Lucie’s “Quick Fix”!

Okey-Dokey, Artichokey!

Two years ago, the Princess and I decided that my medical issues were mounting and that if she didn’t want to find me belly-up one morning in my Jacuzzi bath tub, that we’d best bite the bullet, dish out the big bucks and install a handicap shower for me.

So, we did just that – install a handy-dandy, handicap shower complete with two shower heads, two handicap bars and a corner shower seat!

And on those special occasions, when I’m on that merry-go-round of fun symptoms that spontaneously shows up (uninvited as they are) and renders me totally weak and incapacitated, Miss Buddha Belly and I are lucky enough to have a corner, shower seat to “set a spell” and imagine myself back to well-ness, again.

So, this morning, I jumped into this special shower to give myself a quickie, as Momma Benedetti likes to say, so I could quickly wash-up and head-out to make my morning appointment.

As luck would have it, though, I go to turn the metal handle of the (shower) diverter switch, and the handle breaks off from the wall, slips out of my hand, and lands squarely on my itsy, bitsy (oh-sodelicate), baby toe.

Cazzo,” I’m thinking to myself, after I jump around the shower stall, cussing like a drunken sailor.

“Who needs two working feet, when you can hop (just fine) on one foot?” I sarcastically ask myself.

Uh-Hun.

The main shower valve is still working, so I figure I’ll turn off the water with the main valve, feel around the bathroom counter to find my spectacles, and see if I can locate (what I hope) is a simple screw that fell out of the diverter handle onto the shower floor.

At this point, I’m naively thinking it’s a quick fix and I’ll be able to have it working as good as new, again, and quickly get on with my day.

Yep.

That was the plan, anyway.

But when has anything ever gone as planned in my life, People?

Right.

There’s no screw for the handle, and I’m a pretty clever woman, don’t ‘cha know, but I’m no magician, and definitely no plumber.

After closely examining the handle, I come to the inauspicious conclusion that this is not going to be a quick fix.

Swell.

So, unless I want another “Princess and Lucie Super Glue Remedy”, I decide that I better call our 85-year-old, paisano, contractor buddy, Guido, and get him over here to give the situation a quick look-over and have it fixed the right way.

I’m tired of using super glue and duct tape with our various plumbing issues, and want this shower valve fixed correctly.

Uh-Hun.

I get myself to my appointment, swollen baby toe and all, and get Guido (alias “G”) on the phone to come over to the house to take a look at the situation and fix the problem.

“No problema,” G. says, “I’ve been looking for a reason to stop-by for a hug from you for a long time now, any ways.”

“This will give me an excuse to stop over”, he continues.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Yep.

All-righty.

So, G. stops by, gets one of his infamous hugs, barely eye-balls my diverter handle and judiciously comments, “Lucie, there’s no screw to this thing. Where’d you pick-up this piece of crap from? Home Depot or Orchard Supply?”

“Uhhh…..,” I start to stutter.

“I have no idea, G.”, I continue.

You put it in when you installed the shower, remember?”

“I know there’s no screw,” I smugly inform him.

“I mentioned that to you when I spoke with you yesterday. If there was a screw, I could have fixed it myself.”

“What do you think we should do, G.?” I innocently ask.

At this point, G. is leaning back on my shower seat, methodically rubbing his chin, and giving the situation what I think is his best analytical assessment and attention.

After what seems like forever and a day, he suddenly stops rubbing his chin, very abruptly stands up, and rudely blurts out,

“Ya got any Super Glue?”

We’ll Super Glue the damn thing,” he garishly declares, “and you’ll be as good as new!”

Uh-Hun.

Yes-siree, Bob.

So glad I got professional advice this time and didn’t fix it myself.

Have a grand day, People, and remember: life may not always be what we planned for, but sometimes, when we least expect it, it’s actually better….I haven’t seen G. in almost two years, and I didn’t realize how much I truly missed him, until the little rompicoglioni (pain in the butt) hugged me.

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

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Lucie’s Buddha Belly is Outta Control!

 

All righty!

I just finished scarfing down a grilled, medium rare, quarter pound, grass-fed, angus ground beef (no hormones or antibiotics added!), cheese burger; loaded with sweet onions, home-grown tomatoes and lettuce, mustard, ketchup and mayo on a (Northern Ca.) Dutch Crunch roll with a freshly picked ear of white corn smothered in butter!

And I’m thinking that I sure as hell hope my doctor doesn’t read this week’s posting on my blog.

Cazzo!

My Buddha belly has gone berserk and is totally outta control.

I happened to be listening to Dr. Oz’s T.V. show today, while I was doing my daily wifely chores, and heard him mention something about asparagus being a really good food to eat to maintain weight (or some such health nonsense).

For some reason, though, my Buddha belly and I couldn’t get our head around grazing on a grilled asparagus sandwich, minus the Dutch Crunch roll and cheese, when we were already salivating on the strong possibilities of devouring a grilled, quarter-pounder, encapsulated in Havarti cheese, bedded-down on a Dutch Crutch roll.

No siree, Bob!

I may be from health-conscious California, but don’t be messing with my angus fed, cheese burgers.

I don’t care what people claim – a vegetarian/soy burger is not the same as a grass-fed, angus cheese burger!

And besides, People, if you really think about it, isn’t the grass (as in grass-fed angus beef) considered a type of vegetable?

MY logic certainly says it is.

It’s green.

It grows from the ground.

And individuals, on occasion, have been known to fertilize it.

Sounds like a vegetable to moi!

Now understand, People, I have no problem eating asparagus.

I just don’t personally view it as a suitable substitute for a grilled cheese burger.

Once I figured out, years ago, that the odiferous after effects of eating said vegetable weren’t indications of some God-forsaken  weird disease, especially concocted for curing closeted homosexuals teaching special needs children in Northern Ca, I actually started to enjoy the veggie – as long as it had a titch of mayo on it.

It wasn’t until years after I left upstate New York, and had one of my first teaching jobs in inner-city Oakland, that I naively discovered the lovely attributes of said vegetable.

As I was apprehensively walking out of our classroom bathroom, one day, after lunch, my loyal, and highly astute instructional assistant, says, “Girlfriend, you look like you’ve been rode hard and hung up to dry! Wuz up?”

Well,” I reluctantly and ever-so-anxiously start, “I don’t know how to delicately say this, but my urine has the most peculiar smell to it, and I’m not too sure what to make of it.”

“I think something is wrong – something is SERIOUSLY WRONG with me,” I emphatically continue.

Uh-Hun.

At this point, Lea Joy is doubled-over, coughing with laughter, while I’m skeptically staring at her with a raised left eye-brow that says, “Woman! Have you lost your mind, today?!”

Still laughing, but aware of the fact that I’m earnestly concerned with the situation, she slowly and thoughtfully composes herself, and says to me, “Girrrllll! This one of those peculiarities that’s special to YOU, or are all white people from upstate New York one tit short of an utter?!

Did I tell you that Lea Joy was a transplant from the South and had an uncanny ability, at times, to make an otherwise intelligent woman look (and feel!) quite stupid?

Yes-siree, Bob!

Din’t you just eat some spare-gus with your lunch today?” she continues between fits of laughter.

Un-Hun!

I learned a lot, that first year, working with Lea Joy in inner-city Oakland.

And I’ll always…..always be grateful and indebted to this dear, dear woman for taking on one, very naïve, dumb, (highly educated!) white woman from Upstate New York.

Have a great week, People, and may your day be filled with the joy and laughter that comes from knowing you may be one tit short of an utter, but thank goodness you’re not ME!

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

Boo’s a Pig! (or Maybe a Turkey! YOU Decide!)

Alrighty.

Boo slept through the night.

No yowling, hissing, growling, crying, chirps or caterwauling every 2 hours last night, so she can get fed.

No playing soccer with the pens, forks, plastic tape dispensers and other noisy items that we inadvertently forget to put away, and she knocks to the wooden floors to play with most nights.

And more importantly – no “jimmy legs” (a.k.a. “restless leg syndrome”) keeping me thrashing about in bed last night.

The Princess and I actually got to sleep like babies last night, and are feeling grand this morning; feeling just grand, don’t ‘cha know?

Uh-Hun.

“Right,” I’m suspiciously mumbling to myself.

Usually, I’m greeted by a yowling, tenacious, hungry Boo-Boo Kitty, as soon as she hears my feet hit the floor.

Today, though, I notice she’s nowhere near me and is actually quite contently sitting on the couch smugly licking her fat belly and paws.

I’m not  totally awake yet, but awake enough to know that “something’s not copasetic” with this cat, when I notice a slice of turkey meat, surreptitiously sticking out from the side of her cat dish.

Cazzo! (WTS!)

I look on the counter, and notice that when I went to bed last night, I inadvertently left-out the pound of sliced turkey, that I bought for the Princess’s lunches.

Cavola! (Holy crap!)

No wonder we slept through the night.

She fed herself!

Boo was chowing down on the expensive sliced turkey that I bought special for the Princess and we slept through her entire feast.

Madonna!

There’s only 4 slices left and the Princess already had her lunch made before she went to bed.

So, either the Princess made a sandwich with a pound of sliced turkey  in it, or this little bugger of a cat, licking her belly and paws, ate it!

Che Cazzo!

Oh well, at least she quietly took the slices out of the package and left 4 for the Princess.

What can I say? She’s a considerate cat!

Looks to me like she even used her cat dish to eat it in.

Who says cats aren’t discerning??

My little Boo Boo Kitty has class, which is more than I can say for her sister, Molly, who drinks with her PAWS!

It disgusts Boo and me, but like my 99 year old Aunt Molly always likes to say, “Cazzo! What ‘cha gonna do?”

I’ve got to go shopping, again, and stock up on more turkey meat, so I don’t hear any caterwauling or yowling from the Princess, when she sees she’s out of sandwich meat.

Have a grand day today, People!

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