Take me out to the ballgame...Scotty beam me up...Calgone take me away

I've been spending lots of time with Susan (she is my sister who cares not to read this blog...it truly is okay (you BIMBO) since her not reading lends itself to her becoming fodder for my blog.

And all the while she is totally unaware that she is subject to scrutiny, one sided opinion(s), the butt of many jokes and so on...tee-hee).

Anyway,  since our father has been so ill this past year Susan and I have been pretty much connected at the hip.

The two of us have mostly always been great friends. There were a couple of years when the most contact we had was chasing each other around the house catching the other by the hair..we did always reconnect though, as Marmie had us cleaning piles of our mixed hair from the stairs.

My sister and I share a trait (a quirk? a personality malfunction) which finds us in giddy hysterics at the worst possible time(s).

(Googie has demonstrated symptoms of this same issue)

Susan's quick wit and unique take on the world combined with some serious sleep deprivation can quickly spell disaster..

Or a pretty huge, embarrassingly loud, cackle fest.

This last all- night-er we pulled at the hospital is a stellar example of what I'm talking about.

We'd been at the hospital for hours, maybe 11 or so and our dad had not really gotten much treatment or a firm diagnosis.

Susan and I waited outside his room (really just to gather a breath, it's hard to watch a loved one suffer).

The frustration of the whole situation was forging a destructive path on my emotional well being and I was beginning to show signs of an explosion.

(Think Shirley McClaine's reaction in the movie Terms of Endearment when her dying daughter doesn't get her pain shot in time... see here)

After so many hours had passed and no one seemed to be doing much of anything Susan decided it was time to take matters into her own hands...

"I'll get us some quality help" Susan said.

She held up a pretend microphone and paged us a team of doctors.

"Paging Dr Larry"

"Dr Moe"

"Dr Curly"......

We (quietly) laughed so hard I peed my pants and Susan started her trademark "laugh-cry"... she laughed/cried so hard the tears rolled down her face...

Susan put her head down and her whole body shook with her hysterics.

A nurse, sitting at the station across the room took note.

She thought Susan was hysterical for other reasons and came over to calm her.

"We're doing the best we can" she said softly.

Susan caught the quick flowing tears that gathered under her eyes.

She wiped and nodded and bit her lip to keep her composure.

I hid in my sweatshirt neck and breathed my own BO... it worked like a sobering slap in da chops.

Stress relief comes in all forms.

Just sayin yo.

Ride the stair......(you idiots)

I was a really good kid saddled with unusual siblings.

Susan (my sister, the one who doesn't read this blog) and our brother John were a bit on the odd side.

A little too smart for their own good some people liked to say.

I was not as book smart nor as easily entertained (ADD) as the two of them and often found myself thinking up all kinds of stuff to do to ward off childhood boredom.

Anything to make a chore easier or more fun.

Susan and I would wash the dishes in the bathtub after we'd played baseball with the leftover mashed potatoes.

(Sorry Marmie, just to let you know, we always "caught" the mashed potato ball)

We'd haul all the dishes in the bathroom and fill up the tub, it was an awesome plan, we could both wash at the same time.

( I shudder now to think of the possibilities of what else may have floated around with the dishes in that deep tub).

In addition to dressing up boring chores we also had John to help keep the doldrums at bay.

We'd think up all kinds of horrible practical jokes to play on him.

Hold him down and put makeup on him.

Torture him as only sisters can do.

As book smart as my siblings were they both lacked true common sense.

Evidenced by their love of a game that was nothing but horribly dangerous.

Stair-surfing is nearly as stupid as downhill skiing.

The minute Marmie shut the front door the two of them would drag a mattress to the head of the basement stairs and they would ride it down.

Like moth(s) to flame(s) they had neither clue nor care about their mortality.

Be it a fatal roll-off crash or Marmie discovering the shenanigans that went on when she left the house for an hour or two.

They were playing with fire, but the lure of the thrill was stronger than the fear of punishment.

Today while exploring the wide world of Pinterest I came upon something so neat it made me wish Susan (you know) read my blog so that she could see it too.

I would email it to her but she doesn't read her email.

I could probably phone her and let her know to read my blog or check out her email.

I'd do that, but she doesn't answer her phone either.

(Believe it or not, I don't think it's personal)

(slide dowwwwwn for the image)

(weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)

"Suuuuuuuuu-zen has done gone missin....

Susan my sister, (you may know her as the one who would rather read a Pop Tart ingredient list backwards (twice) than read this blog... yeah, that Susan)

anyway, Susan is missing, she's AWOL... absent w/o letting her sister know exactly when it was that she was flying (in her car) south seeking warm temperatures and her mother in law's fine cooking...

I've called her house looking for her..

about four times per hour..

I'm used to her not answering.... (this right here is how she normally "does me"....)

I'm grown accustomed to leaving message after message and getting nothing but a furrowed brow and frown lines...

Normally I'd stalk her through her kid, like most teenagers The Princess of Quite A Lot and her phone are tight... she doesn't ignore miss calls, this time though, I don't want to bother her to bother Susan.

Susan is in nursing school, and believe me, she tries to use that, and the fact that she has two relatively young children AND a job (or 3) and a few health problems as an excuse as to why she is too busy, too tired, too uninterested to gab on the phone,

I don't get it...

I mean who doesn't have time to spend listening to her sister's problems (real and imagined)...?

Who wouldn't be totally "into" (in to...?) hearing all about her sister's most recent disgust that Sears doesn't offer free shipping on over sized items (even though they advertise "Free Shipping")...

I'm getting the feeling that Susan (you know, that Susan) might be feeling a bit fed up with smoothing my ruffled feathers over things like that...

So if anyone has seen my sister Susan (the one who never reads this blog) tell her that she is in deep shit, no call to the Sister-Mom (the motherly sister who stood right beside Marmie trying to raise her into a decent and con-sid-er-ate member of society)  before she flew the coop...

Not a single call to say "don't bother calling me twenty one times a day for the next several days...I'm outta here"

Nuthin...

Now, I should dig deeper and say my true feelings...

SUSAN...you freakin idiot bimbo dumb yellow headed person.... you FORGOT our agreement,

 I am beyond devastated...

So...when you think about calling me to tell me that you forgot to call me to tell me that you and your family were preparing to leave/leaving for the holiday... forget it, don't bother, I'll be fine, I'll get through the next several hundred hours of your absence just great... sigh

( I hope your kid is reading this to you and that you are beginning to feel massive amounts of guilt... if so, my job here is done)...

Hope you have a great today... (you, the readers, not that sister of mine that would rather try and decipher Hebrew than read this blog.. PS... Princess, don't read that last part to your mom, I don't want her to get mad at me and not call me to tell me that she is sorry that she forgot to call her sister-mom and say à tout à l'heure  or even Auvoiur Simone...the bad girl...)

And furthermore dear niece your mother's  phone manners (and her piss-poor 50 year old cob-webbed memory) stink (really bad) and we may have to revisit and revamp her upbringing... just sayin.

(Princess, don't read that part aloud either, k..? Aunt Beth loves you and I assure you that if I'm ever to leave town I would certainly call your mother (even though I am quite positive that she would forget to call me) so that she would know where to find me in case of an emergency, even one as simple as Sears' cheezzzzzeeeey free shipping policy.

PSS...One last thing, I hope that if your mother took that misbehaving little dog with her on her car trip that she does something like this on the way home...

If so, let me know ASAP, I'm in the mood for a good ol hysterical belly laugh)

To read is to breath is to eat is to doze is to read a good book

I just read an amazing book, The Help by Kathryn Stockett.

The book was on loan from a work pal who inhales books like most people inhale air.

When my friend told me that she wanted me to read this sure to be a classic little beauty she said, (and I quote)... "I want this book back, I keep all my books. I like to re-read them"...

To read is to breathe, I get that...

To re-read, is a bit odd.

At least to me.

To my smart ass question "do you pretend to forget the ending?"... she answered "I just find something new every time I read it".

When she handed me her copy of The Help it barely looked looked at... the cover pristine, the spine unwrinkled... not a mark on any page.

I enjoy consuming books at the same time I'm consuming beef & cheese enchiladas and jelly donuts.

Greasy potato chips and Cheetoes.

Often while soaking in a hot tub.

I drip, slop and sling water and food particles on all my reading material...

Water droplets from my filling tub sprinkle them damp.

Once or twice a whole entire book has made it's way into the tub, it happened when I accidentally dozed off.

I found myself lapping up every morsel of this book, being ever so careful as not to leave any telltale marks that I'd been there (and eaten that)...

I'd cover the book with a towel while the tub filled.

Like a non-purchasing peeker in the bookstore or a 12 year old boy peeping at his dad's Playboy magazine, I barely cracked the book open for fear of creasing the spine or bending a page corner.

I literally opened it no more than an inch and kept my nose pressed into the middle, looking out, consuming lines of words using the one eye closest to the page I was reading.

Even with all these precautions taken... the book cover ended up with a big wrinkle...

(The massive poundage of my handbag sitting on an object carries quite a wallop)

I immensely enjoyed reading this gem of a book, but in the future, I'll be borrowing the bestsellers not from my re-reading friends, but from the pubic library in town.

Not to worry, they'll never catch up with the slob who physically abused their books... I used Susan (my sister, the one who doesn't read my blog) 's name, address and phone number to get the library card.

Tee-hee.....

Easter lickens.....

Dear Diary....

Friday... April 22nd 

Bear caught a bad, bad bug and thought he was on his way to meet his maker.

How, I wondered, am I going to send him off to college a couple of hours from home when a virus has him calling me at work predicting an impending death...?

Well, to be fair, his temp was over one hundred three degrees.

As any cleaver opportunist would do I totally jumped on the chance to kick him when he was down..and while wiping his sweaty brow said things like,

"Think my broom will make the flight to your bedside when it's two plus hours from home?"

"You can try, but you aren't going to find any roommate that can make chipped ice like I can"

"You're not ready to wean yet, mister, that SOS call is total proof"...

I was pretty annoying.

Desperate for him to change his mind and decide that he isn't ready to go had me pulling a butt load of tricks and trip-ups from my haversack of mother's little helpers.

Sick humor, guilt and confidence busters... I got em all.

It was a true Good Friday miracle what a good sawbones and couple of powerful drugs can and will do for an ailing young body... the next day the kid was good as new and still on that damn college away from home kick.

Sunday....April 24th

We had a lovely Easter... and dinner at my sister, "Martha"Susan"Stewart's" house.

The festive ambiance of her house was enviable.

The mishmash of crap that she's accumulated over the years has turned into quite the lovely collection.. seriously, her mantle and table were beautiful.

(note to self...take a big purse next year, she'll never notice a few missing items)

She had (what appeared to be) an antique Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin pail on the table as a centerpiece.

She'd filled it with potting soil and three different spring flower blooms.

Red tipped white tulips, daffodils, and Grape Hyacinth... very Martha.

A couple of multi tiered glass serving dishes waited patiently on a side table for Susan to fill them with homemade fudge.

A platter of deviled eggs with a perfect dusting of paprika sat opposite the flowers.

Tempting all of us to take the first one...

Only one of us was nervy enough to dig in before dinner.

That particular guest had four legs and lightening fast reflexes.

Once she'd helped herself to a sampling of the egg filling Daddio carried the platter of eggs to where Susan cooked.

"Ummm.." he said "looks like the seasoning has been licked off a couple of your eggs"

The white dog tried not to look guilty...in spite of her paprika red and yoke yellow tinged beard.

With a smile Susan deep sixed the three "tested" eggs and set the platter back out.

The remaining nine served as a decoration.

Daddio's mom made a friend for life when she slipped half her meal over the side of the table and to the waiting dog.

She even fed it a large blob of snow white butter cream frosting right off her fork.

Luckily we got out of there before the dog came down with the shits.

And not so lucky I came down with Bear's virus.

I sound like Maude.

And eerily, I look a bit like this chick...only my nose is red and the circles around my eyes are black.



Hello...? Hello, is anyone there..???

If you're reading this I appreciate that you've come back... nothing like checking in on a blog you (may) read (daily or a couple of times a week) and seeing nothing new..arrgh!

I hate that.

I'm sorry I did THAT to YOU...

We good?

Alrighty then...lets move on.

It has been onehellofa week ten days..

Last week I had a rogue mole chopped off... into the tender skin above my knee cap the sawbones plunged a 6 inch (yes, yes it was, okay..maybe it wasn't) needle filled with some kind of numbing medicine. The nurse hovered over the surgery site, pliers in hand as the doctor carved underneath the gigantic (obviously) diseased mass with (what felt like) a machete.

Not so carefully,  the doctor sawed the many tentacles that anchored the mole in place... once he freed a good sized portion of the hideous creature, the nurse held it up by the pliers and the doctor severed the blood supply.

Then the monster blob was dropped into a specimen container and shipped to a nearby lab for an evaluation. 

"It doesn't look good" the doctor said (he didn't actually say that, but he looked like he was going to).

I also had blood taken.... something I do every three months to make sure some meds I take aren't hurting my kidneys.

I should have been surprised (but I wasn't) when the nurse called a couple of days later and said "doc wants to see you" and "he can talk to you when he removes the stitches"... (it was a long week people)

For kicks my sister Susan (the one who doesn't read this blog) came with me to the appointment.. (well, I called her nearly hysterical with worry what else could she do but agree to accompany me...?)

We waited for almost an hour and a half in a jam packed waiting room and when we were finally called in Susan looked a tad shell shocked when I stepped toward the scale and started stripping.

In her arms she held my clothes, my shoes, my purse (I'd stuffed my lucky coin in my butt crack) while I stepped around the corner to be weighed.

"I never saw anyone get buck naked to get weighed...?" Susan observed.

"WOW" I said ( VERY loudly) to the nurse "110, AS USUAL".

"Ohhh my gawd YOU are soooo full of shit" I heard a voice from around the corner whisper.

"I WEIGH one hundred eleven" the voice continued.

In the room Susan nerves got the best of her, causing her to do odd things, like pocket a pair of gloves.

She said next she was going to steal the blood pressure cuff....

When she jumped up and started opening the cupboard drawers I had to draw the line...

(She doesn't read this blog, so I can accuse her of anything...tee-hee)

(Okay, so in all fairness, she opened the cupboard door to free a cord that was stuck inside..."it was bugging me" she said.)

While we waited she tried to get my mind off things by talking about how I couldn't weigh 110 pounds...but I wouldn't budge.

"Yes I DO..."

"No YOU DON'T"

"I DO"

"YOU DON'T"

"I DO SO"

"I HEARD YOU AND YOU DON'T"....

I was just about to slug her when the door opened and the dr walked in.

"You're mole..." he said, "was a..... then continued with a big long word that I didn't understand.

"What does THAT mean?" I asked, beginning to panic.

"I don't want to say IT in front of your sister..." doctor said.

Well it wasn't some kind of vaginal wart...it was a mole on my kneecap.

"You can go ahead and say IT" I said... feeling suddenly courageous. 

He said the big word again and then he explained.

"Your mole was a funny skin growth that old people get... like REALLY OLD PEOPLE"

Susan didn't hear the rest... "Kind of unusual in people your age"...

She was cackling wayyyyy too loud and pounding her hand on the arm of the chair  

I swear to god one of these days I'm gonna shank that hootch. 

*Note.... I am not making fun of skin cancer or people who receive sad and devastating news at dr appointments... I'm making fun of oddballs like myself who nearly go nuts worrying about moles (about the size of a pencil eraser) and everything other little ache and pain that they think is going to result in a terminal diagnosis...living life as a raging hypochondriac sucks..

Thank you for your visit...please come again.

xoxo

A tale of tickle-ly bangs and perfectionism...

Susan (you may know her as my sister, the one who doesn't read this blog) came over last night..

Susan and her children visiting on a Sunday night is an unusual occurrence.

This day there was a small emergency.

Seems her boy child got tired of his blond bangs tickling his eyebrows and he took matters into his own tiny hands, using his craft scissors he cut a chunk of bang hair right off at the scalp..

(Well, not exactly that short, there was about a half inch of hair at his hairline).

When they first walked in the door and I got a good look at his handy work I tried hard not to laugh.

When I asked him what ever may have possessed him to barber himself..he answered.."SHE said I could!!!" pointing at his mother.

His mother, looking down, nodded her head in agreement.

Then to defend herself she said "I didn't think he'd really do it".

Good thing he didn't ask to sled off the roof.

Or barbecue the dog.

My tiny nephew wanted a Mohawk cut...impossible, since he'd cut the chunk out of the front.

I did the best I could to salvage his look and when I got done he looked in the mirror and said it was "good".

He then buried his head in his mother's lap and loudly whispered "IT'S SHORT!!!!".

I almost put on my Holier Than Thou outfit to chastise my poor (trusting) sister..

Giving unwanted advice... "keep the scissors hidden" and "I'd break those little fingers off his body if he were mine" and all kinds of helpful stuff like that.

I was about to let her know that things like that don't happen to perfect families like mine and Daddio's....homes with perfect children and their perfect parents.

Then suddenly I remembered the time I came home from work to find a hunk of Googie's hair missing.

The Sweet Prince Buttercup was implicated immediately as the perpetrator in the crime.

He'd recently been gifted some left handed scissors from his Godmother who felt sorry that the poor boy couldn't cut a thing with our regular "right-handed" pair.

Daddio was on kid duty the day Googie got a haircut from her brother.

I noticed the missing hair the second I laid eyes on my tiny girl.

"What the heck happened?" I demanded to know, pointing to the spot on Googie's head where her hair had gone missing.

Daddio was dumbfounded!

He had no idea what happened.

No idea when it happened.

Kids gone wild with scissors.

"Good thing he didn't grab a permanent marker and draw her a mustache to go with the trim" I remember hollering.

Well, at least my nephew had permission.

Good thing he didn't ask to borrow the car ;-)

(I'm not worried Susan will get mad at me for telling this little story...she doesn't read this blog, remember.

And really, if she wanted to, Susan could certainly tell a tale or five hundred about my (not so) perfect children and their (not so) perfect (incredibly gullible and stupid) mother... but she'd never dog me out that like).

There are two morals to the this story...

(1).. People living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones

and

(2).. Just say "no".... it doesn't even matter what they are asking you.

Woe is me....

I had so many stories to tell you, but a stomach bug derailed my plans.

So yeah Thanksgiving is sooo last week...but if you don't mind I'd like to share a few tidbits with you.

Thanksgiving day at my sister (who doesn't read this blog) 's house was a lot of fun.

In typical Susan fashion she set one of the most beautiful tables I've ever seen.  (This picture honestly does it no justice)

Susan's lovely table



When I walked into the room and saw the festive table it triggered all sorts of horrible childhood memories.

Memories of that little hootchie out-doing me.

It took me right back to grandma's house and Barbie dolls.

And Susan's Barbie mansion.

Which really was all that and more.

Susan would con our grandmother out of a couple of her fancy-dancy paper towels to make matching bedspreads and curtains.

And sometimes grandma even let her have two different patterns, so she could do more than one bedroom.

On the walls of Susan's Barbie mansion were miniature replicas of famous art work...she'd cut pictures out of catalogs and magazines.

Then fashion frames out of toothpicks to outline them.

Which she either painted or colored to compliment the picture it held.

My Barbie house was a bit of a hot mess.

And so we didn't spend much time there.

Instead we visited Susan at her Barbie's mansion.

Where green with envy, I'll admit, I didn't play very nice.

My jealousy manifested itself by coming out in aggressive Barbie play.

My Barbies were the mean girls.

They'd visit Susan and her dolls and wreck havoc on her lovely home.

For instance, after a night of heavy partying my Barbie would crash at Susan's mansion and in a drunkin stupor she'd pee the bed.

Soaking and destroying Susan's lovely bedspread.

Sometimes my Barbie and her boyfriend Banana Head (some Brillo-pad textured yellow-headed GI Joe knockoff) would get into a knock-down drag-out fist fight at her mansion and tear the place up.

It got to the point that Susan didn't invite me and my Barbies to play at her Barbie mansion.

And I found out a couple of years ago that since that time Susan had been holding a grudge.

It all came out when she refused to allow me to play Barbies with her young daughter.

"Aunt Beth doesn't like to play Barbies" she carefully explained....then hissed in a low voice so that only I could hear "she's a FREAK".

Waving my flag....

We don't often look at ourselves and think "what a nut job".

Even when we are.

The other day I asked my kids to answer a survey question (don't ask) asking me what made my "freak flag" fly.

What are you freaky/obsessive about?

Wow...

Loaded question.

Bear couldn't think of anything.

He did say that I was annoying, but that was all he could think of.

His sister had a list.

"Well, you are all wacky about puke." Googie offered.

"And you like perfume waaaaaaaaaaay too much"

"You have too much perfume mom, really you do"

"And you're all weird about smells."

"Oh and that phone thing."

"Yeah, you do have an issue with phone calls mom."

Hey Goog, thanks.

You are such a big help to your momma.

The Freak Flag Flier.

A couple of days ago I called my ex sister.

Often, her ringing phone goes unanswered.

I guess it may be hard to hear three different handsets ringing at the same time, but hey, whatever.

Lots of times when I call the answering machine picks up and when I start to leave a message a real live human being will answer.

Screening calls huh?

If I were the paranoid sort I might even think they were screening their calls.

So I called that no good fer nuttin lazy ass   darling sister of mine a day or two ago and left a message asking her to call me back.

The witch ignored the call.

She didn't get the message.

So I called again yesterday.

Listen you puke, call me back.

What the frick?

This is totally the last and final straw, I won't call you again...EVER!!!

Yesterday, I dialed her number and left a message.

Yeah, so yesterday I decided to give her another call.

I called her again, yesterday.

Yesterday when she didn't return my calls call I decided to leave a message.

Okay, you obviously don't want to talk to me since you never answer when I call, you never return my calls, no one gives you my messages and they never get into any trouble for that unmannerly behavior.

I'm going to stop writing about this now.

I'm feeling myself beginning to tense up.

Googie was right...I do have phone issues.

xoxoxoxo....

PS...Susan, if you are reading this..call me.

"Misty water colored mem-reeees light the corners of my miiiiiiind......."

Like any mother I don't like to see my babies suffer. Nevermind that my babies are (mostly) grown people who can and do make their own bed decisions and should have to lay in it deal with the consequences.

My step mom likes to tell me that if you do help them too much you rob them of their memories.

Hard times are usually the ones we remember most.

Unless you're like me and like to block all that crap out.

I think my rose colored glasses fit me perfectly.

My sister Susan (you remember...the one who writes the dirty shopping lists) can always be counted on to jog my memory about our growing up years.

When I complain about a kid of mine skipping out on doing their chores or not getting the concept of saving or paying bills Susan reminds me that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree...

"Don't you remember?" Susan will ask "that whenever you owed mom money you would tell her she couldn't get blood from a rock"

"And when she asked you to clean your room, you'd hide all your junk in the closet or under the bed and then call her in and show her what a wonderful job you did."

"You're lucky mom let you live to see adulthood."

A bit before Daddio and I married my mom made a move to Arizona. We'd all been invited to join her and her husband.

When we balked at leaving our "oh so very" established lives, she said "you can stay in the house and pay the bills if you don't want to come".

Well that sounded like one hell of an adventure and we took her up on it.

And while we loved the adventure often times were tough....really tough.

A strange thing happened during those times, I came to the realization that sometimes you can get blood from a rock.

So Susan reminds me of a time when a desperate time called for a desperate measure.

We really were dirt poor early in our marriage and for a short time right after our wedding my sister lived with us. One day not long after our wedding she was in the bathroom and started hollering for me to bring her some toilet paper.

We had not one square.

“Ok, how bout some tissue?” she asked.

“Nope” I replied.

”A paper towel?” she pleaded .

“We're out” I reported.

“Wait a minute” I yelled outside the door…I just remembered, I had a whole bag of leftover tissue flowers that you shape like an accordion and puff out, the ones that we’d put on our” Just Married” car.

I banged on the door, it cracked open a bit and her skinny arm poked out, palm up. I placed a couple of the flowers in the center of her hand and closed her fingers around them.

She screamed when she saw what I’d given her.

"Hey" I said "they even have a little string on the bottom to make them easier to hold."

“Freak” she yelled.

We used that bag of flowers to wipe our cans for at least a week…before they ran out my dear sister suggested that they shouldn't be kept in a paper bag on the floor, so she found a pretty basket to put them it.

She always was the classy one.

Debbie does Dallas????

I met Googie at the doctors on Thursday morning. While we waited for her to be seen I made a phone call and asked her to play secretary and write down a number for me. She pulled my cute little notebook from my purse and jotted it down.

Later when I looked in the pad for the number Googie wrote I saw there was some other writing inside.

It was a list...

 Number one,

-clean house

number two

-buy recreational drugs,

HUH???

number three?

-buy rubbers

What the hell?

-buy batteries for "Rabbit Ears"

-Rent Debbie Does Dallas (at Classic Videos)

and finally,

-buy lubricant....

Hoooo-kay

Now that's what I'd call a list.

I studied the list for awhile and then decided that Googie was playing a joke on me. I have to admit, I was surprised  impressed concerned that she knew the movie Debbie Does Dallas.

The classic porn film from the 70's does feature cheerleaders...and Googie, my sweet classic girl was one hell of a cheerleader.

"Googie" I said, (tee hee) "you left your shopping list on my notepad."

"Ummmm, what are you talking about?" Googie asked, pretending to be confused.

After a couple minutes of rapid fire questioning my first suspect was crossed off the list.

Well if Googie didn't do Dal... then who did???

Who had access to my purse?

 The loveables, nope..I keep it locked up.

I had handed the pad to Googie, but she insisted it wasn't her.

My mind then wondered to some yahoo farting around in Party City picking up notepads and writing strange notes...

(Man, your mother must have left you to cry it out....

who does crap like that?)

Then it struck me...it would have had to be a pretty old "kid" to know Debbie Does Dallas.

DunDunDunDuuuuunnnnnnn......

While trying to put the pieces together and figure out a profile for this sex fiend...

My phone rang.

"Sounds like the crazy shit my brothers would do to me" my friend said after I ran the mystery by her.

hmmmmm....

It hit me then.

Quickly, I hit the end button on the phone and just as quickly I dialed her number....

"Debbie does Dallas....huh????"

"What took you so long?" she giggled "I almost forgot I did it."

"Hey" I said "about those rabbit ears......."