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three words equal one date.

Last Saturday evening, I decided to “enhance the dating experience” of Daryl and me. These “ideas” seem to POP into my head on my days off while I’m tooling around obsessing running errands, viewing porn reading the news on the internet, or just sitting on the crapper playing Bejeweled Blitz in an easy chair reading a good biography.

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Our “dating life” has not gotten stale, mediocre, or even lack-luster after eight years together, however, with our conflicting work schedules we often go days without dates, weeks without sex, and months without a good vodka tonic. Sometimes it feels as though we’re two disabled Carnival cruise ships passing in the night.

So occasionally, I just like to… what’s the term I’m looking for… “raise the bar?” Yeah, I’ll go with that for now. I’m fortunate that Daryl is so adept good at tolerating embracing my ideas to be creative in our relationship. I always enjoy the look on his face when I present these brainstorms over a glass of pinot noir and some English cheddar cheese when he gets home from work. It’s usually a look of a deer in headlights bewilderment, followed by feigned understanding and capped with a sigh smile, a nod and him obligatorily enthusiastically asking “how do we get started?”

“I’m not suggesting initiating new toys, or boys, or boy toys into our dating repertoire,” I explained to him,” I just think we can use tools to make the date more meaningful and thought out.” He shuffled for another piece of cheddar as I sipped my wine and began to explain that on Sunday (his day off) and Monday (my day off) that we could give each other three words that begin with the same letter and must be “incorporated into the date” somehow.”

He washed the cheese down with what I thought was a larger than normal gulp of the wine and continued to wait for more explanation. “For example,” I responded, “Water, Wish, and Wine! You have to come up with a date tomorrow evening that somehow involves those three words! Easy-smeasy right? (thinking to myself that I am NEVER again to use the phrase “easy-smeasy” while presenting an idea of ANY kind).” I must admit that I sort of had a preconceived idea as to how this date could happen quite easily and inexpensively. I’m thinking in my head that a quick trip into West Chester to the Court House fountain, throw in a couple of pennies, grab a glass of wine and a salad at Iron Hill, and BINGO! We’ve enhanced the dating experience with water, a wish, and wine!

Not so fast. Daryl didn’t seem to make the “W” connection quite as quickly and looked a little panicked. Okay, I’ll concede that I DID push this on him without a whole lot of warning, and I thought that perhaps we needed a little time to digest this plan as we finished up dinner for the evening.

The next morning, as I was sipping coffee on the sofa while listening to pretty birds chirping outside while unfriending a few tired folks on FaceBook, I received a phone text from Daryl who happened to be in the bathroom down the hall (how DID we ever survive without smartphones?) that said “Transportation, Transparent and Tradition. Use one or all three in our date tonight.”

I was ecstatic! My idea was accepted!

I immediately started thinking about how I could incorporate these three words into a fun-filled, exciting, worthwhile date. The first word that instantly stuck in my head was of course, “transparent.” I thought Saran Wrap, right? It’s obvious, overt, and just plain obscene!

Sigh.

I dug the Saran Wrap out of the bottom of my foil and baggies drawer (oh yes, I have snack baggies, quart baggies, gallon baggies, zip lock, and even color strip baggies… it’s pathetic) and took it to the bedroom where I was going to “test” how this would work. I didn’t get too much “wrapped” when I realized that this would most definitely NOT be pretty. So I thought about using invisible Scotch Tape on my nipples! I could hardly contain my self-brilliance. How hot would it be to see me with “transparent” tape on my erect fleshy nipple? Then I tried to pull one off of as a clump of hair followed.

Sigh, again.

I finally decided to just make peach Jell-O with homemade whipped cream and a fresh slice of peach on top for dessert. “Transparent” down, two words to go.

The “tradition” part was easy. I just incorporated that into our traditional clinking of the wine glasses at the beginning of our meal. I most likely could have come up with something better on this one, but considering the timing, I went with it.

“Transportation” was more difficult to figure out. I thought that perhaps a ride to “Kiwi Yogurt” in town would be a fun way to relay transportation, but since I had used a dessert for another word, I was at a road block. I finally decided to dig out a game that we used to play called Mille Bornes. It’s a card game that originated in France and required us to interact while moving along in an imaginary car race to the finish line. It was a perfect solution considering the winner had choice of the after dinner um… prize.

So it’s not the finale of the Bachelor, or Game of Thrones, but it DID give us the opportunity to have a little fun with a little effort. I can’t wait to try this again next week!

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It’s just SO hard.

I honestly didn’t think it would be this hard.

If I had a quarter for every time I’ve heard that… I’d have a dime.

Seriously though, today I “deactivated” my Face Book account. It had become part of my daily (mostly morning) ritual.

Keurig on.
Lamp on.
Laptop on.
Face Book on.
Click, click, space bar, click…

Checking overnight status updates from West Coast friends while I slumbered during the night and then touching base with regular “morning folks” over a cup of hot java while watching the sun rise or rain fall outside the sliding glass door of my flat.

I would always try to locate an inspirational quote or photo to start the day. Perhaps listing my plans for one of my two days off during the week, or what I was prepping to chef for dinner for Daryl and I that evening. I enjoyed playing keyboard exhibitionist. I guess I felt like there were people out there who actually enjoyed my life’s quirks, words, and moments. I kind of cared about theirs… sometimes, quite deeply.

I think I became a “LIKE” whore as well. Photos of Daryl and I out enjoying wonderful meals, movies and get togethers that would solicit comments and likes as if we were Hollywood celebrities. Perhaps it was the addiction of seeing positive reactions to the updates. Maybe it was simply a way to push good energy easily from the comfort of my couch.

I sometimes struggle to remember what I actually DID before my morning Face Book ritual and more urgently important… What do I do now? My fingers need that QWERTY interaction. My mind still needs to spill its unorganized and frantic thoughts onto the light of my laptop screen to eventually be exposed to the internet world.

I’ll blog again, like I did a year or so ago.

Hang on… Here goes…

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all this talk about debt ceilings is making me hungry.

The roast chicken is in the oven. I prepped the 8-pound bird first by shoving a large orange with a few well-placed cloves up its ass without so much as a last name and a kiss. Ouch. Then I proceeded to forcefully thrust some fresh twigs of rosemary and sprigs of thyme up in there for good measure. Sort of had a quick flashback to an online porn movie that involved a chicken (I think) and a hand (I think) that I viewed once by mistake that was like watching a train wreck…

ANYway… I continued by cutting up half a sweet onion to line the roasting pan and I also poured about a cup of organic chicken stock in the pan for moisture. I dotted the chicken’s skin with fresh garlic, cracked pepper medley and a touch of ground sea salt. It should be done in a couple of hours. I have some fresh sweet corn on the cob and a couple of heads of fresh broccoli to steam, a few flavored martinis to shake and lo and behold, we have a great meal to celebrate our second weekly “NO TECHNOLOGY” night!

We’ve decided to have one night a week where we lock up (not literally of course) our laptop, television and while leaving the cell phones ON for emergencies, we put them DOWN on the nightstand. This was part of our “plan” to reintroduce more conversation and um… more SEX back into our growing relationship. We tried this last week after I got home from work at 9 pm., so it REALLY was only about a couple of hours of technology withdrawal, but we did fine. Tonight will be several more hours than that and I have YET to finish this blog and get to Level 34 in my “Garden of Time” game on Face Book before Daryl comes in the door!

I’ve given up cigarettes, cursing and sugar much fucking easier than this.

We have other “nights” too that we agreed are most likely necessary to increase communication and foster good will toward each other on a daily basis. For instance, last evening we had our first official “budget meeting.” We actually sat down at the dining table with cocktails in hand and discussed our budget. Lord knows we like to spend money like the political parties that we represent, but we want to find ways to do a little less spending and a lot more saving. You know… like the government. We want to find that proverbial debt ceiling. We ain’t getting’ any younger and the “R” word (retirement) really needs to take a front seat in this relationship. We even went out one night a few weeks ago as part of the process to get a “budget book” to record our daily expenditures so we could get a “snapshot” of our woefully wallet-less ways.

Now mind you, we have only been at this for a week, but I am already having misgivings about our spending habits. Maybe I should say MY spending habits. I do most of the grocery shopping as some of my earliest blogs have indicated… but how can two men require close to $300 of groceries in less than a week? We cut out sugar for Christ’s sake! We’re not eating fast food at all anymore! I shop for fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh fish and chicken, organic yogurts and snacks fill the cupboards now. We’re losing weight, but at the same time, we’re losing our cash!

Sure, I could do that “X-treme” couponing that I hear about. They even have a TV show about it I think. Some woman makes it her JOB to find out how to get two free rolls of paper towels and a dozen eggs with her grocery order. I just CAN’T bring myself to get THAT involved with coupon shopping. Daryl suggested that perhaps we eat more leftovers. I already DO that and I swore at the onset of this relationship that I’d never eat the same thing two days in a row damn it! How much more do I have to sacrifice? How much more can we take?

No wonder the government can’t get their (read: OUR) act together with this budget thing. Maybe they too should learn to eat leftovers. I’ve decided that the only ceiling I want to be aware of from now on is the one I see when I lay down on my bed to have sex during our “no tech” night.

I better go baste that chicken and mix up the cocktails before the keyboard is ripped from my clawing fingersssssss…

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the gift.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written. Almost too long… but the mind has settled, the heart has slowed, the breathing has grown patterned once again and the fingers want to caress the keys from the soul’s bright spirit today.

I haven’t written lately because Daryl and I have been way too busy enjoying a summer FILLED with garden parties and iced teas, late night dancing ‘til dawn, orgies loaded with lube and Liza and dinners in Paris and cocktails in Amsterdam! Who the fuck am I kidding. I had no words to share. Period.

Many things have happened in the lives of Salt n’ Peppah in the past few months. Many things. We are on a twisted but determined path of continued growth as we look forward to a future filled with trials, tribulations, more challenges and… more lube and much less Liza.

One of the changes that we are looking forward to with great anticipation, is the birth of a grandchild in February 2012 (due date of 2/29 – Leap Year and SO appropriate). Ashley and Quintin told us (and my Mom) of their impending kidlet several weeks ago via a SKYPE conversation from Queenstown, New Zealand. Looking back in retrospect, I believe Daryl and I “like-totally” squealed as if we were two 12 year old girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Like a couple of scientists, we studied a blurry black and white ultrasound that Ashley held up to the monitor while she explained technically that our grandchild currently had a tail. Once our shrieking died down to a couple of very wide grins, the kids assured us that they were holding up well and are planning on heading back home to our area of the world toward Thanksgiving of this year. Sigh.

We were THE FIRST family members that the kids shared their news with (I found out later in the conversation, that we were considered the easy “dry-run.”) and we were told specifically (read: threatened) NOT to post on Face Book or my blog until they had shared their news with other family members and several friends.

We are VERY good at keeping secrets. Daryl and I didn’t tell a SOUL that we knew that had ANY link to Face Book or a computer. We told the mailman. We told one of the Mexican landscapers (who I think believes we were asking him to turn off his weedwacker). We told a lady in the checkout line of the ACME while she was looking at a People magazine with some pregnant model on the cover, and I actually told a design customer of mine who didn’t realize I WAS married to a woman several years ago and that I had three grown children at all, as she eyed me up and down skeptically while blurting, “No effin’ way you homo.”.

Daryl is as ecstatic as a show tune writer on an episode of GLEE. He is looking forward to a grandbaby… A LOT. He has always considered my children like his own. He has followed them with me through many things in the short seven year period that he’s known them. He’s been a very active part in birthdays, graduations, family game nights, holidays, dinners as well as my son’s difficult battle with drug addiction. They find Daryl adorable, caring, comedic and a very welcome member of our ever growing dis-functionally functional family.

It’s been several locked lipped weeks of laptop keyboard silence and I’ve had plenty of time to reflect and ponder on how “I” feel about being a grandparent for the first time. The age thing doesn’t bother me. You know, that thing where we THINK we’re still in high school and we’re not old enough to be a graaaannnnd parent. Fuck off, I like my AARP membership. I was a pretty good parent when the kids were small, so having a young kid around doesn’t intimidate me at all.

This child will have parents that rival Brad and Angelina with regard to spirit, tree-hugginess, intellect, worldliness, culture and love. One recent afternoon as I was driving home from work on a beautiful back road of Chester County during an unusually striking sunset, I began to tear up out of nowhere thinking about this new life, this new child growing inside MY child! I began to get emotional…

WHAT could I even begin to offer a young child at this stage of the game? Here is one half of a hopefully maturing interracial gay couple who basically lives from paycheck to paycheck in a job that pay the bills but is in no means what I aspire to be. I hang out with my guy when our mixed up work schedules allow with NEVER a full day off together unless I call out sick or plan way in advance. I don’t travel the world. My car is not a “Beemer,” and my suits aren’t Armani. So I wondered… what CAN I offer this child…

Then today… I read with much surprise and even more humility, this dedication to me from a fellow “blogster” whom I have known briefly in blog months (we write a lot of emotional stuff, so a month in the blogosphere is like a year or two in the real world). She, like I, continues to struggle with clinical depression on occasion and she has been “pourin’ her cotton pickin’ heart out” on her blog about dealing with the blackness, the loneliness and the strangling grip that this disease can have on people.

I believe she is an incredible writer and has a way of pulling out all the stops when describing the effects that this debilitating disease can have. I commented to her that I wanted to thank her for just being who she is. I told her she is a gift. I believe she IS.

That’s when it hit me about what I can offer this newest member of my growing insanely diverse family. The gift of truth. The gift of practicing non judgement. The gift of a world with less discrimination. I can not only speak about the amazing positive impacts of diversity but I (with the help of Daryl) can actually SHOW this youngster what it means to be honest with one’s self and what it means to be real with others. To not be as concerned with whether its important to wear the right designer dress or play in the dirt with American made trucks, as much as how important is to be a good person first… to care, respect and love whomever you want, whenever you want.

I personally, cannot wait!

(Please take a few moments to read PissyKittysLitterBox blog… she really is quite talented!)

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i’m watching u.

Face Book is voyeuristic.

Are you one of those folks that like to look at the photos of friends on Face Book? I do. The problem is, the way Face Book works is that there are so many links to other friends and friends of friends and family friends and enemies of family friends that I find myself looking at the photo album of some college frat party where the guys are taking their pants off and vomiting in a trashcan!

I never was a good web surfer.

I get distracted way too easily and end up being online looking through layers of pages and photos for hours finally forgetting what I was originally looking for. I begin by searching for a new church to attend and end up looking at shirtless Christian men. Go figure. I guess it’s similar to when I open my spice shelf in the kitchen looking for cinnamon and I end up finding the dill weed and dry mustard and I start looking for a new recipe while the dessert burns.

Maybe I have ADD. I’d get a prescription for that, however, I’m sure I would forget to take it and end up swallowing two of something else and end up sleeping for a week.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah… voyeuristic Face Book. I guess that why Mark Zuckerberg invented it in the first place.

Have a great day and keep posting those shirtless photos!

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let THAT summer begin!

Summer officially begins this weekend.

I will be inside working several hours a day for the Memorial Day weekend sales, I (at times) will be thinking wistfully of childhood summers past. I had no Face Book, Twitter, texting or blogging inundating my young world. The only things my thumbs were doing back then were catching baseballs, butterflies and bubbles while pulling wads of pink gum in and out of my mouth.

I was about nine years old when my family lived in a tiny twin home several miles outside of West Chester in the small village of Marshallton, PA. My mother didn’t drive and my father worked several shifts for many hours with the Philadelphia Electric Company. My brother, John, and I were fairly isolated out in the country. Not that we minded. We always found something to keep us occupied and would spend many a full day playing outside and not watching television.

In contrast, my cousins, the Rulon family, lived in West Chester and happened to be members of the Bernard F. Schlegel Swim Club American Legion Post 134 on the outskirts of town on North New Street. In past summers, I went with them on occasion as a “guest” with the many passes they’d get for the season. One warm summer day, my Mom’s sister, Mary, surprised us by showing up at our house unannounced, driving my Uncle’s forest green Chevy pickup truck, bearing a sign in two lines of script paint: “Rulon’s Amusements – Jukeboxes, Pool Tables and Pinball Machines – sold and serviced.” She was honking the horn as she pulled in our driveway while my cousins including Steve, Randy, Billy, Jean and Danny were shouting and waving from the truck bed in the back proclaiming that we were going swimming! My brother and I quickly grabbed our bathing suits and towels as our mom, pregnant with our brother Rich, hurriedly packed a small blue and mint green plaid beach bag with snacks and extra towels. Holding onto matching flip flops from Woolworth’s, my brother and I climbed over the metal tailgate and into the back of the truck bed to a carpet of cousins.

My summer had officially begun!

We didn’t use seatbelts, hell we didn’t even have seat belts. It probably wasn’t safe in the back of the truck and it certainly wasn’t law, but we were FREE! As we began our adventure over country roads, we were seven young kids thrown into the back of a truck drinking cans of cooler-chilled grape and orange sodas while chewing and popping Bazooka Bubble gum. Mom and Aunt Mary and the smaller tots Nina and Timmy were sandwiched snuggly in the cab as we older kids hooted loudly while we were tossed about in the back of the truck like drunken sailors on a stormy sea. The warm summer sun would scuffle with the cool shade of the dark green trees to touch our skin, blinking over us as we wound our way around deeply curved bends and over stone-laden bridges. Our thin light hair was blown about our scrubbed freckled faces in the wind and into our sparkling eyes.

We found ourselves “surfing” in the truck’s bed by holding on to two tension straps and a few thick ropes that my Uncle had in the truck which he used in his business to secure pinball machines and pool tables while delivering them to customers. We tied them to a brace at the cab of the truck and as we rounded curves or hit bumps in the road we’d roll and giggle hysterically as we’d fall to the floor of the bed while the other kids would try to break the fall.

I absorbed the scent of the cool dark forests we traveled through as our journey to the pool continued. The dank smell of decomposing leaves from summers before and the fragrance of new pollen and honeysuckle mixing to create a world of shaded serenity. Occasionally, a small bug would hit me in the face but never bothered me as our trek continued through the back roads of the country. We made up songs to pass the time as we played Punch Buggy and counted out of state license plates (with limited success on country roads).

As we finally entered the winding driveway onto the thickly wooded acreage of the VFW, the combination of charcoal briquettes, hot dogs and the chlorine from the crystal blue pool wafted from the base of the hill. The “boing” sound of divers pushing from the diving boards, kids squealing and radios playing indicated our ride was almost over. We leapt out of the truck before it barely stopped and skipped in bare feet over grass and stone to the locker rooms to change.

The cement floor of the locker room was cold on the bottoms of my feet as I stripped into my bathing suit on a bench in the dampness. The echo of voices chatting in the showers and slamming metal lockers barely kept my interest as I rushed outside to the blinding sunshine and burning concrete. Realizing I forgot my flip flops in the locker room, I went back into the dimness and found them on the floor. I returned poolside to where my aunt and mother were already setting up camp under the shade of the many tall oak trees. I watched briefly as some of my cousins ran (then walked quickly as the lifeguard’s whistle chastised them) to jump into the pool. I could smell the barbeque beginning at the VFW at top of the hill and I watched as small wisps of white smoke from the grills drifted lazily like the echoes of ghosts through the trees above.

My stomach grumbled softly indicating that I was slightly hungry since I had only a small bowl of Captain Crunch cereal for breakfast while watching Gene London earlier in the morning, but I could wait for our lunch by the mansion on the hill in the afternoon. Apparently, the VFW was having what they called a “clam bake” later in the day and we were all invited! I glanced once more at the light bustling of activity on the hill before I spun around and leapt into the clear cold water creating hardly a splash with my slight boyish frame. I felt my heart race and my eyes sting from the chlorine as the noise outside became muffled in this underwater world of human legs. The pool hadn’t quite warmed up to the bath-like temperatures of late July and August as I immediately pushed to the surface and turned around to see my mother setting up her aluminum woven lawn chair and placing it securely in the grass.

My cousins, brother and I spent hours splashing, playing Marco Polo and dunking each other throughout the early afternoons blazing sun. Halfway through the day our moms provided tee shirts (our version of sunscreen) to put on so we wouldn’t get too much sunburn. The pool became very crowded during the day as the older teens began a game of volleyball in the deeper end. I watched while seated on a damp towel next to my mother as the ball was hit out of the pool in my direction. I squinted in the sun as I stood up and ran to get the ball and threw it into the “pool of popularity” with a splash. No one said thank you as I sat back down on the towel and tuned out the screaming teens.

I stretched my skinny arms to the sky and lay down on the towel while listening to the birds in the tree branches above me. The clattering noise around me turned into a dull drone as I sighed then drifted off to sleep while watching another wisp of smoke from the hill above drift lightly toward the sky.

My brother ended my brief slumber as he came out of the pool to dry off and shook his head over me like a dog shakes his body to dry off. “Creep!” I yelled as I sat up and tried to smack him in the knee and missed. He laughed as he dug deep into the beach bag for a box of pretzels as someone’s radio played the “Last Train to Clarksville” by the Monkees in the distance. Two of my cousins were playing the card game “Go Fish” on a towel by the chairs as Aunt Mary suggested we pack up and head up to the hill for something to eat.

We needed no further instruction as we grabbed what we could and headed quickly across the sidewalk of the pool passed the baby pool and exited through the locker room leaving Mom and Aunt Mary tagging behind. Dumping the folding chairs and towels in the back of the truck, we continued through the gravel parking lot on our march to the hill.

I love the big house on the hill known as the VFW. As a nine year old, I have no idea what VFW even means, nor do I care. The large windowed mansion of massive stone sits like a fortress with a deep set slate covered porch around the entire place and it has a portico. I didn’t know what a portico was either until I asked my Grandmother last year when we were here and she explained it to me. The mansion is surrounded by stoic oak trees that tower over it like multi-armed soldiers, guarding the palace from the summer’s heat and humidity. Three stories of stately stone and mortar supported with thick white pillars and garnished with matching painted multi-pained windows that surely must have been a grand home to a family at one time long ago. I sometimes imagine it haunted with the specter of a long lost widowed bride standing breathless on the heavy stone steps, holding onto a pillar during a violent thunderstorm while staring into the lightning filled valleys in search of her lost captain of war as her gown blows frantically in the wind.

I snapped back into reality as I watched the older boys racing to the top of the hill, quickly getting lost in the small crowds of men and women seated around smoking grills eating corn cobs and clams while sucking down cool mugs of beer. Loud guffaws of laughter boomed from the broad porch as someone must have shared a joke.

This was THE clambake.

The food smelled incredible and my stomach began to give away my plight. As I crested the hill and came upon the grounds of the house, I was all at once enveloped into a party like atmosphere of sights and sounds that truly overloaded the mind of this nine year old. Torches of fire were stuck in the ground as decoration as the smell of burgers and fish drifted from the iron slated brick enclosed grills. My mouth began to salivate as I watched my cousin Steve grab a couple of plates and hand them to the group of us as we waited in a short line to get food. I watched as flames lapped from the depths of the grill, licking the smoking food that was about to be devoured.

Music was playing from the jukebox which had been wheeled out on to the porch from inside the home where the VFW “bar” was located. As I munched a sweet ear of corn, I watched as men smoking cigars wondered in and out of the bar area. I observed as they joked with each other or compared the scores of the latest ball game.

Mom and Aunt Mary, both with slightly sunburned Irish faces, clutching plates sat down with the rest of us as we finished off the better part of our early dinner. I could see the sun drifting further toward the horizon as I yawned. Aunt Mary tossed her red hair in the breeze as she sipped a beer and laughed at something my Mom was explaining to her.

Jean, Dan, John and I got up and headed to the larger area of the porch to watch the adults dance to the records playing from the jukebox. We watched as “Wild Thing” by the Troggs enraptured the hips, feet and waists of the older folks. I would snicker as Jean and I attempted to emulate the steps they were doing. Our Moms came up and danced with us in circles as we laughed and stomped our way into dusk.

Finally, Aunt Mary said it was time to “hit the road” as the coals in the grills began to fall apart and the men on the porch began to fall down. We were full and tired as a woman that knew Mom had given her a box of popsicles from the freezer in the VFW and we headed toward the truck.

Our faces were freckled and sunburned as we sucked melting Twin Pops from rounded wooden sticks and our fingers. We shared the color of our tongues to each other as we rode home in the sultry summer air on this first day of summer. I slept well that night.

Happy Memorial Day to all of you! Enjoy your time spent with family and friends. Peace.

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The Attack of the 50 Foot Mummy?

Yvette Vickers, a B-movie actress and former Playboy Playmate was recently found mummified in her dilapidated Hollywood residence. Apparently she was undiscovered for over a year.

Being a huge science fiction fan when I was a young lad, I used to stare at the television on Saturday mornings watching our local Doctor Shock’s “Creature Double Feature.” I actually remember getting lost one rainy morning in one of Ms. Vickers more popular classics entitled “Attack of the 50-foot Woman.” At the time, I didn’t really GET the tight, torn in-all-the-right-places frock that highlighted the giant woman’s um… assets, but I DID find myself wondering what it would be like to be that tall trouncing around a desert town in black and white while picking up cars like toys, frightening local residents and smashing down buildings with the flick of a wrist. Ah, the power of it all!

Sigh. Her gigantic power apparently waned.

I’ve often wondered HOW a death can go THAT unnoticed? Especially after being a Playboy Playmate of the fifties? I thought they had it all, literally. I was always under the assumption that a pretty face and great boobs would allow a woman to find eternal happiness and a lifetime of pool parties, photo ops and perfect performances.

Apparently, a happy ending and the flash of camera bulbs don’t go on forever.

Unfortunately, being found like this is a large fear of mine when I get older. I’ve had nightmares about it. I imagine one hot summer’s day, I’ll be discovered in my tattered underwear seated in a tasteful recliner where I’ve been glued to the seat with smelly, albeit colorful, bodily fluids. My smile will be half eaten by the cat while I am still clutching a wine glass with a few drops of a good cabernet sauvignon at the bottom and there will be a plate of fly ridden cracker crumbs on the table next to me. The TV will have remained on and a rerun of I Love Lucy will be playing a little too loud, maybe the episode of the Vitameatavegamin commercial. Hopefully, whatever hair I have left will have been combed.

I currently wonder how could no one find ME until a year or two later?

I suppose I should begin NOW by making sure I always have a backup friend to check up on me if I’m not heard from in 2 or 3 consecutive days. I have over 200 Face Book friends so surely one or two of them will notice if I don’t post for an extended period of time. I promise to be nicer and more attentive to all of you.

In the meantime…

… may you rest in pieces Yvette, you will be missed.

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