat chorus)

MY BRUSH WITH ERMA

I like to write. 

I am as yet unpublished but I figure if Walter The Farting Dog can make it, I have as good a chance as anyone. 'Perseverance' is the word I live by. That and 'psychoanalysis', but that's a whole other story...

A couple of years back, I entered a writing contest. I wanted to step back from the daily drudge of composing the next epic bestseller and flex my humor muscle. With this is in mind, I decided to enter the 12th Annual Erma Bombeck Writing Competition (put on by the Washington-Centerville Public Library in the USA) which I happened across in one of my myriad researching forays into the Googlesphere. I am a massive, longtime fan of Erma Bombeck who was a famous humorist and newspaper columnist and I thought it would be fun to get into her mode writing. Snorting a line of Erma never hurt anyone.

The contest was for a 450 word (or less) essay in the Human Interest or Humor categories and having produced five of the funniest and sweetest children on the planet, I consider myself an expert on matters of the funny bone.

There were 1350 entries from over 18 countries and all 50 States and nope, I didn't win (the US dominated), but there were 8 Honorable Mentions and although most of them were American as well, there was ONE lone foreigner chosen...and yepper, it was me!

I was thrilled silly! How intoxicating to see your name in print...in the USA...online...and spelled right! I received a certificate in the mail and every time I look at it, I am reminded that somebody besides my family, and people I bribe to compliment me, like what I write.

*Here is my entry and yes, it is a true story:

Where's Your Brother?

Since our family lived on 14 secluded acres outside the town limits of a small Northern community, our children would take the school bus to and from school. Once in a while, there would be nobody home when the bus dropped them off, so a key was hidden for their use.

It was unusual for any of the kids to ride the bus without one or more siblings, but circumstance saw our eldest son Steven dropped off by himself one cold winter afternoon and seeing both vehicles gone from the driveway, he assumed he was completely on his own. He rang the doorbell to make sure and then used the extra key to let himself in the house.

Unbeknown to him, one of the cars was in the shop being serviced and I was actually home, hunkered down and asleep and thoroughly concealed on the big leather couch in the living room that was adjacent to our large, open-air kitchen. Being 7 months pregnant, I was prone to spontaneous naps.

A typical teenager, Steven headed straight for the kitchen and began foraging for food. I groggily awoke to the clatter and without lifting myself up, I spoke out, my voice thick and raspy from sleep, sounding like Linda Blair from The Exorcist, “Where’s your brother?”

A sudden, eerie hush fell over the room and then, after a few moments a cautious rustling of a cookie package cut into the silence. Once again, I croaked out a sleepy, “Where’s your brother?”

The cupboard door slammed shut and a deathly quiet hung in the air. Peering over the couch, I was about to ask my son why he wasn’t answering, when, to my surprise, I saw him backed up against the fridge, his pale white face staring at our cat, Olly, who was sitting and yawning nonchalantly on the floor. Looking up at me, Steven's color returned in full force as he stuttered in obvious relief, “Mom! I thought Olly was talking to me!”

When he had first heard that disembodied voice ask about his brother, he had looked about only to see Olly lying on the kitchen floor, staring up at him thoughtfully. He reasoned that he must have been imagining things and continued his rummaging about when he heard the creepy voice ask for his brother again and he turned to see the cat with her mouth wide open, looking as if she’d just asked the question!

A wise woman once said: Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth. May I add: Never give them the key to the house either.