Category Archives: go girl

17

Jun. ’11

Boston Bruins 4-Evah!

When I was in Grade Two at Mountainview Primary School in Otterburn Park, Quebec, I began my lifelong mission as one of those annoying contrarians that you run into every so often when making small talk.  It’s sunny out and you say, “Oh what a beautiful day” and I say, “I hate the sun, I can see all the dirt in my house. I only like it when it rains.”  Lady Gaga comes on the radio and you say, “Oh I love Lady Gaga, she is so innovative, everything she does is magical genius,” and I will respond, “She is a twat.”  When really, obviously I love the sun when I sprawl out on Hanlan’s Point with nothing but a bucket and a blanket and of course I appreciate Lady Gaga’s theatrics, particularly the one where she claims to be 24 when obviously she is 45.  Good times!

So when every little kid in that tiny Quebec town was cheering for The Habs, I did not.  From my brother’s hockey card collection, I discovered a Boston Bruins player named Phil Esposito and I was in love at first sight.  Don’t ask me why, in retropect, I don’t get it either.  Back then I thought he was the hottest thing since Dick Van Dyke (again, not sure what was going on in that tiny mind).  I remember the classroom was set up with four desks pushed together, bistro-style and I was the only girl in mine.  I made an announcement to the quadrant that I was a Bruins fan and they are the best team and Phil Esposito is best hockey player in the world.  The three boys scoffed and told me I was a “dumb girl.”  One of the boys lunged over the desks and grabbed my arm and gave me an “Indian sunburn,” that’s what we called it, don’t get on my case.  He kept squeezing my wrist one way and the fat bit below the elbow the other way so hard that snot bubbles popped out of his nose.  But I let him do it and sat there stoically, I didn’t wince or cry.  That is where I learned to stand by my principals and not to let some stupid little dude tell me who or what to like.

It is also where I learned that hockey is a passionate sport, and picking your team isn’t always the most rational choice.  So this particular Stanley Cup was more exciting for me than any other because normally don’t care so much.  I watched all 7 games and tweeted on my Twitter because that is what you do these days when the tv is on.  Last night during Game 7, I twattered out something quite rude about the Canucks that I thought for sure I would lose some followers.  One tweeter was pissed and chirped my head off but by then I had fallen asleep and when I woke up to the news, I was elated:  Bruins won 4-0!  The city of Vancouver was in a riotous uproar!  Rage was in the air!  Suddenly my tweet didn’t seem so harsh!  And I am validated!  I don’t even remember who that boy was in Grade Two but all I have to say to you is :  HA!  I might be “just a girl” but my team won the Stanley Cup! 

 Karma is a slow moving bitch.

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12

Jun. ’11

A Fearless Vampire Killer

Summer is here and check me out!  Here I am, the end of Grade 6, all youthful exuberance, not a care in the world, a pool in my backyard, popsicles in the freezer, a menstrual period a whole year away.  I had a diary back then, one that I kept hidden in a cigar box but now I have a blog that I post on the internet for everyone to see.  Here are some entries from my 12 year old self (I am sure she would be mortified):

“I stayed up and watched The Fearless Vampire Killers.  I can’t believe that Roman Polanski was married to Sharon Tate and that she is murdered in real life.  I am keeping my window shut anyway because there was a praying mantis in the hallway when I went to bed and it scary.”

“I shaved my legs but it turned out bad. I scraped my shin and it bled like crazy and mom told me I should have used soap but she says she doesn’t need to shave her legs but I think not. There are some hairs that she doesn’t see.”

“I saw Tommy at a drive-in in Cape Cod. I love Roger Daltrey but I think he is too old.  He is with a band called The Who. We also saw LeMans for the first attraction. It had Steve McQueen but I think he looks like Paul Newman. He is old but handsome, like Dick Van Dyke.”

“Fonebone and I picked blackberries all morning in the orchard and my brother made us pick him a bunch which he wolfed down in two bites and then he went golfing.  We told stories on the swing and made up one about a boy named Johnny who had a magic penis (editors note: the rest of that story is so gross that it inspired The Human Centipede). Last year we used to lie down on opposite pillows and hold our feet in the air.  But Fone had a giant plantar wart the size of her heel and blue and busting with blood that I was worried it would come back that I kept my feet on the ground and did all the swinging.  That wart was contagious and everyone got it. My brother dug his out with a pocketknife but Fone and I had to go to the hospital and Magic Tom gave her all the attention because hers was bigger and she had to be on crutches. I think Magic Tom is stupid. He wears makeup in real life.”

“My sister brought a guy home on a motorcycle.  She says he is her friend, not boyfriend but I think he loves her.  He seemed shocked when she said she was going on a trip to Europe.  He writes poetry and brought a magazine that his poem was in, called “New York Chick, Slick.”  Fone is at camp but Teeny and I each got a ride on the motorcycle.  It is a Norton.  He has a bald spot in his afro that I don’t think anyone else would notice unless the wind was blowing.  Teeny liked the ride more than I did. His poem is really good though. I`ve read it a few times and I think it was about someone he was in love with before he became a draft dodger.”

“Teeny told me that she crosses her legs and when she swings her feet she can get an orgasm. I asked her what that was and she says it is because she is a year older and has her period. She does it alot and says if you sneeze, it happens faster.  I tried but I don’t know how to fake a sneeze.”

`We got new jeans for school so we are soaking them in the pool so they fit right.  I like diving in and catching them and putting them on under water just to see how long I can hold my breath. I`m scared to go school, I can’t believe summer is almost over.”

Yes, so that was then and this is now, and I would pretty much say that nubile pre-wench taught me everything I need to know now:   Lock your doors, open your heart, be careful, keep your eyes open, swing your legs, and be aware, be very aware, because these days are fleeting.  And don’t worry about vampires because they don’t like sun.

Posted by . Categories: go girl, Hanging Around. Tags: , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

27

May. ’11

O-mnipotent in Pink

Yesterday I raced through traffic, screamed over speed bumps, charged through stop signs to get home in time to watch the season finale of Oprah.  My sister always tells me that she comes on Channel 1,027,382 at other times of the day but I don’t know how to work the Rogers remote and there is something about the 4:00 Oprah Hour that is almost sacred.    When my kids were babies, the Oprah Show was their feeding hour, a half an hour on each boob. Long after they were weened, I’d lactate at 4 whether I was watching Oprah or not.  Zing!  That is the sensation that the let-down of lactation makes, it’s Oprah o’clock!  Otherwise now known as cocktail hour.  Double zing!

Anyway, yesterday, Lorraine came over as she by divine intervention has the week off and is able to watch the final 3 episodes.  We had champagne and shared a box of Kleenex.  “I thought you hated Oprah,”  said my daughter.  I have been known to bust Miss O’s balls on a few occasions.  She is only human after all.  The whole James Frey scandal made me crazy.  “His memoir is a big lie!” she said.  I wrote her a scathing letter years ago:  All memoirs are “lies.”  Do you think Jeannette Wells didn’t take a few liberties when writing “The Glass Castle” since she would have to remember events and dialogue of when she was a toddler?  I think she ruined James Frey’s life in the worst possible way in that she made him famous, then took it all away by humiliating him.  I boycotted her show for a year after that.  See you next Tuesday, Oprah!  But I eventually got over it.  I’m not sure her recent two part interview with him was redemption but it was better than leaving him to rot in obscurity.  She has the power.

When she interviews people, she interrupts by finishing their sentences in order to move on to the next topic.  This is because she is one of those know-it-alls that you knew when you were in school.  You could just tell she was one of those kids who, 20 seconds before the bell, would put up her fucking hand and ask Teacher a question that would take 5 minutes to answer because she keep the questions going while everyone else was going squirrelly.

And I am suspicious of excessive amounts of generosity.  There was a woman at my gym who would do the most over the top things on other people’s birthday.  She once walked into a full spinning class with a lit birthday cake for someone she hardly knew.  Everything was always done in front of an audience.  All this “giving” this and that, is it more about achieving notoriety?  Look at me!   Then look under your chair, there’s a chicken pot pie!  A pair of Uggs! A Volkswagen Beetle!  A school in Africa!  Don’t get me wrong, she’s done great acts of philanthropy but she looooooves the accolades. 

Why is she the only one who appears on the cover of “O” Magazine?  Why doesn’t she call it “Eg-O” Magazine?

And if she is all about truth, why is maintaining the lifestyle lies of the certain couch-jumping, airplane-flying Scientologists that appear regularly on her show?  Is she one of them? 

Or is she the second coming of Jesus?  WWJD with a wagon load of lard?  Doubts he would be parading it on a tv soundstage wearing high-waisted Calvin Klein jeans.  He’d  probably fry lentils in it and serve them to the lepers in the cave colony.  Jesus wins.

So she’s not the second coming but she is a force, that’s for sure.  The finale was perfection, down to the pink dress which by the way was designed by L’Wren Scott.  It went over like a sermon that included the things she learned from the guests she had on her show.  And no, my child, I don’t hate her.  I’m only critical because skepticism is my nature and blogging about it is my game.  And isn’t that what Oprah wants us to do?  Be our best selves and find our forum to spread our energy around.  Yo, I listened and learned.  So from now on,when 4 o’clocks zings by, there’s going to a big void!   God knows I won’t be watching OWN because it is on those baffling upper channels I don’t know how to find to save my life.   I’m going to miss you, Oprah!

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23

May. ’11

Apocalypse Raincheck

 

It’s the May 24 (Vic- CHORE-ia Day) weekend here in Canada, also known as Rapture according to some folks, obviously hungry for a diversion.  Saturday the world was supposed to end, but it didn’t.  Surprise. I spent the day outside because it was nice out for once and everyone else had mowed their lawn.  So I cut my grass for the first time this year using my broken gas-powered lawn mower.  There were big puffs of blue smoke coming out of the motor, but I didn’t care, I inhaled deeply and carried on.  The end is nigh and I am high!!!   Then I went to Canadian Tire and got some potting soil and annuals to plant in all my flower vessels.  I had to dump the old earth out first though so I picked up one of the pots and underneath there was a giant earthworm the size of boa constrictor writhing around like a sexy beast on the prowl.  It had eyes and looked up at me and smiled.  I screamed and dropped the pot and ran in the house.  I hate snakes!  Didn’t Jesus and Jim Morrison both poetically see a snake as an omen before they both died tragically, one as a martyr and the other as a drunken pig?   I know it was a worm, but still.  Freddy came out, and picked it up and threw it into the back of the garden and I finished planting.  I’m not much of a gardener but it looks pretty good.  Each planter has a thrill, a fill, and a spill, meaning something popping out high in the center, and something filling in the rest , and then something spilling out the sides.  In the days of yore, we would just plant a bunch of crappy marigolds in an old barrel and be done with it but now everyone is Martha Stewart.  I took pride in my finished product and went inside to wash my hands and reward myself with clean fingers.

But the chores didn’t end there.  When I got inside, Righteous Teenage Daughter had ripped apart my office/pantry/laundry room and filled a couple garbage bags and boxes  with junk .  “I feel like I am on episode of Hoarders and I am saving the day!”  She was delirious with glee.  “Here!” she barked, “Start hauling these outside!”  So we threw out bags of half eaten tapanades, Rubbermaid containers with missing lids, papers and more paper, including bank statements (yes, identity thieves:  Take mine, please!  You can be a slightly neurotic single lady of a certain age whose credit card doesn’t work in a parking meter, I’ll just go and join the circus instead.  Good times.).  Anyway, we filled, hauled, and dumped, and I have to say it was the best fun ever.  And before we knew it, the Rapture time came and went and we were still in tact.  Same old, same old.  I’m not sure if the Faux-pocalypse taught us to LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST  because that level of existential awareness would get tedious pretty quickly.  You can only eat so many bacon bombs and bungee jump so many times before you prolapse.  But maybe just appreciate what you have, remind yourself that unopened mail holds no power, delight in the surprises like smiling worms, and if you can’t find the lid to something, for God’s sakes, throw out the container!  And life should have the occasional thrill, a bunch of fill (please no marigolds), and some spill.  And with that, I leave you Blondie: 

Posted by . Categories: go girl, Handy Hints. Tags: , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

12

May. ’11

Wishing and Hoping and D.I.Y.

“You can have your cake and eat it too by farting the candles out”   FilthyRichmond on Twitter
 
Yesterday was my birthday (yay, me) and my brother sent me some photos of birthdays past.  Here I am at age 7, blowing out the candles of my cake, making some kind of wish.  I bet it was for a puppy.  I did get one a couple of years later but he ran away and got hit by a car (sad!!!!)  I still want a puppy but now I want one with a tool belt and not with the bone in his mouth, if you know what I mean.  Seriously, I currently have some blue chores around the house:  my washing machine doesn’t spin, my dryer doesn’t heat, there’s still a hole in my kitchen ceiling from that leak a few posts ago, and a crack in the door on the third floor.  THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING!!!  When I look at that photo of myself at age 7, I want to tell that little girl to not bother wishing for anything because sometimes when you get what you think you want, it doesn’t really know how to use a power drill at all.  If you know what I mean.
 
One of my birthday traditions since childhood has involved a bucket of KFC.  But as you know if you follow the blog, The Righteous Teenage Daughter, has made us seek out happy farm animals for our unapologetic carnivorous ways.  So I stick to the one butchershop I stumbled upon in January, The Friendly Butcher on Danforth.   They had me at wild boar.  So instead of my usual birthday bucket of the Colonel’s mutant chicken, I decided to take the concept of the “Double Down” and recreate it in a more civilized manner.  Here is what I did, step by step:
 
1. Flattened out 3 boneless chicken breasts (they are Mennonite, by the way, so they might not be happy but they are virtuous)
2. Smothered them in plain Greek-style yogurt
3. Rolled them in cornflake crumbs with coarse sea salt and some Cajun rub
4. Baked in oven at 350 for about 40 minutes
5. Lay out 6 wild boar bacon strips in George Forman grill and let it sizzle until the dog went into a frenzy
6. Put two bacon strips on each breast and drizzed with chipotle aioli and folded over like a sandwich-ish
 
It was messier than the KFC version but way better tasting.  As far as I’m concerned, I would put wild boar bacon on my birthday cake if I had one.  So I didn’t make yet another futile wish this year.  I find just taking matters into your own hands far more effective.  If you know what I mean.
 
 
 
Posted by . Categories: Eat & Drink, go girl. Tags: , , , . Leave a comment

06

May. ’11

Never Mind The Bollocks, It’s Mother’s Day

“If your dog has weird unsightly nipples, it’s OK to throw 3 or 4 little bras on it.”   @robdelaney via Twitter
 
This is a touching little anecdote about my dog, Betty, which I think is perfect for Mother’s Day.   By the way, gentle reminder:  It’s this coming Sunday, children, so go and empty piggy banks and get ye to a flower shoppe and the chicken place.   To preface the story, Betty is our beloved pet who we call our fallen angel because she has little white tufts of fur on her back like wings that were ripped off by the body guards in Heaven.  For sure they kicked her out for urinating on the clouds and leaving little turd nuggets behind the harps and being just a general all around asshole to the other dog angels.  Here on our earthly patch of foursquare called “Chez Betty,” we adore and obsess over her.  My kids and I take turns taking her out for walks and we all hate it.  In the house she is a sweet, loving, little snuggle bunny but as soon as she walks out the door, she becomes a demonic frothing-at-the-mouth maniac.  She pulls on her leash, eats garbage, chases cats and squirrels, and barks furiously at skateboarders.  When she encounters another dog, she dive bombs for its anus, and before she barely takes a sniff, she passes judgment.  Her hackles go up, she snarls, and then pounces.  And we have to drag her away.  I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING:  GET THIS DOG TRAINED!  *sigh* This beast doesn’t need a dog whisperer, she needs a team of Navy Seals to whip her into civility.  Anyway I am beginning to think we are a family of enablers who secretly enjoy the attention she brings on us.
 
Yesterday afternoon I was walking her and we just turned around the corner of Starbucks to head up the street I could see a big giant white shepherd-style dog strolling casually towards us with her owner.  I could call it a female from that far away because she had six dangling giant pink nipples swaying  from her belly.  The dog was also off leash so this potential encounter could go anywhere.  I was excited as we approached each other.  Betty on the other hand was pretending to ignore her by sniffing some phantom chicken wing on the sidewalk.  Classic Betty, when the dog is bigger than her (most of them are) she often waits for them to pass before she attacks.  But this dog was cool as a cucumber and her owner, a cowboy, was equally cavalier.   When we got close, he nodded his head at me and tapped his hat and said “Howdy.”   His dog stopped right in front of Betty.  Betty looked up and hesitated.  Gingerly she walked up to the dog and who remained still, she seemed to be smiling.  Betty didn’t growl at her, instead she sniffed one of her dangleberry titlets with her tail wagging in circles like a helicopter!  The mother dog stood patiently as Betty licked one of  her titsicles.  I was frozen with amazement.  Maybe all Betty needs is her mommy to keep her in line!  I looked up at the Cowboy, who winked at me and said, “You got a nice set, too.”
 
Best Mother’s Day present ever.
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30

Apr. ’11

The Dress! That Ass! Harry and Pippa Sitting in a Tree!

Well it really was perfect, wasn’t it?  No flies on this lot of royals.  There were many memorable moments but for me, my two favourite supporting characters that have captured my imagination are Brother Harry and Sister Pippa.  While Kate was ravishingly beautiful, blah blah, Pippa was actually sizzling hot in her white dress.  The twitterers were in a frenzy over her and as my #twittercrush pointed out:  “She not wearing knickers!”  Prince Harry was so cute, he always looks like he’s up to something.  Some deaf person read his lips when he mouthed out “Wait til you see her” to Prince William when Kate was walking up the altar.  I think he might have said, “I’m going to bang her sister” but we may never know.  Look at him grabbing his crotch while he stares at her ass.  Anyway, I feel like I can’t enough of this and I want a sequel.  Harry and Pippa:  Let’s get it on!

Other than that, I predict and I’m no Nostradamus, that hats will be big this summer.  In fact, I may go down to my basement where Hoardy McHoardington left all his crap and start making fascinators out of all the debris.  I’m sure I can come up with something like this:

I’m not actually joking, I have the crafting gene and a hot glue gun.  The sky is the limit literally.  These things distract from bad hair days which is perfect in the summer when nothing goes right.  This is not the mimosas talking:  Watch out for these on eBay.

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20

Apr. ’11

Royal Love: Don’t Try This At Home, Folks

By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is,
Infinite, undying.
Lady make note of this —
One of you is lying.”
— Dorothy Parker

I don’t mean to put a damper on this whole royal brouhaha, William and Kate taking the plunge next week, but chances are this is doomed.  I think they are both lying!!!!!   Before you dismiss me as some jaded old cougar, I will tell you why:  I may not be an expert on love, per se, but I know about marriage.  It’s simple science.  For one thing, we live too long to expect a union between two people to last a lifetime, less their age at the time of their wedding.  In olden days, the woman often died in childbirth and Farmer Dickhead would marry her 12-year-old sister.  He`d die when she was 20 and she`d be referred to as the Old Widow Dickhead.  Her ovaries would rot quicker than a dingleberry off a donkey`s ass and by the time she was 30 she would be a spent, useless commodity.   Now we live longer, thanks to better health care.  But it doesn’t help that modern times are not conducive to life long relationships.  The internet has turned us all into ADHD, twittering, porn loving rat people, clicking and scrolling the days and nights away.  It turns out there is a whole sub-culture, more common than you think, whose lives are based in cyber space and not actual human interaction.  I think this is stunting our emotional growth and I will discuss all this further in my upcoming book, The Art of Modern Living.  By upcoming, I mean I haven’t written it yet.  But I will.  Tweet.  Oh look, a YouTube video of a kitten stuck in a box!

Back to William and Kate plus Fate.  The subject of the monarch and royal anything normally gets the glaze over my eyes  but I have to admit I’m getting excited over this one.  The girlie girl in me wonders what she will wear, what her bridemaids will look like, et cetera but the jaded old cougar is in a tizzy about having a Royal Wedding party at 4 o’clock in the morning, complete with Mimosas and live twittering!  And maybe a banger or two!  Last night, I watched a Barbara Walters special, click here for bits,  about the story of William and Kate, and how they met and courted.  Let me tell you, the red flags went off!  For one thing, they broke up not once but twice.  Kate was known as Katey Waity basically because she was a “rules” girl.  She lured him in by wearing some see-through garbage bag in a fashion show but then played the good girl card, that whole Madonna-Whore thing.  They dated.  He got bored at some point and dumped her, they got back together, and he dumped her again.  An American tacky mall skank factored into the play.  For some reason, British people see Americans as representative of `what could be`if only they had better dentists.  She lured him back by dressing like a ho again and having the paparazzi get her picture in a sequined garbage bag looking insanely, maniacally happy. “She played the game and got her man,” said British commentator.  That`s the key thing:  Wearing dresses that barely cover your mash will always bring in the banger.  Red flag:  this will soon get tiresome.  Madonna, whore, madonna, whore, madonna, whore…get me a drink.

And then Barbara Walters showed some photos of Kate wearing those demure outfits with wacky hats, looking `strikingly similar` to Princess Diana, William`s mama.  Another red flag:  William is marrying his mother.   If I`ve said once, I`ve said it a million times:  When a man is actually eager to marry you, it`s only because you remind him of his madonna, not his whore.  So if Kate wants to continue to play this tedious `game of love,` she better hone her bulimia (check!  The  British press never lies: she`s lost a stone since the engagement announcement) and keep her seatbelt on at all times.  But I bet she she won`t.  The monarchy is just too oppressive and she will soon find out that it`s not her game anymore. She is just a pawn, a lady dressed in white in a revolving a door.  All they need is a good pre-nup, and after, a really good song to sing to:

 
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14

Apr. ’11

Nice and Sleazy Does It

I have lots to say.

First of all today is Pink Shirt Day, which is an anti-bullying awareness campaign, click here for more information, and a topic of which I can relate from my own and my classmates’ experience.  In my high school, there was a boy, who kind of looked like Bender from The Breakfast Club only he was freakishly short.  He always wore that ubiquitous white trash red plaid lumberjacket,  otherwise known as the Kenora dinner jacket, and Kodiak boots with the tongues hanging out and the pants half tucked.  He would hold court over the other teenage boys, who tried to emulate his exquisite style but ended up looking awkward zit-faced henchmen.  Somehow he owned his stumpy diminutive frame and it made him seem even more menacing, like he could crawl through your legs and breath fire up your privates.   This boy, let’s call him Ron Trottier (not his real name…..JOKES!  Yes, totes his real name!  Come and get me now, tiny man!) had a sinister Grinchian smile and he would stare you down with his bloodshot eyes and then call you by your nom du jour.  They were bad names for some kids which I never want to hear again.  And like every other bully, he also got violent and did some creepy night stalking.  For me though, I just got the verbal business.  My first name was “Bean.”  I don’t get either but maybe it was for “string bean,”  I was 5’9 and he might have been 4’11.  No biggie there.  The second one of my names was “SLUT!”  Said super loudly in the hallway.  Incessantly.  Daily.  For four years.  Who calls a virgin a slut?  A pig, that’s who.

And speaking of pigs and sluts, let’s segue into that event a couple of weeks ago in Toronto called “The Slut Walk.”  It was a protest that was inspired by a police officer who intructed the female students from York University not to dress like “sluts” so that they don’t tempt the rapists.  A shit storm ensued, of course.  A lady has the right to dress like a ho, said the righteous female spirit.  By the way, I have to change the word “slut” to “ho” from here on in because my Pavlovian reaction to that word is to wince, and I cannot afford crows’ feet.   And I agree with those bitches, take back the word, take back the night.  While I didn’t bother going to Queens Park on that day to strut, it was only because I hadn’t anything to wear!  Which is the dilemma of the LOCA (lady of a certain age), what is appropriate and what is not?  I have a tendancy to think “less is more” but what does that mean?  I think over a certain age, the less part means skin and more cover.  Damn.  My ho days are over.  Here is a video of the protest that day.  Check out around the 1:00 minute mark:  I HAVE THE SAME SKIRT!  Only mine fits longer so I guess I’m okay.

And by the way, kids:  It does get better, just be strong.  Karma has a way of kicking a bully’s ass.  I notice they took the premium cable package away from the federal prisons.  Sleep tight, Ronnie!

Posted by . Categories: go girl, LOCAs gone wild. Tags: , , , . 2 Comments

24

Mar. ’11

Sh*t On A Wet Tar Roof

 

This post is segued by the sad passing of Elizabeth Taylor this morning.  She was a true Hollywood legend and humanitarian and although her heyday was when I was a tot, I do remember the first time she came into my awareness.  One day she appeared on the Mike Douglas Show which I used to love even as a child.  He was on in the morning and later, Merv Griffin would come on in the afternoon.   I thought Mike put on a wig and became Merv, then put on another wig and became Phil Donahue!  Ah, the stupidity of youth.  Anyway, Elizabeth Taylor was on the Mike Douglas Show and my mother told me who she was:  She was Cleopatra, don’t you remember seeing that in a drive in?  No (it turned out I was an infant rolling around the back of the station wagon).  She is married to Richard Burton and he gave her a giant Krupp diamond!  Who, what?  She has violet eyes!  She is wearing purple eye shadow!  Her eyes are blue!  Don’t mess with me, Mom, I have 64 Crayola crayons, I know what violet looks like!  As a youngster, I may have thought Mike, Merv, and Phil were the same man, but I was not buying into hype of Elizabeth Taylor.  It turned out, she was an acquired taste for me.  It wasn’t until I was a full-fledged adult did I start to appreciate all her shenanigans:  her tragic widowhood from Mike Todd, her husband stealing that weasel Eddie Fisher, marrying Richard Burton  twice!  That is hot.  Her movies with him were the best, especially Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.  They say there wasn’t much of a stretch between George and Martha’s boozy volatile relationship to the real life Dick and Liz.  That film, to me, was not just hot but the ultimate in romance.  I like things high strung.

Speaking of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (ok, whatevs, it’s another iconic Elizabeth Taylor movie), I have been moaning for the past couple of weeks about my leaky third floor roof.  Unfortunately, it is a flat roof with a wooden deck on it.  The deck must come down before a roofer can even assess the situation.  Who better for the job than my buddy Bob?  Which brings me back to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.  Bob and I, although strictly platonic, have that kind of George/Martha relationship…to a degree of course. Since 1999, we have had some major ups and downs.  We’ve done all kinds of things, had adventures and misadventures, taken road trips, drank beers galore, cottaged (that story remains sealed in a vault) and had a few fights and falling outs where we didn’t speak for as much as a year.  Currently he has a girlfriend, the kind that keeps him on a short leash and sneakily sews in a GPS system in the seam of his briefs (which ha! ha! is why he goes commando).  Anyway yesterday Bob came over to dismantle the third floor deck and I was his helper.  It was a pretty big job, and back-breaking especially for him because he was doing most of the work.  His girlfriend texted him a few thousand annoying times and at one point when I was sweeping the sludge debris into a pile, he barked at me and said I was doing it stupidly with one hand when I should be using two and he called me by her name!  Oh how I laughed, he thinks I am his girlfriend when I am doing something boneheaded.  I ended up picking the gross sludge up with my bare hands and dumping it into 5 big plastic garbage bags.  And then I remembered the raccoon that took over that deck one summer and slept in its own fecal matter all day, barricading the door so we couldn’t open it.  Probably all that sludge was actual shit!  Panic ensued, just like the time I visited a co-worker and went into his bathroom and accidentally touched his butt plug which was sitting right there on the counter, I ended up washing my hands countless times for days(weeks)  afterwards.  Raccoon shit is poison, but another person’s butt plug residue is just unspeakably disgusting.  Oddly, I found the idea of the raccoon shit far less disturbing so I finished up, washed my hands once, and got us a bottle of wine at the liquor store and we had a pleasant and civilized after-work drink and he went on his way.  Leaving a pile of wood in the backyard.  Not quite a heap of diamonds but that’s the kind of lady I am.  And to that I say, farewell sweet Liz, may you fool the angels with your violet eyes!

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