Category: Anecdotal humor in life

Lucie Does Facetime for the First Time!

So, I’ve read a lot of books on writing lately and decided that Julia Cameron’s suggestion to solicit a friendly reader to read my writing and tell me what they like and what they’d like to see more of was a good idea.

I decided to solicit one my blog followers that has similar pieces as mine and dropped her an email asking her if that’s something that she’d be interested in doing, and lo and behold, she actually said, “yes!”

Both of us aren’t exactly tech geniuses, but with the help of grandchildren and significant others, we figure out that there’s a thing called facetime on our Apple phones and computers and that we can talk to each other and actually see each other on this facetime thing-a-ma-bob.

“Great,” me thinks.

So, after she stopped wrestling with a rotten head cold that she had picked up on an out of town visit, and I stopped tap-dancing with some weird stomach bug that I had recently acquired, we finally set up a date and time.

And I was tickled pink.

Finally, after all this time, I was gonna meet one of the writers that I actually admired and emulated.

“This is totally cool,” I tell myself.

Then it dawns on me.

What does one wear to a “face time viewing” for the first time?

I’m usually in raggy sweats and a stained sweatshirt, while I bum around the house. And I rarely comb my rat’s nest of a hair-do hair in the morning, unless I have an appointment.

Surely I can’t look that scruffy on the first viewing.

If I scare the hell outta her, she’ll never wanna be my writing buddy. Maybe a clean turtleneck and a pair of pearl earrings will do the trick. It’s supposed to be in the upper 70’s today where I live, but hopefully I won’t be sweating too much so she notices.

Hm…I’m not into make-up and lipstick, but after dancing the tango trots for a few days, I was looking a little peaked and thought that maybe a touch of lipstick and a little rouge would help make me look a little less dauncey.

Cazzo!

Get a grip, Lucie!

You don’t wanna date the woman, for Chriminy sakes! You just wanna have her as a writing buddy.

I’m setting up my computer and getting everything ready for the big event, when I notice a familiar smell wafting through the house and discover that our cat, Molly, who was not too pleased with us for having an over-night guest stay with us last night, has peed on not only MY bathroom rugs, but the Princess’s, as well.

Yep.

Swell.

So, now I’m sportin’ a clean turtle neck and one of my better pair of sweats and end up with two stinky sets of bathroom rugs to wash before Janet calls to facetime with me.

Cazzo!

Forget the rouge and lipstick!

I’d better get those rugs into the laundry before Janet calls and thinks I live in a barn, for Pete’s sake.

And then it dawns on me – unless this facetime app has some serious “smell-vision”, I was good to go.

Yep.

That’s life in my shoes today, People!

Hopefully yours is less odiferous than mine was today.

Have a great day and I’ll catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.

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Lucie bakes her first (and last!) birthday cake!

I hate cooking.

And I like baking even less.

But the Buddha belly and I are strong advocates for eating.

So over the years, I’ve become a quasi-good cook – out of simple necessity.

Years ago, I naively volunteered to bake a cake for a friend of mine, who’s the female version of the Cake Boss (only sweeter!).

Exactly why I volunteered for such a self-defeating, herculean feat, I have no idea.

But volunteer I did.

I never baked a cake before and figured my Mom’s stand-by Duncan Hine’s yellow cake mix would be the easiest way to go.

“After all,” I reasoned, “What could go wrong with a simple box mix?”

“It’s a pretty straight forward recipe of eggs, water and oil. You mix it all together, dump it into a pan, slide it into the oven and voila!”

“A cake fit for a queen!”

Yep.

Well, I learned that night that it’s important to have all of the ingredients before you start making it, or you’re liable to find yourself scrambling downstairs to your neighbors to borrow some, if you don’t.

And that, People, is where the story gets a little kooky.

I only had a couple of hours to get the cake baked, cooled and frosted before my friend picked me up to drive me to said birthday girl’s house; when I discovered that I didn’t have any eggs.

I didn’t want to waste time to go to the grocers to buy them, so I slipped downstairs to my friend’s flat and discovered that her kids were home alone, while she went on a quick errand; and they had just smashed one of the front door windows while playing indoor broom hockey.

Being the responsible friend and neighbor that I am, I didn’t want to leave the hellions with broken glass in the door and on the porch; so I ran upstairs, grabbed a pair of pliers, a broom and dust pan; and quickly headed back down to tidy things up and make everything safe, again.

Not exactly the female version of “Tim the Tool man”, I took the pliers and grabbed ahold of the bottom, broken piece of glass; and while yanking it out, accidently grazed the fingers of my right hand against the serrated edges of the broken glass protruding from the top of the window pane, and sliced-opened the top of my four fingers.

So now, on top of broken glass all over the porch and inside the entry way, I’m presented with a screaming munchkin that’s thoroughly traumatized by all the blood from my cut and I’m seriously thinking, “Well, isn’t this a swell kettle of fish I’ve got myself into? The oldest kid is already in weekly therapy sessions-maybe their therapist has a group discount for the whole brood of little buggers?!”

Swell.

I calm-down the small fry, grab a roll of paper towels, start wrapping my hand in it and continue cleaning up the broken glass, when it slowly dawns on me – “Lucie, you’ve just gone through half a roll of paper towels in a short time and your bleeding is out of control. Unless you want to faint in front of these little rascals, and send all of them into extensive therapy (well into their old age), you’d better get your uncle on the phone and get some assistance.”

So, up to my apartment I scooted, and call him I did.

My uncle, who lived a block away from me at the time, listens to me rattle-on about my “bleeding to death” in front of these kids, and then calmly says to me, “Lucie, you’ve got a whole half-a-roll of paper towels left, right?”

“Yes,” I nervously answered.

“Well, relax,” my uncle calmly says.

“Make your cake, and if you’re still bleeding by the time you finish the other half-a-roll of paper towels, call me back, and I’ll take you to the ER for stitches.”

Uh-Hun.

“Great,” I’m thinking to myself. “Nice to know my uncle’s got my best interest at heart. Let’s hope to hell these paper towels I’m using are the more absorbent brand, or I’m up the proverbial creek without a paddle!”

I make the cake, throw it into the oven, and discover (to my dismay) the two eggs that I borrowed from my neighbor, glaring back at me from the top of my kitchen counter.

Lovely, just lovely.

After all this, my cake is “egg-less” and my fingers are still bleeding.

Swell.

In the meantime, my uncle apparently reconsidered his sage medical advice and comes shuffling into my apartment to make sure I haven’t bled to death, only to find me teary-eyed and totally stressed-out, ‘cuz my cake is missing eggs; I can’t get my hand to stop bleeding and my ride is supposed to pick me up shortly and I don’t have the birthday cake made.

Long story short – my uncle gets my bloody hand under control, we got another cake mix and I mix together another cake in time for my friend’s pick-up, but did not have the time to put the frosting on because the cake was too warm.

“Not to worry,” my friend, Judy, assured me when she discovers my dilemma.

“While I’m driving,” she continues, “you stick the cake out the window, cool it off and we’ll slap-on the frosting and birthday greeting when we get to Rosie’s house and everything will be hunky-dory.”

Yep.

Everything was the bee’s knees, until Jute hit a pot-hole and sent the cake flying out of the pan into the air; forcing me to lean out the window, juggling the pan back and forth, to catch it on its way down.

Swell, just swell!

So, now we’ve got a car that needs a front end alignment, a cake that needs some heavy duty culinary repair work and me with a bandaged hand that was still dripping blood on everything and anything and badly in need of some medical attention.

Cazzo!

Could anything else go wrong that night?

We got to the house in time for me to whip together the frosting, when my other friend came strolling into the kitchen where I was working my magic; eyeballed the cake and the frosting that I was making, and says, “What the hell happened to the cake?”

“And,” she continues, “What ta shit is with the ugly pink frosting?”

Madonna!

Just when I thought things couldn’t have gotten any worse, I discovered that my fingers had been bleeding through the bandages into the vanilla frosting.

Yep.

While I tended to my bleeding hand, I got my friend to make another batch of frosting, minus the added rose tinting.

We get the frosting on the cake just in time for Rosie’s grand entrance to yell, “Surprise!” and sing “Happy Birthday!”, when Rosie leans over, smiles and says, “Thanks, Luce, for the cake, but what’s with the ‘Happy Birtaday, Rosie’ written on it?”

Cavolo! (Literal translation, cabbage or holy crap!)

That was the FIRST and the LAST birthday cake that I ever made, People.

Rosie is the baker in our friendship and I’m the willing recipient of her scrumptious creations.

It’s been a successful friendship now for over 35 years, so why mess with perfection?

Have a grand day, People, and I’ll catch you next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.

 

 

The Princess and the Pelican

In November, the Princess learned that unless she wanted to be losing them, she’d best use her “floating holidays” by the second week of December or she would be kissing those days “good-bye”.

So, like the respectful royalty that she is, she put in for the time off and we got our buddy, Jimmy John (alias JJ), involved with our plans for silliness and merrymaking, and decided that a trip down to Monterey to do some bike riding along the coast would be a nice way to spend her time off.

Being the pizza and pastry lover that I am, though, I can’t drive down to Monterey, without a stopover in Capitola for a thin-crusted slice of pizza from a joint named, “Pizza My Heart” or a pastry from “Gayle’s Bakery & Rosticceria”.

So, the three of us agreed, before hitting Monterey’s coastline for bike riding, that a detour to this quaint beach town – known more for its steep cliffs and colorful houses and hotels, than its pizza joints and bakeries – was definitely on the agenda for the day.

The Princess and I had never been down to Capitola during the Christmas season and were pleasantly surprised to find “free parking” and Christmas music being piped-in throughout the village’s popular downtown.

Unlike other times of the year, the streets were pretty empty of tourists, and with the fog and overcast sky, it seemed more like a scene straight out of the Dicken’s era, if it weren’t for Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” playing in the background.

With nearby parking to the pizza joint and no one in the usual cue in front of the place, we quickly placed our orders and got served lickety-split.

Because this restaurant has no seating for its customers, and also because we enjoy eating with “an ocean view”, we headed down to the nearby beach to sit on a bench and watch the local surfers ride the unusually large waves of the season and enjoy our prized slice of pizza.

The powerful waves and surf had created a lot of beach debris, so no one, besides the multitude of pelicans and other shorebirds, was on the beach.

We decided that sitting on the boardwalk’s benches and using the cement beach wall, that separated the walk from the beach, as our “outdoor table”, would be the best plan of action for enjoying our pizza; and started to do just that, when out of nowhere, in one fell swoop, a pelican snatched the Princess’s slice of pizza out of her hand and gulped it down without so much as a “How do you do?”

The Princess, caught off guard and in total shock, stared at me in child-like innocence and whined, “OMG! That pelican just ate my slice of pizza. Did you see him? I can’t believe it, but that flippin’ bird just grabbed my slice of pizza outta my hand and ate the whole damn slice!”

Un-Hun.

(And she expected this bird to share her pizza with her and leave her a piece?)

Yep.

In the meantime, she began to hungrily eye-ball my slice of pizza, looking for sympathy from me and JJ.

And, of course, being the sympathetic partner that I am, I let her know that she was shit outta luck when it came to sharing MY pizza and that if she wanted pizza for lunch, that she’d best head-on back to the pizza joint to buy another slice.

JJ just kept laughing, as he kicked back on the bench and savored his pizza, and told her that he saw the bird zero-in on her, but by the time he went to warn her, it nosedived directly at her and it was too late to say anything.

pmh-pizzas-126-big-sur

Photo credit: Pizza My Heart

Totally disgusted with all of us – Me, JJ and her new friend, Petey the Pelican – she traipsed back to “Pizza My Heart” for another piece of pizza, walked into the restaurant and announced to the clerk, “I just got mugged by one of your beach pelicans and I need another slice of pepperoni pizza.”

“Well,” the young man responded, “You’re in luck this afternoon, ‘cuz we have special insurance on pelican muggings and your pizza is on US today!”

Then he graciously proceeded to tell her how the shorebirds were unusually aggressive this time of year because there weren’t a lot of people feeding them and sent her on her merry way with another hot slice of peperoni pizza safely ensconced in a pelican proof pizza box.

Be careful out there, People.

Unfortunately, it’s that time of year again, when predators, of all shapes and sizes, come out of nowhere and swoop-in and take our valuables.

Have a Merry Christmas and I’ll catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.

 

Lucie’s Day from Hell!

The Princess knew when she saw me crawl outta bed this morning, with bags under my eyes and hair looking like one of Methuselah’s daughters, that I needed to head straight back to bed, not pass go and definitely not collect my two hundred dollars.

Yep.

Well, being the little over-achiever that I am and not wanting to waste the day lollygagging, I got my walking clothes on, took a hearty walk and came home to start my day.

Uh-Hun.

Decided that my writing skills definitely needed some tweaking and that maybe a trip to the library to pick up a couple of books that author Dani Shapiro recommended would be the way to go.

Got my water bottle, checked my wallet for my library card, put my books to return in my book bag; and out the door I headed with the feeling that I was gonna do something good today.

I’m driving and singing Christmas songs with the radio and I arrive at the library, take a swig of my water (God forbid I get parched hunting for books at the library), grab my book bag and go to pick up my purse and lo and behold, there’s no purse.

Yep.

Drove all the way to the library and don’t have a stitch of i.d. on me.

Okeydokey.

So back home I drive and the storm that was supposed to hit us at 1 p.m. has arrived 2 hours early and is now wind-whipping the hell outta my Petey the Penguin Christmas decoration and other ornaments that I just put up 2 days before.

No big deal. I have all kinds of time to put them up, again.

I’m retired, don’t cha know?

In the house I go and think, OK, let’s put up the Christmas crèche. The storm will pass and you can pick up the books later.

Good idea.

Yep.

I’m carefully taking out my very old (very dear) crèche pieces and I noticed that one of my little donkey’s ears has broken off.

No big deal.

I found the piece. I can glue it. I just bought a brand new bottle of glue, so I’m good to go.

Hm…

Can’t get the glue outta the nozzle.

No big deal.

I take the nozzle off and get a little glue with a tooth pick.

Perfect.

Little Eeyore’s surgery was a success and we’re good to go.

Yep.

Well, have I mentioned how my cat, Boo, loves to jump up on our kitchen counters?

Yep.

Nasty habit that we’ve been unsuccessful in breaking with her.

So, while I’m busily setting up the crèche, Boo is on the counter searching for food and unbeknownst to me, tips over the uncapped glue bottle that slowly empties into my kitchen drawer that I left opened when I got out the tooth picks.

Have I mentioned that I have a nasty habit of leaving drawers and kitchen cupboard doors opened?

Yep.

The Princess has tried all kinds of reinforcement strategies to break me of this habit.

Doesn’t work.

She’s threatening to use Boo’s squirt gun on me  soon, if I don’t straighten up and fly right.

Yep.

Little did I know today that I’d be using Elmer’s All Purpose Glue for everything from Eeyore’s ear to all the little odds and ends in our junk drawer.

No big deal.

As a retired person, I’ve got all kinds of “extra time” to clean up messes like this.

Yep.

The mess gets cleaned-up, the storm dies down, my crèche is successfully laid out and I decide to tackle a trip to the library, again.

And this time, I remember everything – water bottle, book bag AND purse!

I’m nobody’s fool.

No siree, Bob!

So, I find the 3 books that I want on the library’s catalog system, but none of them are at my home library. One of the books has 76 copies of it in our library system, but not one of them is in my home library.

No big deal.

I’ll get an e-copy of it.

Yep.

I’m a county library person, don’t ‘cha know, and the county hasn’t purchased the e-versions of these books.

No sweat.

I don’t wanna improve my writing skills anyways.

Maybe Donald Hall’s, “Christmas at Eagle Creek” will be a better read for me during this season.

Bingo!

The library has Hall’s, 76 page, “Christmas at Eagle Creek”.

I’m good to go, People.

Got my Christmas music softly playing, my hot cocoa next to me and I’m settling in for the evening to tackle my 76 pages of labored reading when the Princess walks in the door and says, “I hope to hell you’ve had a better day than me! I’ve been walking around all day at work with my fly unzipped!”

Is it a wonder why our friends call us “Lucie and Ethel”?

Have a good one, People, and I’ll catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.

A Walk in the Rain and a Whiplash!

It started raining in Northern California.

Yay!

And like the US postal people, I will not let snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, interfere with my morning constitutional through the neighborhood.

It’s good for my heart, my Buddha belly, and it “clears the ole cob-webs” out of that petrified gray matter of mine.

My infamous blue rubber rain suit and barn boots (of last season), have been temporarily placed on moth balls, and as much as I swore I’d never do this – my belly, booty, and bazoombas are now sporting Spandex these days.

Yes, I know, People.

I swore that I’d never wear a pair of Spandex to emphasize my jiggly gluts, knicker bonkers and tumultuous tuckus, but I found an XL outfit (in black, of course), that’s actually quite comfortable, and a tad nicer than that ole blue, rubber rain suit.

What can I say?

I also vowed that I would never be caught dead in a pair of Orthotics or rubber Crocs; but alas, old age and prudence has forced me to rethink my pigheaded stance of my youthful naivety.

Oh well.

Got a funny idea, I won’t be the first one to meet my Fairy Godfather in assorted-colored rubber slippers or old lady shoes with special insoles.

Nor will I be the last.

I’m not exactly what you’d call a fashionista (lest my blue rubber rain suit made you believe otherwise), but I have always had a keen sense of matching my sneakers and sport socks to whatever I’m sportin’; and I decided that my white, orthotic Dr. Scholl’s weren’t exactly “the look” that I wanted to project to my adoring public.

So, with that in mind, I purchased a new black pair of Dr. Scholl’s, and a matching, DrizzleStix Flex 54” Golf Umbrella, with spring action canopy, for when the rainy season began.

“I’d be damned if I’m looking goofy on my walks, this rainy season.”

“No siree, Bob!”

Well, the rainy season began last week.

(Or at least we hope it did!)

And I got a chance to fashion this new outfit of mine, to all the neighbors (umbrella and all) – on my inaugural rain walk of the season.

Yep.

Everything was going swimmingly, don’t ya know?

The Mario Andretti’s and Janet Guthrie’s of the neighborhood were mindful not to shower me with the mucky rain water from the newly formed puddles, that had pooled on the side of the streets, as they grinded down into 2nd gear to pass me.

And a few of the drivers were actually hesitating at the stop signs that morning.

Yep.

Miss Buddha Belly and I were actually working up a good sweat and gaily humming along, and I was thinking that maybe with all the rain we were getting, that this idea of using reclaimed sewage water (that certain county officials were suggesting for our drinking water), could be shelved for future draught solutions, and we could move past this distasteful idea.

Uh-Hun.

I’m happily humming and singing off key and just having a grand ole morning, walking and reveling in Ca’s first, sweet, purifying, renewing rain of the season.

Yep.

Suddenly, one of the prickly spinose teeth, on the neighbor’s tall rose bushes, precariously reaches out, bites into the canopy of said nifty, new umbrella; stops me dead in my tracks, and catapults my head backwards; like the rubber band of some anthropomorphic bean shooter.

Still humming and naively thinking that this was no big deal, I quickly raised the hood of my spiffy, new Spandex jacket over my head, for protection from the now steady rainfall; and then attempted to carefully assess the situation, so I could return to my morning walk.

Yeah.

When is anything ever simple for me?

I patiently tried to unhook the umbrella from this bush’s death-grip, and began getting wetter and wetter with each passing minute; when I aptly concluded, that this plan of action was going nowhere fast.

If I didn’t want to be soaked to the bones very shortly, I’d better head-back home, put on some dry clothes, get a pair of pruning scissors; drive back to the neighbors and try to salvage what was left of my nifty, new umbrella.

Uh-Hun.

Well, the winds picked up while I was trying to implement plan # 2.

Let’s just say, I need a new umbrella, and, like Dopey’s best friend of Disney’s “The Seven Dwarfs”, find myself sneezing at the most inopportune times.

Have a grand day, today, People, and remember:

Some days you just need to let it rain and get a little wet…

It’s good for the soul.

I’ll catch you next adventure, looking at life from my shoes!

 

Lucie and the Princess are Sitting Ducks!

October 24th was a beautiful autumn day in Northern Ca. – perfect day for bike riding and bird watching at the Alviso Marina Slough.

A delightful day for opening duck season, too.

Did you know that local duck hunters love the Slough?

Yep.

The Princess and I recently learned this little fact.

While the Phil and Willie look-alikes, of the infamous A&E reality show, “Duck Dynasty”, were at the Slough vigilantly scouting for Mallards, the Princess and I were gaily riding bikes and observing sandpipers.

So, as Phil and Willie inconspicuously floated by us in their Hawaiian-skirted, camouflaged boat, the Princess and I gleefully (and naively) scouted for egrets, herons and various other shorebirds, in the surrounding wetlands and salt ponds; while casually peddling our bikes.

Everything was going along just ducky.

We then unexpectedly heard the “pop pop” of a 12 gauge shot gun ring out from the left side of us, and saw the Red-Head camo caps of the infamous Phil and Willie two-some, come popping out of their Hawaiian-skirted, floating duck blind; like two camouflaged jack-in-the-box clowns.

As their gun muzzles suddenly materialized from their Hawaiian-skirted floating duck blind, we immediately saw Donald, Daisy and the gang, fanatically scatter throughout the slough.

Aware of the fact that they overshot their prey, and evidently observant of the two fat, old, women bikers staring at them with mouths agape; Phil and Willie quickly sank behind the auspices of their duck blind, like the furry, buck-toothed little moles of the 70’s arcade game, Wack-A Mole.

About the same time that we saw our daffy duck hunters disappear into the confine of their camouflaged boat, I began to develop dancing, whirling butterflies in the pit of my stomach.

It then suddenly dawned on me – these Hawaiian-skirted boats that were around us, were actually duck blinds!

And the Princess and I, with our brown and blue-visored bike helmets, were two, over-sized female Mallards, soon-to-be (unwittingly), the main ingredients of Willie and Phil’s delectable duck soup!

Cazzo!

Suddenly, the Princess and I felt like two of the chain driven targets of Disneyland’s original shooting gallery, and auspiciously determined that we needed to high-tail it to safer ground.

We skedaddled to safety and decided to take a breather at one of the Slough’s man-made lookouts; when we heard a group of four, seasoned walkers, casually come shuffling in from behind us.

At this point, the Princess felt like she was headed for a permanent dirt nap and was attempting to control her shaking, wobbly knees and calm her frayed nerves, so I congenially greeted our unwitting guests and nervously asked,

“So, did you guys hear the gun shots while you were walking today?”

“Yes,” the one woman kindly and promptly responded.

“We did.”

“Kind of disarming to hear the sound of gun shots so close to you while you’re out in nature, isn’t it?” she benevolently queried, while looking over at the Princess and giving her an encouraging smile.

“Yeah,” I nervously giggled.

“Seeing the muzzles of their gun barrels aimed in our direction, kinda made us question if we were soon to be wearing toe tags?” I jokingly added.

“I can imagine,” she amenably answered, while nodding her head.

Finding our interchange amusing, but highly improbable, one of their male companions calmly interjected, “We saw the duck blind, as we were walking. I’m guessing they were using 12 gauge shot guns; and with that caliber of gun, you wouldn’t be able to shoot the distance to where the trail is.”

“I can assure you,” he competently continued, “there’s nothing to worry about, but I can understand how you’d be alarmed.”

Before I could even attempt a response to his pithy comment, the other female companion (whom we assumed was his wife), smiled and tauntingly replied,

“Geeze, Harold, ya think?!”

At this point, the Princess had successfully gained control over her wobbly knees, and was s l o w l y unthawing from her catatonic state; when she started one of her asthmatic, snort-laughs.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Princess’s snaughling – it’s a condition that arises when she laughs so hard that she snorts, and emits a cacophony of sounds that is not for the faint of heart or what you’d call, “newly acquired acquaintanceships”.

Trying to salvage any decorum of dignity, that we might have had left, I awkwardly looked at the foursome, flashed them a toothy, nervous grin, and congenially nodded my head back and forth; while conciliatorily shrugging my shoulders, as if to say, “She’s new to me, too. Just met her myself today on the trail.”

Go out and celebrate life today, People!

And remember: “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass…It’s learning to dance in the rain.” Unknown author

Catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.

Little Lucie Fails Catechism Class!

As a dedicated, former Roman Catholic, who “paid, prayed and obeyed” with the best of them, my childhood was a mixed bag of catechism lessons, church school, Saturday confessions, Sunday mass, “sinful thoughts” and a whole lot of undeserved childhood guilt…that eventually led to  narcissistic adolescent guilt…which ultimately resulted in a buttload of unwarranted adult guilt…and…well…you get the picture.

Years ago, I came to the inauspicious conclusion that psychotherapy sessions were designed for two categories of Catholics–guilt-ridden ex-Catholics, who needed to purge their souls of eternal guilt and perpetual sin; and current, practicing Catholics, who needed validation and permission to love their Buddhist, gay neighbors and celebrate “diversity” in the truest sense of its definition.

Being an Ex-Catholic, myself,  I spent an inordinate amount of time, energy and MONEY, lying spread-eagled on a couch; revealing my inner most secrets  to a number of  overworked (underpaid), exceptionally tolerant therapists, trying to find the “exact combination” to crack open the safe to my captivating (highly amusing) psyche.

I wasn’t an easy patient, to say the least.

But I think all of my many (and solicitous) therapists would agree-I was a “worthwhile wacko” and at times, even an entertaining one.

Me, entertaining.

Go figure.

It’s unorthodox how constant guilt, occasional sin, and never-ending childhood dysfunction are innate pre-requisites for highly talented, quick-witted, perceptive humorists, isn’t it?

“OK, so I’m not too talented, quick-witted and perceptive. Ya gotta admit, though, I get a chuckle or two out of you, once in a while, eh?”

It’s almost like God/our Higher Power (in his, her, or its) benevolent wisdom, is out there and carefully selects those of us that “he” believes is best suited for having a formidable, difficult life and says, “Yep, I’m gonna let this precious munchkin get his/her butt kicked and then dropkick him/her again as an adolescent and adult. If he/she successfully rises to the challenge enough times, I will bless him/her with the ability to make people laugh, and encourage all who benefit from his/her silliness, to go out into the world and pay it forward.”

Why else would I be here, writing this-with you reading this?

It was preordained.

I was supposed to bring some kind of happiness to your life today.

It’s the only logical, reasonable explanation.

That’s why he had me, 7 year-old Lucie Benedetti, enrolled in Reverend Mother Bonaventure’s catechism class at St Francis of Assisi in upstate New York in the 1960’s.

It was my job to pepper the stoic (over-the-hill) Mother B. with inane and stimulating questions every week-a job that I took seriously; and diligently and enthusiastically did everything in my power to excel at it.

It was, after all, my sole mission in life to get that “metallic red star” pasted into my First Communion Catechism book.

Praise didn’t come often or easily with Mother B., so receiving one of her “red stars” was an honor that was dear and highly desired by those of us, who were under the age of reason and highly impressionable.

I recall one such lesson, I really wanted acknowledgement from this constipated, humor-less nun, and she just wasn’t “giving out” that morning.

She was in her routine aisle march, vigilantly strolling up and down the aisles, methodically slapping that damn, thick wooden ruler in to the palm of her right hand; trying to “snag” an unsuspecting student “snoozing” during the lesson, so she could callously smack the ruler down on the front of his desk to maliciously scare the beejesus out of him; when she suddenly started an animated discussion about the blessed Virgin Mary.

Never quite understanding this “virgin” concept, I innocently inquired about “the blessed Virginia Mary”.

Not missing a beat with her systematic “ruler slapping”, or habitual “aisle march”, she actively continued strolling for snoozers and impassively remarked, “No Lucie, it’s blessed Virgin Mary, not blessed Virginia Mary.”

Yeah, well, being a know-it-all 7-year-old, and really wanting that damn star, I initiated a discussion with the Reverend Mother that I’m sure nuns aren’t really prepped for, at the nunnery, before taking their sacred vows.

In all innocence and ignorance, I shot back at her, “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but we don’t have any Virgins in our family.”

“Don’t have any Virgins as friends, either,” I innocently continued.

“We’ve got an Aunt Virginia on my Dad’s side, but I don’t think we’ve got any Virgins in Italy, either. Sounds like a stupid name to me,” I naively remarked, as Mother B. abruptly stopped her “aisle march”, s l o w l y turned  around and proceeded to quickly goose step down the classroom aisle to where I was seated.

Yep.

Uh-Hun.

Let’s just say, I didn’t get any “red stars” that day and found myself nervously squirming in my seat, innocently looking up at the towering, formidable Reverend Mother Bonaventure, as she irritably glared down at me, over the rims of her Ben Franklin spectacles; while methodically slapping that damn, thick, wooden ruler of hers on her sweaty, right palm, and callously eye-balled me into a guilty submission.

Oh well.

“Sometimes kids say the darndest things!”

Go out and make someone laugh today, People, and remember: make sure to cherish your childlike qualities, and I’ll catch ya next adventure-looking at life from my shoes!