Category: Humor

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!

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Lucie Needs a Program!

Alrighty!

This weekend the Princess and I were out shopping and I told her that I needed some more socks and undies.

Now for those of you that intimately know me, you know I’m OCD about good socks and underwear.

God forbid if my undies have a tiny hole in them or are “stretched out and baggy” in any way. I don’t mind wearing ratty sweatshirts and painted sweat pants, but I draw the line with baggy, holey underwear.

No siree, Bob.

And don’t start me on socks.

I DETEST stretched out, holey socks.

As I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I don’t do the “Pippi Longstocking” look.

Drives me batty when I see people walking around in public with flimsy, stretched-out sport socks flapping around their ankles.

Che schifo! (How disgusting!)

I don’t do “CHEAP, flimsy-looking” socks, either.

Especially sport socks.

And have you priced a pair of thorlo sport socks, lately, People? You need a second mortgage on your house, to purchase a pair.

I don’t have expensive clothing and jewelry, but if I get into an accident and get taken to the hospital, with my sport socks and undies still miraculously attached; at least the medics will be cutting into quality, well-made underwear and socks, to get to what’s remaining of my menopausal, puckered, (slightly) fluffy body parts.

So, anyway, I told the Princess that I needed some more of the Nike no show socks.

I didn’t like the look of the low cut socks that I was wearing with my new sneaks, and I needed more of the “no show” kind.

Uh-Hun.

So, the Princess gives me one of those “you gotta be kidding me looks” and sternly says, “Lucie, you’ve got 4 drawers of sport socks! You’re telling me you don’t have ANY low cut socks in those 4 drawers of socks?”

“No”, I innocently answer. “I didn’t say that. I said that I need more of the ‘no show’ kind.”

Uh-Hun.

“Lucie, she patiently responds, “I KNOW you’ve got the ‘no show’ kind. Have you gone through your sock drawers, lately?”

“Ma, che sei grullo! (How stupid are you?)” I answer.

“Who the hell has time to go through 4 drawers of socks to look for a particular kind of sock, for Pete’s sake?” I continue.

“I’m retired, not bored.”

Uh-Hun.

Well, I’m bored and decided to “organize my sock drawers” today, after buying 6 more pair of “no show” sport socks, People, and I shamefully stand before you a woman acutely in need of a sock intervention!

Yes, I can’t believe it, but I’m the Imelda Marcos of sport socks and desperately in need of an intervention program.

I’m sitting in the middle of 97 pair of multi-colored, various-styled sport socks that can be used for biking, hiking, skiing, snow shoeing, walking, gardening and a host of other activities, and have ONE (yes, you read correctly), ONE pair of nylons that I’ve had so long that I think they’re actually coming back into vogue, again.

Help!

Is there a 12-step recovery (sock) program for people like me?

Oh well, as my 99-year old Aunt Molly likes to say, “Cazzo, what ‘cha gonna do?”

Hope your 4th was filled with good food, the company of good friends, and much laughter.

Have a good week, People, and I’ll catch you next time, with another 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.

 

Momma Benedetti Plays Pitch with the Gang!

All righty.

Momma Benedetti is at it, again, and I thought I’d share her silliness with my “blogging buddies” this week for another round of “Life with Momma”.

Like most people her age, my Mom is pretty much a routine kinda gal.

Gets up at 5 most mornings, has her cup of coffee (to make her go), sits in her rocker and watches the morning news shows to catch up on what’s happening “out of her little bubble,” in upstate NY.

On Wednesdays at noon, she’s off to the local senior center for a rousting card game of “pitch” (a local card game favored by a number of people in upstate NY). And God forbid, you bother her from 10 a.m. to 11:45 a.m., because she’s gotta get her lipstick and make-up on for the 10 minute road trip to the neighboring town and hasta eat something of sustenance, ‘cuz she certainly can’t go all afternoon without eating Italian bread or some kind of pasta to maintain “her blood sugar level”.

Heaven help us, if this little, gray-haired rompicogoloni (pain in the ass) hits the road without eating a hunk of hard-crusted Italian bread or some pasta with olive oil. Not in her genetic make-up, don’t ‘cha know?

So, I call her most Thursday mornings – after her run to the local dollar store, and before her first lunch of the day.

She’s usually got a few minutes she can spare to chat with me before hanging up to start lunch, and as long as I don’t push her beyond her agreed upon 10 or so minutes, everything’s copasetic.

This past Thursday, though, was an exception to the rule.

Ma was bored.

“Bored sh-t-less”, as she put it and really tired of the cloudy, windy, cold weather that they were experiencing, lately, and wanted to chat.

“So,” I begin, “How ya doin’ today?”

“OK, “she sullenly replies. “Same old same old. “

“Un-Hun”, I respond. “How’d the card game go on Wednesday?”

“The card game is more of a coffee klatch. We do more talkin’, with this group, than play cards,” she flatly answers.

“Well, did you win anything?” I continue.

“Cazzo,” she replies. “Who knows who won and who lost? This group can’t remember what trump is from one hand to the other!”

Being a retired special ed. teacher and all, I smugly ask, “Gee, Ma, have you tried using some kind of cues to help out? Maybe a visual will help?”

“Ma, che sei grullo! (How stupid are you?!), Lucia! We’ve got more cues than Carter has liver pills!”

“Cues aren’t the problem,” she chortles.

“Some of us aren’t playing with a full deck, “she continues.

“Anne and I are the only 2 of the 5 in the group that can stay awake and know how to shuffle and keep track of trump and whose turn it is. Shirley has Alzheimer’s and (God love her!) falls asleep and snores between turns. Norma, according to her husband, is senile and swears she’s shuffled the cards when she hasn’t and doesn’t understand why she gets the same cards as before, and Cliff nods off like Shirley, only not as often, and can’t remember who dealt last, let alone what trump is,” she prattles on, oblivious to the fact that she’s talked past her usual 10 minutes.

“More often than not,” she giggles, “Anne and I are rolling our eyes at each other and nudging people to wake up. “

“Dio li benedica (God bless), she continues. “Who knows when it’s gonna be ME they’re rolling their eyes over and nudging awake?”

“Cazzo! (WTS!) Meno male! (Thank God!), I’m not-a totally pazzo(crazy),” she animatedly continues.

“Promise me, Lucia, you’ll shoot me if I get that bad, ok?” she queries.

“Uh-hun,” I dumbly respond.

“No problem, Ma,” I continue.

“I’ll make a couple of cement shoes for you and give you the heave ho over the Brooklyn Bridge, ok?” I sarcastically reply.

“Cazzo, Lucia,” she replies. “ You’re as pazzo as your brothers! I gotta boil some spaghetti. Stammi benne.”

“Yeah, you take care, too, Ma. Ti amo (I love you).”

“Ti amo, Lucia, fai la brava (be a good girl).”

Yep. That’s me – a “good girl”.

Maya Angelou once said about her mother, “To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow.”

Pretty much sums up my description of my mom – an Italian hurricane as colorful (and mystifying) as a rainbow, after a storm hits.

The rompicoglioni drives me pazzo, at times, but I love her with all my heart and wouldn’t exchange her for all the tea in China.

Enjoy the day, People. I’ll see you next adventure, looking at life from my shoes.

 

Post? What Post? Now you see it. Now you don’t.

 

Yep.

It’s my birthday in another  week.

The Princess decided to surprise me with my very own, nifty, new computer.

I’ve never been the “techie” in the family, so her hand-me-down Macs have always been just fine for me.

Yes-Siree.

Getting your very own computer for the first time is pretty special. (And it’s a nice computer, to boot!)

Has a touch screen, lighted key board and a lovely, little, demonic pc operating system called, “Windows 8” – everything an old, menopausal, mentally challenged woman could ever want.

Uh-Hun.

Spent over 10 hours writing out my post for this week on this here, nifty new computer and with one small click of a pinky finger, ten hours of writing, editing and re-writing is now in an invisible cloud somewhere in “PC heaven” and I’m not a very happy little camper today, People.

Not a happy camper at tall.

Thinking that maybe a little walk is the way to go this morning and that life will look a hulluva lot better as soon as the Buddha Belly and I return from our walk.

Che Cazzo!

I’m thinkin’ it’s a better idea than throwing said “nifty, new (expensive) computer” out the window, eh?

As my Mother would say, “Figurati!” (It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.)

And, of course, she’d be right.

Have a good week, People, and I’ll catch ya next week, looking at life in my shoes from a slightly different perspective, than the one I have today! 🙂

Cazzo! You Kids Don’t Know Sh-T!

I called my Mom yesterday.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

I’m blessed to still have the little, gray-haired, Italian rompicoglioni (pain in the ass) in my life, so I make sure to connect with her every day.

Our conversations aren’t much to “write home about”, as my Uncle Tony likes to say, but conversations with my Mom are never ordinary, and this one yesterday, left me with a silly grin on my face.

The following is an excerpt from said conversation:

Mom: “Aunt Carmie and I went to J.C. Penny’s on Saturday to look for a wedding dress for Anne Marie’s wedding in July.”

Me: “That’s nice. Did you have fun looking around and shopping?”

Mom: “Was nice to get out and about, but couldn’t walk around and shop when we got there. Too damn tired to walk. I think I’ve got diabetes and a vitamin deficiency. I’m so LAZY these days. I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with me. I don’t ever remember being so lazy years ago!”

Me: “You’re older, Ma, and have major heart problems. Maybe you should talk to your doctor? It might be your heart.”

Mom: “Ma, che sei grullo!” (How stupid are you!) “You kids go to the doctors too much these days! They don’t know anything. They take your money, write a prescription and send you out the door in 5 minutes flat! Why go to the doctors?”

Me: “No particular reason. Just a thought.”

Mom: (Not wanting to continue the “doctor conversation”.) “I bought some strawberries this weekend.”

ME: “Uh-Hun. I thought you didn’t like strawberries, Ma?”

Mom: “I hate strawberries! Loaded them with sugar, but they still tasted nasty, so I added some ice cream and milk and made myself a smoothie. I forced myself to drink half of it. I still have the other half to drink. I don’t know how you kids drink this sh-t. It’s nasty.”

Me: “Un-Hun.”

Me: ”Ma, if you hate strawberries, why are you eating them and making smoothies with them?”

Mom: ” They’ve got those, ‘come si dice?’ (how do you say?) anti….(whatever the hell they’re called) in them and they’re supposed to be good for you!”

Me: “Antioxidants. I think you mean antioxidants, Mom.”

Mom: “Si. Antioxidants. That stuff that everybody’s eating to be healthy.”

Me: “Ma, you added white sugar, ice cream, and whole milk to it to tolerate it. Don’t ‘cha think you kinda nullified the healthy properties of the strawberries when you did that?”

Mom: “Basta!” (That’s enough!) Ma, che sei grullo!” (Are you crazy?)

Me: “Uh-Hun.”

Mom: “Cazzo! I gotta hang up. You kids drive-a me pazzo!” (crazy!)

Me: “Bye, Ma. Love you.”

Have a good one, today, People, and remember: “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. NO MAN DOES. That’s his.” Oscar Wilde.

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

California’s Delicious, New (Recycled) Drinking Water!

Ok, so living in CA has it’s perks and drawbacks.

The fact that I have access to the ocean 20 minutes away, great restaurants, nearby shopping and opportunities for a variety of educational and entertaining experiences, along with lovely weather (more often than not), are all solid reasons for me living (and staying) in the land of fruit cakes, wackos and beach bums.

(Especially in light of the fact that I’m considered one of those “wackos” and some of my best friends are “fruit cakes” and “beach bums”.)

But conscientiously collecting shower water every day in a large, back-breaking, orange Home Depot bucket, to use for flushing my toilet, is getting old – getting VERY old.

So, I’m perusing the local newspaper headlines, recently, and I see an article on our local Mayors “guzzling reclaimed sewage water” and I think, “OK, you’ve got my interest.  What other hair-brain ideas are our elected officials trying to promote to get us to curb this draught?”

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” I’m an educated, open-minded individual. Let’s see if this article can convince me to start drinking “wastewater” to help out in this dire predicament. I’m game.”

Uh-Hun.

No, I don’t think so.

We’ve been using this “toilet to tap” recycled water now since 1997, but only for irrigation purposes.

I’m a pretty “open individual”, don’t ‘cha know, but I’m drawing the line at drinking pee water. (RECYCLED or not!)

Let our elected officials drink it.

They thought it was “delicious” and “good stuff”.

Che schifo!

Is it a wonder why our state’s education and economy are in the toilet?!

I mean, seriously!

On Friday, I read where the company that’s demolishing our iconic Candlestick Park is using THOUSANDS of gallons an hour of fresh drinking water directly from the Hetch Hetchy reservoir to dump on the rubble to keep the dust under control.

Uh-Hun.

I’m supposed to consider drinking “reclaimed sewage water,” while they waste delicious, crystal clear, drinking water on keeping the “dust under control” at Candlestick Park?

Seriously?

Che Cazzo!

Is it a wonder why people think it’s “wacked” out here?

Have a good week, People! And remember: you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. (Especially if that water’s disinfected sewage!)

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

Boo gets the Gun and Lucie gets Snubbed!

Alrighty.

 

For those of you that are “regular readers of my silliness”, you know the Princess and I have two certifiably wacked cats, named Molly and Boo.

Both cats have various “health issues,” which unfortunately, on more occasions than I care to admit, have indirectly caused  us to prematurely gray and acquire fluffy midriffs.

(Work with me here, People! You don’t expect me to blame the chocolate chip cookies for our fluffy midriffs, do you?! Stress can cause a myriad of health maladies! Among them, fluffy midriffs.)

Boo has a condition called “malabsorption syndrome” that causes her to constantly be hungry and “on the prowl for food.”

Like a newborn baby, my Siamese needs to eat regularly and howls (quite loudly) when she feels underfed – no matter what time of the day or night it is!

What drives me even more bonkers, though, is the fact that she jumps up onto our kitchen counter to prowl for food.

We’ve read all the latest info on what to do for this behavior, and have purchased more damn gizmos, than I care to admit, to try to change her behavior.

Ultimately, the cat deterrents caused us a great deal of pain and sent Boo merrily on her way with a smirk on her little face that basically said, “You dumb broads don’t have a clue what to do. Just meet my demands and everyone will be a happy camper.”

 

Uh-Hun.

 

Last summer, we started using a squirt gun on her and discovered that the little bugger doesn’t like the squirt gun.

 

Great, me thinks!

 

We’ll just use the gun from now on and we’ll be good to go.

 

Yeah, right!

 

If you know anything about Siamese, they’re smart.

 

Some smarter than their owners, and Boo is no exception to that rule.

 

On the other hand, Molly is cute, but a few fries short of a happy meal, as my Uncle Tony likes to say.

 

At least, though, with Molly, you know if you frequently feed her, periodically pat her head, and methodically make sure she has fresh water every day to dunk her paws into (so she can drink), she’ll leave you alone.

 

As long as you let her sleep wherever (and whenever)  she wants to, and leave her to hell alone for most of the day, she’ll let you share her air space.

 

God forbid, though, you pet her when she’s lookin’ cute and approachable, and DOESN’T want to be petted!

 

She bites.

 

Leaves your hand intact and doesn’t draw blood, mind you, but damn well lets you know to get to hell away from her!

 

Molly’s the Princess’s cat.

 

They totally “get each other” and eerily have the same disposition.

 

Boo, on the other hand, is my cat.

 

High maintenance, but a love-bug.

 

You can grab her by her tail and hold her upside down and she’ll just stare at you like, “Seriously? WTS are you doing?”

 

Doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, but can drive a sober person to drink, when she’s hungry.

 

Kind of like me when my Buddha belly is hungry and my BP drops.

 

So, the “squirt gun solution” seemed just the answer to our little problem, except “the gun”, as we now refer to it, always seems to be missing or inevitably someplace not easily accessible when Boo is being a naughty girl.

 

One day, when the gun was missing and we were yelling to each other, “Where’s the gun? Where’s the gun? Get the gun!” we coincidently noticed Boo’s slight interest in what we were yelling and happened to observe that she jumped OFF the counter onto the floor, saving us the trouble of finding the “blasted gun”.

 

Being the discerning cat owners that we are, we aptly decided that we’d start yelling this question/command on those many occasions that we couldn’t easily locate it, and have done so now, for quite some time, with a moderate rate of success.

 

By pure happenstance this week, I mentioned to my Tuesday Tea Ladies Group, that I’d noticed our new neighbors scooting themselves and their baby carriage to the other side of the street, when they spotted me out walking in the morning, and that it was a tad disconcerting to me.

I was relatively confident that I was free of lotion goobers, nose drool, face zits, ratty sweatshirts, and not sporting any odd looking blue rubber rain suits.

And I was definitely feeling unsettled by their perceived snubbing, and didn’t have a clue as to why they’d intentionally try to avoid me.

So, Ada, one of my more direct friends, flippantly comments, “WTF! You and the Princess yell, ‘Where’s the gun? Where’s the gun? Get the gun!’, on a regular basis, and you wonder why your new neighbors are trying to avoid you?!”

“I KNOW you (very well, I might add) and I’d run like hell if I heard you saying that every night!”

Uh-Hun.

Well, guess that little mystery is solved.

Be kind to each other, People! And if you’ve got a neighbor who’s a bit of a character and a “little different”, remember: Different is just different.

We’re all a bit odd, at times – some of us just a tad more than others.

I’ll catch ya next time, looking at life from my shoes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucie and the Princess buy New Furniture!

 

All righty!

 

I’m sitting here crying in my soup and telling myself, “Ok, Lucie, remember what you tell people: ‘God doesn’t always give us what we want, when we want it, but what we need, when we need it’.

 

“So, I’m sure this whole damn “kerfuffle” that you’ve been subjected to this past weekend, is gonna work out in the end”.

 

Don’t ask me why, but the Princess and I are the poster children for the motto: “Whatever CAN go wrong, WILL go wrong,” every time we buy something.

 

(And don’t let me start talking about what happens to us when we TRAVEL!!!)

 

I mean, SERIOUSLY!

 

We always do a shit-load of research BEFORE we buy, are very respectful and courteous to all sales people and 9 outta 10 times pay TOP dollar for the item.

 

Inevitably, though, the product is damaged, the wrong color, missing a part to something that we’re more than halfway finished putting together, or some other ridiculous scenario which leaves us to deal with the quandary of: do we keep it and make do? Or package it back up, drive all the way back to the store, and deal with customer service (who for some reason are never quite as “happy” seeing us come back, as they were when we left a sizable sum of money with them when we left!)?

 

This past weekend, found the Princess and I in just that quandary.

 

As a celebration to the Princess securing full-time, permanent employment with the company that she’s been contracting with for the past year, we decided to purchase a couch and lazy boy rocker recliner.

 

So, 2 months ago we researched and tested various types, colors and comfort levels of a number of furniture pieces to replace our worn out living room furniture pieces.

 

We decided on the pieces, paid a handsome sum for both pieces and waited the 2 months for them to “make them”.

 

On Saturday, piece #1 (the couch) gets delivered while I’m mopping up a leak from our broken kitchen sink pipe and yelling at the cats for traipsing through the water and making paw prints all over everything.

 

The delivery guys unload it, unwrap it, and set it up.

 

I’m standing in the kitchen (mop in hand) looking at the pillows and saying to myself, “WTS?! I know my memory’s in the toilet, lately, but I could swear that’s not the color of the couch and pillows we ordered.”

 

I’m not positive, though, and the Princess (who has pictures of both of the furniture pieces on her iPhone) is off to Home Depot purchasing a new pipe for the kitchen sink.

 

So, I bid the delivery guys “adieu” and back to mopping I go!

 

Uh-Hun.

In the door walks the Princess 15 minutes after they leave and lo and behold, she takes one look at the couch and exclaims, “That’s not our couch and pillows, Lucie! At least not the pillows. The pillows I KNOW are wrong, and unless I’m mistaken, that’s the wrong color couch!”

 

Cavola! You gotta be kiddin’ me!

 

Nope.

 

She takes out her trusty iPhone and sure as shit – BOTH the couch and the pillows are the wrong ones.

 

OK.

 

We decide, “No biggy”.

 

We gave away our old couch, so unless we wanna sit on egg crates for the next 2 months, we agree that the “delivered couch” is fine and will blend in with our “eclectic Italian motif”.

 

The pillows, though, totally clash and have to GO!

 

So, off to the furniture store we head, pillows in hand, to tell them about the little “kerfuffle”.

 

As luck would have it, on the way to the store, we get a phone call from “said furniture store”.

 

I’m assuming they’re calling to find out if we got everything ok today because Larry and Curley of the Three Stooge’s Delivery Co. were supposed to deliver the couch yesterday, but forgot to load it, so they couldn’t deliver it.

 

Because we’re “good customers,” they squeezed us into Saturday’s schedule.

 

I’m thinking we’ll be at the store in another 10 minutes, so I’m not gonna answer the phone.

 

No biggy.

 

And besides, I’m not feeling too “friendly” with this group of clowns.

 

Uh-Hun.

 

The phone rings, again. It’s the furniture store.

 

The Princess (who is driving) looks at me and says, “Don’t answer, unless you can be civil with them. Right now, you’re a tad pissed off and I don’t think you should talk to them.”

 

“You’re right,” I answer. “I think it’s better for them and my blood pressure, if I wait until I get there.”

 

We arrive at the store, walk through the door carrying said pillows and are immediately greeted by Sum-Ting-Wong, one of our sales people.

 

I inform him that we have the wrong pillows and before I can say anything else, he looks at us like we’re recent discharges from the infamous St. Jude’s Laughing Academy and lets us know that not only do we have the “WONG PILLOWS”, but have someone else’s couch, as well, and need to drive home, so the delivery guys can pick it up and deliver it to the rightful owners!

 

Un-Hun.

 

But what I haven’t told you is that we’ve gotta go back to Home Depot, exchange our sink pipe and get a “different pipe” to fix our sink because nothing in our house is “standard” and we need a “special pipe” because apparently (unbeknownst to us, at the time), we had the other “stooge” of “The Three Stooge’s Delivery Co.” as our contractor when the house was built.

 

So I’m lookin’ at Sum-Ting and thinking, “I’ve got a sink that’s still leaking, a pipe that needs exchanging, 2 cats that are more than likely lounging on someone else’s couch (with wet paw prints, by now) and a little Asian sale’s person shaking his head saying to us, “No time for fix you pipe. You go home. You have wong couch. You need go home.”

 

Un-Hun.

 

So, home we go where we find Larry and Curley waiting for us in our driveway, while our cats are inside curled-up and peacefully sleeping on said “wong couch”!

 

Yep.

 

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

 

Life is good at our house, People!

 

Will catch you next time for another adventure looking at life from my shoes!

One of Lucie’s Brighter Ideas…..Not!!!

OK, People, so whoever said that wisdom comes with age?

 

I never did, that’s for damn sure!

 

Life in draught-stricken Northern CA., lately, has been “drier than popcorn farts and warmer than 2 rabbits screwin’ in a wool sock”, as my Uncle Tony likes to say.

 

So, the Princess and I decided that a trip to see family in the flyover state of fry sauce and minivans (a.k.a. Utah) was in order and stupidly decide that snowshoeing and skiing is a perfect choice for two, menopausal women sportin’ fluffy midriffs.

 

After all, we haven’t snowshoed in a month of Sundays and I haven’t skied in forever and a day, but far be it for me to stop the infamous “Lucy and Ethel twosome” from pursuing outside activities to keep them fit and feeling alive.

 

So, the Princess, my brothers, their wives and my sister all joined me and a family friend on the beautiful slopes of Brighton Ski Resort for a day of outdoor fun and family bonding.

 

Un-Hun.

 

Yep. That’s how it started out, anyhow.

 

Had I known that this “bonding” would have involved a ski trip down “Hell’s Alley” and some serious negotiations with The Man, himself, I would have opted for another way to “bond”.

 

Far be it for me, though, to be labeled a “poor sport” or worse yet, a “candy ass”.

 

We get to the resort bright and early in the morning with the Princess in tow, so she can hang out at the lodge and play “ski bunny” for the day, and four of the seven of us head out to hit the slopes and start some kick-ass skiing for the day.

 

The last thing I remember telling my brother, sister-in-law and sister before sliding off the intermediate chair lift was,

“Don’t lose me. This is my first run of the day and I don’t know where the hell I’m going!”

 

(My fat, dimpled knees and Buddha belly are shaking like a teenager after a six-pack of Red Bull, as I’m eye-balling the ginormous slope that lay in front of me, and I begin to wonder if this is gonna be the LAST of my bucket list items that gets checked off, and not my FIRST!)

 

Uh-Hun.

 

Guess my belly and knees took too long to look at the slope, because the next thing I know, my brother and sister-in-law are swooshing their way out of sight and I never see them again until lunchtime.

 

 

My sister, Carmela (who also hasn’t skied in a month of Sundays) and I, cautiously start our way down the mountain and somehow end up on a slope that has one too many moguls on it to be an intermediate trail.

 

Being the older (and, of course, wiser!) sister that I am, I suggest we stop and look at our map to see if there’s a “trail for old ladies”.

 

Un-Hun.

 

The Last Exit for Paradise and Senior Citizens was about 50 yards behind us, and unless we wanted to be doing some heavy duty mountain climbing with our skis on, we’d best “put on our big boy pants”, ‘cuz we had some serious moguls to “whup”.

 

I look at the map one more time, while trying to stop my knees from wobbling so violently, and yell to my sister (who’s behind me) that we’re on a trail called, “Oh My, Oh My,” and I’m aptly thinking, “Oh Sh-T! Oh Sh-T!”

 

If I’m reading the slope correctly (and map!), I do believe we’re on a black diamond (expert) trail.

 

Carmela, being one of my Mother’s brighter children, looks down the mountain and astutely replies, “No sh-t, Sherlock! Ya think maybe the name of the trail would have given you the FIRST clue?!”

 

Have I told you that my family (and in-laws) all has a keen sense of humor like mine?

 

Most of us have been to therapy for such humor and paid handsomely for it, but far be it for us not to relapse, on occasion, during certain stressful situations.

 

I continue looking down the mountain and quickly conclude that this is one of those “each man for himself” kind of moments and decide my Buddha butt and I are taking the “coward’s way down”.

 

So, I point my skis down the slope, take off down the side of the moguls and end up on my butt in a cloud of snow that frightens the bejeebers outta my sister and sends me into 3 quick “Hail Mary’s” and an “Our Father” praying that Jesus sends us help in the form of a ski angel.

 

Thankfully, my sister didn’t arrive at the same (each man for himself) conclusion and comes to assist my snow-entombed, Buddha butt.

 

 

We miraculously get off the diamond trail and are skiing on an intermediate one, when I stop for a minute to catch my breath, and happen to look up just in time to see that my sister has inadvertently stopped at the bottom of a snow boarder’s jump.

 

Madonna!

 

Before I can mutter a word of warning to her, I see a snow boarder come flying like a bat outta hell (over her head) from behind her!

 

Suddenly, as I’m witnessing what I think is my sister’s last stand, everything goes into slow motion and I think: “Oh my God! My sister just got stamped “Return to Sender” and is headed for the infamous “Pine Condo Estates”!

 

Thankfully, she doesn’t have time to react, and the guy hits the jump and goes whizzing past her, missing her by inches.

 

Cazzo!

 

We’re not even down the mountain on our first run of the day and both of us almost go home feet first.

 

At this point, I’m thinkin’, “Screw the 100 bucks it cost me today to check off this bucket list item! I’m finding the Princess and sucking down some hot toddies for the rest of the morning, until my family catches up with me for lunch!”

 

Playing ski bunny with the Princess and sipping hot cocoa (laced with Bailey’s Irish Cream) sounds good to me and my banged-up, bruised, Buddha butt.

 

Try not to do anything stupid today, People, and God willing, I’ll catch ya next week for another adventure looking at life from my shoes!