Oh, and for the record…None of this is factual or has any resemblance to my family whatsoever. To the best of my knowledge my father is not sex-crazed, nor has my mother had to fight off his amorous attacks in broad daylight.

****HOBO HEADLINES****

When I was twelve, my best friend Katie McGuire lost her mother in a freak accident. The newspaper said she hopped a train and froze to death in a boxcar full of Tyson chicken parts bound for Wisconsin.

My father read the article to us over breakfast. “It says here that she jumped on the train around 9:30AM, shortly after dropping her eight kids at school. Packed the little mob lunches and headed for the Burlington Northern. By the time they unloaded in Jefferson, she was covered in freezer burn. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with this world?” He turned to my mother and passed her the front page.

“I can’t believe Nancy would do such a thing. Those poor children!” Mother scanned the article; her thin lips tightening around her sorrow like a zipper.

“Come on, Phyllis. Nancy McGuire has always been a kook. Remember the Christmas party when she told us she ate her kid’s afterbirth?” My father raised his voice a few octaves to impersonate Katie’s mom at the party, “I don’t know what you find offensive, Bob. It’s natural. Animals do it.”

He pulled himself upright and dropped his buttered toast dramatically, “Well frankly, I don’t care what the animal kingdom decides to consume. They also don’t think twice about eating their own feces.”

“But getting in an open boxcar and traveling like a hobo?” My mother raised her hands and covered her mouth.

“Phyllis, honey, this is the same woman who wore her pajamas to the grocery store. Let’s not paint her as a pillar of sanity.” My dad searched for his handkerchief and blew his nose, a thunderous call to the wild.

I looked at my older brother Mick, usually too stoned to follow a topic for longer than it took to roll a joint. He was carefully forming Cheerios into a decorative pattern on the red Formica countertop.

When I think back on my parent’s conversation I remember my mother trying to defend Mrs. McGuire. She was not a lunatic. Nancy McGuire was only a woman wanting an upgrade from her limited birth control options.

The morning that we heard the news, mother stood up from the kitchen table and vindicated Mrs. McGuire’s liberalist ideals, her right to die among chicken breasts and thighs. At that moment I wasn’t sure what sex and the church had to do with my mom’s emancipation, but there was one thing I was certain…someone was holding back information in our bible studies.

My father’s eyes narrowed and his brows joined together. “Phyllis, why must you always blame the Vatican? The church didn’t make her eat afterbirth and hop trains.”

“No Bob, but the church has been in their bedroom conceiving every last one of those children.” My mother spit the words and stormed out of the kitchen, clutching an armful of dirty laundry, and an attitude that carried over throughout the day. An angry storm rose in her. She did not speak to my father and if my brother or I came within arms reach, she swat at us like she was beating demons from our clothes.

Years later, I discovered the real problem, but only after my mother had a few cocktails. Vodka on the rocks with a twist, and then an olive was added as the night progressed. I have never met anyone who has an interest in the details of their conception, but that night my mother seemed induced by a satanic seed to familiarize me with my father’s procreative propensities. She retraced incidents when my dad would chase her down, pin her to a stationary item, and mount her. Bent in flexion over the kitchen counter, half sprawled on the old creaking church pew in the entryway, and even smashed against the Country Squire station wagon in our driveway while the carpool kids pressed their cold faces anxiously against the steamy glass. My mother confessed there were times it was easier to put up with the poking than fight it off, even though she often felt like a mattress with a hole in it.

After years of “sexual incarceration,” as mom referred to her marriage, she developed a sort of ‘binge and purge’ mentality. Following intercourse she would become violently ill, retching until her cheeks lost their glow. Soon it was obvious that my father was quite content following her into the bathroom and holding her hair back while she lifted the toilet seat. Since nothing short of death seemed to repel his advances, my mother took matters into her own hands. She threatened to get a restraining order if he did not leave her alone. Court intervention was the biggest stick that my mother could shake to regain power. It wasn’t that my father thought she would resort to such tactics, it was the humiliation he felt each time he visualized appearing in front of a judge and a snickering court reporter as the details of his appetite were made a part of public record. It was at this time mother became commander-and-chief of the bedroom, an imperious Josephine to my father’s furiously energetic Bonaparte. She controlled their lovemaking sessions like she was dangling live bait in front of a performing seal.

“No,” my mother admitted, “It was not a perfect union, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you tell me who has one of those?”

“That’s rather cynical,” I offered, though my words fell short. Mother had already begun to stare sympathetically at the cubes in her drink, as if only their small melting faces understood her.

My family knows this forlorn look. Just as we recognize the angry twirl of a swizzle stick, we all know that nothing good has ever come from that pivotal stare, bound by drink and an emancipated beaver. It is a gaze we have seen before, a scrutinizing glare that wants to speak volumes of my generation’s refusal to suffer through marriage. She argues that it takes determination to work through disappointment and misconceptions about a person you promise to love until death. It is much easier to set them free and try to find another who discovers everything you do exciting, until one day they too, can fill a database with your shortcomings. My mother says that my generation collects wedding rings. We try husbands on like hairstyles, and bat children back and forth from one house to another as if they are flies at a picnic.

It is at this point that my Chardonnay begins to resemble the most luscious shade of buttery wheat and wisdom, encouraging me to set the record straight and explain why divorce is a viable option. Just as I open my mouth to speak, my mother, remembering our initial conversation, spews, “I can’t help but think there was a shift after I put the skids on our ‘tween the sheets’ activity. Once sex became political posturing, your father spent most of his time at the office or on the golf course. Life changed. Days became rather long and laborious. Of course, I had you children to keep me going…and I learned to make myself happy.” She paused and then added, “Girlfriends are nice.”

“Mom, you make marriage sound like passing a kidney stone before the morphine drip.”

“No, for God sakes, how you exaggerate! Your father is a good man and an excellent provider. Not to mention, handy around the house.”

“Well, there’s always that,” I said.

“Yes, there’s that,” she sighed.

So she said, “Why not tell me about what it is about character development that appeals to you?”

So, if you’d like to hear more about what makes a toad horny…I mean, character development, please hop over to Patricia’s wonderful site, Nine Day Wonder. Thanks!

I was late boarding my last flight from Seattle, and had to quickly hoist my heavy carry-on into an overhead compartment. The man in the seat behind watched as I struggled, then sarcastically said, “Geez lady, I’d love to help, but I’m afraid it might mess up my golf swing.”

I wrestled the thing up, falling into my seat next to a guy wearing an “END IS NEAR” t-shirt as the plane jolted back from the gate. The stewardess made her way down the aisle, stopped abruptly, pulled out the safety props and launched into her spiel. I’m always amazed that we need a refresher course on the proper technique in fastening a seatbelt. One has to ask…if 100 monkeys can change the behavioral patterns of the species, when will we unravel the mystery of the buckle?

But hands down, nothing tops the brilliance and versatility of our seat cushions. To the ordinary eye it looks like a regular DNA-doused, methane infused pillow, but somehow that sucker magically transforms into a floatation device. Could have fooled me! I began to wonder if my TV room beanbag chair could save me in case of an earthquake…or if the ancient sofa might morph into a submarine in the event of a tsunami. God only knows what pragmatic uses lie hidden in the rest of my second hand threadbare fleabag crap.

I’ve heard the emergency speech so many times that I could almost push that tight haired beauty off the mike and do it myself. Instead, I stared and listened intently, giving the appearance of someone enthralled with the complexity of exit row responsibilities. After all, I have no reason to doubt the woman believes in her safety message and that she is an integral force in the airline industry…but COME ON! If you’re going down in a ball of flames over the International Dateline, do people actually give thanks for their mounted cushions?

I hate to be so cynical, so let’s assume there is reason to cheer like the FAA optimistically suggests. I just wish someone would explain to me if that fabric shock absorber automatically releases itself, or do we have to wait until impact for it’s liberation? All I know is, if it doesn’t double as a James Bond miracle-multi-tasking device, we are going to be in deep doo-doo.

Something isn’t right. Wouldn’t you assume that if this really was a tried and true safety feature we would have seen footage of someone bobbing at sea, holding fast to their 36B cushion? The only explanation I’ve come up with is…sharks got to them before the camera crew.

To top off my thrilling flight, the plane took a couple of real NBA caliber bounces while landing, cueing the doomsday t-shirt dude to begin speaking in tongues before mercifully pulling up to the gate. As we all made our way to the exit one woman looked at the smiling pilot and said, “Was that just a rough landing or were we shot down.”

They no longer treated her like a child, the way grown-ups tend to give you a pat on the head and say stupid stuff about how you’re sprouting like a weed. Instead their eyes did all the talking…carrying on a one-way conversation with her new curves and angles. They devoured her freshly formed frame like she was a big dish of warm apple pie smothered in ice cream. No doubt about it…Maddy had become an exotic flower, while I rolled along behind her like an overgrown tumbleweed, picking up all the ugly traits that she was throwing out.

One day my sister caught me staring at her so I quickly said, “What’s it feel like to have those things stuck to you all day?”

Maddy confessed that being a stacked woman wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“You can’t imagine how tiring it is to hold these things up.” She said, cupping her hand underneath one of those mounds and lifting it up like a damn barbell. “Not to mention people asking to touch them.” She said.

“Touch them?”

“You better believe it. I get at least one request a week. Sometimes they offer money. So far I’ve said no.” Maddy looked too smug for my liking.

“I don’t want breasts,” I said. “They’re disgusting.”

“Listen to me…men may date a flat-chested girl, they may even marry one, but a woman would have to be pretty naïve to think a guy isn’t disappointed by titties the size of a communion wafer.”

I recorded every moment of my twelfth birthday and the arrival of puberty like I was watching Dick Clark’s countdown to New Year’s Eve. If my body was about to make a radical transformation like Maddys, I sure as hell wasn’t going to miss it.

Although it may sound like I worshipped my older sister, I wasn’t blind to her faults, which were significant in number. That girl had a short fuse. There were times that she made me feel every moment of the two years and thirty-six day difference in our ages.

It all started the summer she became a pubescent, spending a good piece of time on her own. Mama told me that when girls go through puberty they sometimes want some solitary time to develop. Personally, I didn’t see why all that growth couldn’t happen while playing with me.

One day I asked her about how she was holding up under the expansion. She said that she didn’t feel any different than me, except for once a month.

I must have looked bewildered.

“Oh for crying out loud, tell me you know about the bleeding.” Maddy hissed.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head and big tits, I know all about that,” I said, having heard as much as I cared to from Miss Delbert, the school nurse. Besides, a girl can only take so much information about bleeding at one time.

“Good. Cuz it ain’t my job to be explaining a woman’s reproductive system,” Maddy said, turning to leave.

In hindsight, I should have let her go. After all, she wasn’t divulging anything new, but an opportunity like this doesn’t come up everyday so I said, “How does that blood get out of you anyways?”

Maddy looked at me funny and said, “Oh for crying out loud…It just sort of gushes out of a hole.”

“A hole? Well that’s news to me.” I said.

“Jesus Christ,” Maddy hollered. “Don’t you know anything? There’s a hole right behind that flipper thing.”

I began having dreams, frightening ones that made me wake in a pool of sweat. I saw myself sitting in my classroom when suddenly a gigantic tidal wave of blood explodes from this blow hole down there, knocking over desks and children, carrying them out the door and into the hallway. There were kids trying to keep their heads afloat, desperately grabbing for lockers and mounted fire extinguishers for support. Miss Delbert, the school nurse, lunges toward me through the rapids of blood with a huge pad and a belt lifted over her head. The vital fluids of life erupting from me like red hot lava, oozing with such force that it was all I could do to hold onto my desk and watch my disaster drill partner, Margie Kinkerbush get swept away.

When I figured enough time had passed since our last conversation I broached the subject again. This time Maddy was showing me how to shave my legs, only in her excitement to instruct, she nicked herself with the razor. I watched while she attached a big wad of toilet paper to the gash. Since her attention was directed elsewhere, I said, “Maddy, about that womanly stuff and feeling different?”

Maddy just kept dabbing away at that cut, as she spoke. “Sometimes you get bad cramps in your belly and you feel like ripping someone’s face off.”

That didn’t sound out of line. Blood gushing would make anyone tense and irritable.

The conversation was flowing and it seemed like Maddy was in remarkably good spirits so I said, “If God isn’t revengeful, then how come He has blood coming out of our privates?”

Then Maddy called me a moron and said that if I didn’t get out of her bathroom she was going to strap one of those pads across my face until I suffocated.

“If you hadn’t distracted me with all your stupid questions I wouldn’t have cut my leg.” She tossed the bloody toilet paper at me and walked out of the room.

I followed her back to her bedroom, but Maddy’s mood had taken a turn for the worse. She picked up a sketchbook and pencil. Her hand moved in stabbing motions at the clean white page. Ever since she won the Easter egg coloring contest at Larry’s Red Apple Mart and the manager presented her with art supplies and a crisp ten dollar bill, she thinks she is the reincarnation of Picasso.

“What is that supposed to be?” I asked.

“Seagulls,” she hissed.

“Don’t look like seagulls to me,” I said, leaning over her shoulder to get another look.

“For your information, it’s an abstract and abstracts don’t have to look like anything.” Maddy clenched her straight white teeth and glared at me.

“I may not know much about art, but I do know what a gull looks like and there is no one in their right mind gonna believe that you were trying to draw one…abstract or not!” I said.

Maddy threw her drawing pencil at me. “I hope that pencil stabs you in an artery and you die of lead poisoning, you little ignoramus.” she shrieked.

“Yeah? Well I hope your boobs grow so big that they pop and you drown in lard,” I yelled back at her.

“Get out of my room!” She screamed. “You’re not welcome here.”

I looked her square in her deep-set pale blue eyes and told her that she could save her adolescent breath, that if she couldn’t tell, I was already on my way out.

I walked out of her room, slamming the door, which I’ve been warned numerous times not to do because of Mama’s migraines.

“Damn you!” I heard Maddy scream from inside.

Then I hightailed it, remembering that my sister has a tendency to retaliate.

My parents had just purchased a new carpet sweeper. Not a Eureka from Sears or a Dirt Devil from Walmart…but the Valhalla of all vacuums…The Kirby Sentria. The crème de la crème deluxe model that costs upwards of two and a half grand. I know it sounds like a lot of money for a couple of hoses, an array of attachments, and some typhoon strength suck, but it’s guaranteed for life. Besides, it’s not just “a little suck.” It’s so powerful that if you sit anywhere near the hose you’ll receive a high colonic. Actually, my mom thought she’d be funny and goose my dad with it, but when she pressed it to his khaki cotton Dockers, the thing sucked his Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities right through them. Shell-shocked, he gathered himself enough to quip that the last time he felt anything close to that down there was on furlough in Guam back in ’43. Lucky he was using his walker at the time or we might still be looking for him wrapped around a belt or smothered in the bag.

I remember the day they made the appointment with the sales agent who was going to give them a “quick demonstration.” Having had my own close call with a Kirby go-getting rep, I warned…”Don’t get hoodwinked into buying one. They are heavy as hell and it will set you back a few G’s.” The next thing I knew…that turbo charged Anaconda was in the walk-in closet…along with attachments, brushes, bristles, wands, shampoos, turbo sander and all.

They recounted how that “cute little girl” came to the door covered in hoses and belts, and lifted that steel lunar lander contraption with such ease it seemed a toddler could meet the challenge.

Then she cleaned an area rug. Seeing that they weren’t ready to sign on the dotted line, she steam cleaned a sofa. Still sensing their reluctance, and looking to seal the deal, she strapped on yet another nozzle to tackle a mattress. Supposedly in one tornadic touchdown, that Kirby relocated bed bugs off their Serta Perfect Sleeper like 1,000 Toto’s en route to Oz.

Of course now that young salesgirl is nowhere to be found…and they can’t run the damn thing. There is a 30-minute instructional DVD designed for Rhodes scholars on how to attach belts and accessories, but my parents are stumped with the on/off button.

That renegade rig is so intimidating that they have shut the door to the closet and left it to languish in solitary confinement like a feared extortionist.

I did pick up the brochure to see if they had any quick-start tidbits. Instead, I found testimonials from satisfied customers describing the many creative uses they’d come up with for their Kirby. Supposedly if you reverse the polarity it turns into a high-powered blower, sending leaves soaring to the next county. Another happy customer had a flat tire. Unable to remove the last lug nut, he pressed the Kirby hose to the hubcap and within a few wind tunnel sucking seconds he was attaching a new wheel. The last review was not as uplifting, but I feel the guy had relatively few options. His young daughter had let her pet lizard out of its cage and somehow it became stuck behind the hot stove. In a moment of brilliance he positioned the hose, and was instantly able to Mach 4 transport that reptile into a soft Oklahoma dust bowl bag.

Now all this would be amusing if my folks were a couple of kids on “Jackass” experimenting with daredevil death wishes, but these are my aging parents. The same people who raised and kept me from harms way and are now in their 80’s. So the declaration of that metal monster lasting a lifetime is superfluous. What’s worse, they charged them list price. They prey on older people who have trouble accessing the internet to find out others have been able to negotiate down to as little as $600 for the same model. Shame on you…. “cute little salesgirl” and anyone else who feeds on those who don’t understand you’re shtick. Kirby Karma is an angry bitch and she’s waiting for you.

There’s still no sign of my dad’s hearing aid. We’re now wondering if it might have reversed course and retreated back through the ear canal. If that’s the case, maybe we should put the hose to his head and see if we can suck that thing to the surface. Then again he’s getting pretty cantankerous, and we’re worried that we might get more of a piece of his mind than we’d bargained for.

The old man gripped the changer firmly out of fear he might misplace it. Nothing disrupted his day more than that little black clicker escaping his grasp or needing new batteries.

“The world has gone crazy,” he said aloud. There on the screen was a distraught bystander recounting the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan to a shell-shocked nation. She told of a smiling president waving and greeting the crowd one minute, and then total chaos as shots rang out.

Harry thought he’d seen the worst life could offer, having survived the Great Depression, World War II, and retirement in suburban New Jersey, but even in those dark times he knew the American spirit would rise again. There had always been a logical cause and effect to suffering…however now it seemed we were being held hostage by random violence and little remorse.

He took a sip of his whiskey and contemplated death, the one thing Harry could not fathom. Many a pastor had implored him to embrace the gift of everlasting life, but to Harry eternity sounded too long. More like a coma than a joyous destination. It wore him out just thinking about it.

“Someone’s at the door,” his wife yelled into the TV room. She was short and round with thinning white hair.

“Why don’t you open it?” He barked.

“Could you please turn that thing down while I’m talking to you,” she said.

He punched the mute button and instantly the grief stricken woman on camera seemed more subdued.

“I said, there is someone at the front door. Two young men.”

Harry slowly got to his feet, grabbed his cane, and shuffled toward the entry. He glanced at them through the fish-eye lens peephole, their noses distorted and teeth fanged.

“Can I help you,” Harry shouted through the closed door.

“We’re selling magazines.” A voice returned.

“We’ve got all the magazines we need…thanks anyway.” Harry said, and began the journey back to his chair.

He settled into his recliner and turned the channel to the People’s Court. A short time later he heard his wife once again.

“Harry, they’re still out there.” The old woman said.

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t like the way they’re staring at me through the kitchen window.” She whispered.

Grumbling, he raised himself up, grabbed his cane, and once more hobbled to the front door.

“You run along. I said we don’t need any magazines.” Harry yelled at the door.

“You got any odd jobs you need done around your place?” The two offered.

“Nope. We’re doing just fine. Why don’t you try somewhere else?” He said.

The boys looked at each other…then back at the porthole.

“What if we give you one hour of work free and then you pay $10 for the next hour. That’s $5 a piece.”

“One hour for free?” Harry repeated.

“Yes sir, we’re hard workers. You won’t be disappointed.”

Harry opened the door slowly and studied the boys. They were sinewy young men with broad boney shoulders. There was no mistaking the two for brothers.

“Doesn’t anybody feed you?” he asked…”Alright then, you come back on Saturday at 10 sharp…don’t be late…and I’ll put you to work.”

On Saturday morning the boys showed up precisely at 10. Harry had a list of things for them to do. They weeded the flower beds and planted new bulbs, cleaned the gutters, and repaired the fence. At noon, the couple invited the boys in for lunch and the four sat at the kitchen table eating bologna sandwiches and chips.

As the afternoon came to an end, Harry pulled out his wallet. “Let’s see, the first hour was free…so eleven to four…$50 dollars…$25 a piece.” He passed the bills over to the siblings. Both boys stared at the money and immediately jammed it into their pockets.

Just then the old woman brought out a bag of freshly baked ginger snaps. “You’re going to need a little nourishment for the trip home.” The elderly pair watched as the two young men argued over who should hold the bag.

“Don’t fight, boys. There’s plenty to go around…Listen… how would you like to come back tomorrow? I’ve got a couple more projects to finish.”

“What time?” They asked.

“Same as today…ten,” Harry said. They agreed and exchanged phone numbers in case something came up.

That evening Harry and his wife discussed the boys.

“It’s easy to judge, but you were clearly mistaken about those two.” Harry scolded.

The next day he woke early, ate his breakfast and watched the clock until it finally turned ten. Anxiously he awaited their arrival. It had been a while since he’d felt so useful and good-hearted.

At eleven he started to worry. At noon he was ranting to himself around the house. How dare those boys be so inconsiderate? How could they expect to hold down a job if they can’t show up on time?

After lunch, He sat down in front of the television and debated pouring himself a short whiskey to get his blood pressure under control. Harry had just picked up the remote when he remembered having the boy’s telephone number in his wallet. Putting on his glasses, he dialed the number.

A woman answered. Harry couldn’t be sure, but thought she sounded upset.

“Who is this?” She asked.

“My name is Harry Mills.”

“What do you want?”

“Are your boys at home?” He asked.

“No, they’re not,” she said.

“Maybe they’re on their way to my house.”

“None of your business where they are,” she said.

“Well now, that’s where you’re wrong. I hired your kids to work for me. They were supposed to show up at 10. I know kids are lazy, but do you know what time it is?”

Her shrill tone surprised Harry. “Don’t you ever offer my boys work again…do you hear me?”

“Wait one damn minute. I’m the one who should be angry. Those boys didn’t have the decency to call and tell me they weren’t coming. Don’t you think there’s something wrong with that?” Harry asked.

“What do you want from me?” she said, her voice suddenly weak and distant.

“I want you to teach them to honor their commitments. They had a job. You can’t make it in this world unless you follow through. That’s the ticket to being successful. You got to prepare those boys for the future. Employers aren’t going to give them a second chance.” Harry could feel the veins in his neck bulge.

There was a long pause…finally she spoke.

“I don’t need your advice on how to raise my sons. They are good boys. I know all about you hiring them. But you see, we don’t live like you. Have you heard of the “projects,” Mr. Mills? Well that’s where we live. When you gave my boys work, word got out they had a job, and do you know what happened to them? They were jumped on the way home and beaten to an inch of their life. Their money stolen. So don’t tell me about commitments and employers offering second chances unless you want me to come over there and show you MY follow-thru.”

Harry heard the phone on the other end slam, and was left dazed with a dial tone. He slowly got up, grabbed his cane and poured himself a stiff whiskey. Dropping back into his chair with the remote, he turned on Lawrence Welk, and as the champagne bubbles floated across the stage, and the accordion bellows swelled, he cranked up the volume until he could no longer hear the thoughts in his head.

For those of you who don’t know what this gift is all about…here is a description lifted from another recipient.

“The Sunshine Award is an award given by bloggers to other bloggers. The receivers of the Sunshine Award are bloggers who positively and creatively inspire others in the blogsphere.”

Next…I was asked to tell you seven things you might not know about me. Here are a few humdingers.

1.Every Thanksgiving I wake up and put on my full regalia Thanksgiving Pilgrim outfit….bonnet included. It’s the only thing that gives me the strength to put my hand up a turkey’s ass. (I’m glad the Pilgrims thought to wear aprons.

2. When I was six I memorized the first few pages of Charlotte’s Web…and sadly, can still recite it. If you don’t believe me…I’ll do a webcast, and as a bonus, throw in my animal impersonations of Mr. Ed and Flipper.

3. My grandmother owned a clothing store for matronly woman. I got all my clothes there…Not because I liked them, but because they were free. Try being in middle school when all the other kids were wearing halter tops and jeans, and I showed up in a polyester brown pant suit with flowing chiffon scarves. (I spent a lot of time by myself…writing vengeful tales of wicked old Grannies)

4. Before pursuing writing I sold real estate for fifteen years. Lots of stories there! One in particular comes to mind. A divorced woman and her 17-year old son asked me to come over and give them an idea what their house was worth. Neither wanted to sell, but they had little choice due to the split. When the woman left the room to make some tea, her son lifted himself off his chair and farted LOUDLY in my general direction. (I guess he thought my bid was low.) Then he stood up and left the room, leaving me with the horrific stench. When his mother returned with a full tray of tea and homemade cookies she looked at me as if to say, “You dirty dog!” Needless to say, I didn’t get the listing.

5. I have NO musical talent WHATSOEVER. My entire family can play anything you set in front of them, but that gene strolled right by when it came to my DNA. Despite massive efforts to find an instrument to call my own, I had to abandon all experimentation with tambourines, cowbells, and whatever that contraption is called in the photo… in favor of a pen. Writing saved me from becoming a hippie drum circle chick.

6. From 1990 to 2005 I wrote fifteen 500-page journals. One day I randomly scoured each one and decided it was time to throw them away. So far, I have no regrets. I don’t want to be remembered for those thoughts.

7. Last but not least, I love this chapter of my life. I feel very lucky to have this time to write…to be in love…and to have my family healthy and happy. I don’t take a second of this for granted. I’m blessed.

Now it’s time to pick ten fellow bloggers who I feel deserve this award for their sparkling personalities and uplifting blogs.

1. John of The Monkey Bellhop – a wise and fun read…and a terrific newfound friend.

2. Bev at Black Ink Paperie – Without fail she makes me laugh! Bev writes with such finesse and wit.

3. Laura of Catharsis- a funny, passionate writer who always seems to find time to help me when I’m rattled by technology. Thank you sweet lady!

4. Tele at Hooked…a warm, compassionate writer of the sea who just sold her book!

5. Jayne of injaynesworld – Jayne’s blog is thought-provoking. She writes wise and wonderful prose and has given me great writing tips. A real pro!

6. Nicky of We Work For Cheese- a writer who is sassy and full of hell. She is one funny woman.

7.Meleah of Momma Mia, Mea Culpa- If anyone deserves the Sunshine Award it is Meleah. The most supportive writer I’ve ever come across and a very sweet woman with great talent.

8.Robert at Arkwright’s of Orton– Robert is my writing correspondent from the U.K. and has many insightfully humorous stories to tell. He does not suffer fools lightly which keeps keeps me on my toes.

9. Ian at Ian Cochrane- Ian’s work is relatively new to me, but what I’ve read has been damn good. I love his description and how he transports me to a new place and time.

10 Tobin at Tobin Elliott- I’ve enjoyed Tobin’s writing for some time. He has a cool new site and he’s a tremendous writer.

Once again, a big THANKS to Motherofnine9 for the Sunshine Award. I hope everyone heads over to her blog, if you haven’t already and becomes acquainted with her inspirational work. Also, check out the other bloggers as they are a great group of top-notch writers!

I’d admit I come from a gun slinging family. My father made no secret that he was packing heat. It was an old pistol from the Civil War my great-grandfather pulled off a dead soldier. My dad kept it in his underwear drawer. Psychologically he felt better pointing an unloaded relic at a robber than threatening a fistfight. Frankly, I thought we’d have a better chance loading his briefs like a slingshot than pointing that antique pistol at a crazed crook.

When I was a kid disputes were settled on the playground. Then after the dust settled, hard feelings were mostly dropped. But times have changed. Now differences can turn into deadly feuds as young men stockpile ammunition and semi-automatic rifles capable of firing 100 rounds per minute. With an outlandishly easy pull of an index finger, a tired, fed up lost soul can unleash devastating lethality from a disengaged distance. Blurring the line between real life and video games, they compete for the highest scores and a shot at notoriety.

To be sure our deteriorating social and moral fabric is being challenged. We are abandoning the simplicity of human interaction and losing a connection with ourselves…our kids…our planet…in the name of progress. Of course it is great to have all the newest gadgets to communicate with one another without being face-to-face, but at the end of the day our human instinctual side needs contact…physical, spiritual and mental. We are starting to see consequences of abandoning the soul-feeding personal touch…in favor of a tweet, a text, or an email. It’s no wonder there is a growing percentage of kids who feel rudderless and ostracized. The resulting alienation is being treated with an array of pharmaceuticals whose side effects often include the very problem they are prescribed to alleviate. Technology is leaving our human physical side in the dust, and the connectedness that was for thousands of years a staple of our existence is being pawned cheaply for glitz, internet speed, and firepower.

The ginned up fear of a massive government takeover prevents a practical dialogue from really getting started. Even with the unspeakable dismemberment of school children, a fog hovers over what a majority are in favor of.

If this is truly a democracy by and for the people, and is the model we hold up for the world to admire as we spread it peacefully, and otherwise…we’d better take a good look at where this little 200 year old experiment is heading. I’m not so sure that a nation driven by fear, divided by the powers that be, and semi-automatically armed to the teeth sounds like the one we hear so often touted as, “The greatest country in the history of the world.”

While he inspected the existing wiring, he played air guitar. Sorry, but this is where he lost me… no can do the whole air thing. You either play the damn instrument or you look like a rabid Teletubby trying. So, while Cody gyrates about, his eyes rolling back into his inked skull, he tells me a little bit about himself.

Cody plays in a rock band on weekends. He thinks older women are great because they get excited when he sings to them. His “religious tattoos” are new age Christian, supposedly making his paintwork different than the everyday tats you see on the street. This was somewhat of a contradiction to my beliefs about tattoos. I mean, if you find something that speaks to you and want to paint your body…go for it. Or you get drunk and plaster a winged serpent on your ass…be my guest. It’s your skin. Just don’t give me the stink-eye if I’m not overly impressed. (although in Cody’s case I was tempted to suggest an artistic “Parting of the Red Sea” tattoo, incorporating his over exposed chafed butt-crack.)…Do these guys ALL have them?

I was having this dialogue with myself when Cody started scratching something fierce. He rolled up his sleeve and I couldn’t help notice that his arm was pink and full of puss. I guess after his last gig in a seedy little tavern where his band plays for free, he drank a few shots of rum with his drummer and decided to tattoo the Baccardi bat on his forearm. The thing was starting to bubble like it was about to fly off and suck on my neck.

Just when I’d probably had my fill of Cody’s memoir, he shifted gears telling me about a bleached blonde girl named Marcy he met at his show. Turned on by her energetic bounce, he invited her to Denny’s after the set, claiming to want to get to know her better before engaging in a sleepover. He looked my way for approval though I sensed he had already labeled me as one of those “older ladies” who become damp in the downstairs over ANY attention.

Marcy ordered three donuts and wolfed them down while complaining to Cody about her day. “I worked until noon…then I had to stop by the daycare because my kid was sick…hauled him back to my place…then waited for my mom to come over…got back to work just in time for some stupid-ass audit. To top it off, on my way home I had some blood drawn to see if my last musician gave me the gift that keeps on giving.” That was about all good old Cody needed to hear. In a full-blown tat scratch fever, he bolted towards the men’s room and slipped out of Denny’s, leaving Marcy to pick up the tab.

I have a new Internet connection, but they better not ask for my customer satisfaction rating unless the top brass want an earful…. or maybe I should just give them a link to this post.

There was a pause…quite lengthy, I might add.

In those awkward seconds I was immediately transported back to my 21st.

A large group of us left in a convertible for a Mexican restaurant. Since we were too early for happy hour, we decided to have a Sunrise…followed by a Sunset. Eventually happy hour began and we moved into Tequila shots. One after the next. From that moment on all I remember is wanting to take the entire table of shot glasses home in my purse as souvenirs of entering adulthood. Not wanting to disappoint, everyone tossed their half-empty drinks in my purse and we stumbled to the parking lot. I vaguely recall hoisting myself over the trunk of the car and falling into the backseat…the employees running after us screaming for the return of their glassware, but we were long gone.

The next day I woke with a splitting headache, wearing only a shredded pair of knee high nylons, a short white jacket, and nothing underneath. Got the visual?..(Classy with a capital C, but at least I’m honest.)

I never did find the rest of my clothes, which just goes to show that I was obviously overdressed.