Spirits of 1776
• Judy Forney •

… or Declaration of Interdependence … or All my Rowdy Friends are Gonna Sing Tonight

If you’ve studied animated television, then you realize I ripped off my title style from old episodes of “The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.” That’s called freedom of speech, or maybe freedom of the press. … Or maybe my pilfering doesn’t even fall under any constitutional law or amendment. And that’s okay, because I was born in the good old US of A.

I can be ignorant of facts. And just like Squirrel and his buddy Moose who both foiled many a bomb explosion planned by the nefarious Boris and Natasha, I am a great American. (Nah, “Our Heroes” weren’t Canadian. That’s just propaganda put out by the Dudley Do-Right people). I know I’m true red, white, and blue because I listen to the radio. Seriously, if I were to call the Sean Hannity Show, Mr.Hannity would be able to tell just by the sound of my voice.

Also, if you’ve studied the Revolutionary War (like I just did for a painstaking 17 minutes on the internet), then you are aware that the colonists, though somewhat angry with the British tea taxes, were really pissed about being dinged with a surcharge on molasses, the Caribbean molasses New Englanders distilled into 90-proof rum. Now the tea thing has never made sense to me. I’d possibly understand if way back in the 1700s they’d blended specialty brews and the girls had gone out on harbor raids with the guys.

“Taxes on Lotus Blossom Green? Dash those Redcoats!”

“No worries. We men will hoist it over the ship’s side and into the bay!”

“But what about our oxidants that need anti-ing?”

“… Or our cellulite that needs smoothing?”

“Dang it all, ladies, we can’t put up with English oppression!”

“… But it is July. Short shorts season! We need our tea!”

Hmmm… See, it could have happened that way when you figure there’s not a lot we gals wouldn’t pay or do to un-wrinkle or de-bump. As a group, we very well may have waved white flags and happily learned to drive on the wrong side of the road.

Anyway, back to the rum. As I’ve pointed out, women of the past may have been willing to pay anything for the perfect cup of detox, but I’m pretty sure the men would have needed their choice of elixir to stay cheap and available. You might think that would have been because a guy needed a nip or two to convince his wife that real dudes wore ruffles…

“Benjamin! Why are you in my closet… again?”

“I just wanted to borrow the white organza. You know, the one with yards of lace… ”

Or you might imagine that donning those tight breeches required a flagon-o-courage before a man went strutting off to town meetings. Unless of course he happened to be Dan’l Boone. (Even as a 12-year-old girl I thought Fess Parker was hot.) But the real reason the rebels gathered to rabble over rum? Yep, that’s right: Life, liberty, and the pursuit of the perfect neighborhood bar.

Fast forward a few centuries. I sometimes dress out of my hubby’s closet. He, mostly, stays out of mine. But we, in league with a couple of compatriots, have mustered together to carry on were our forefathers left off. The four of us have been out fighting the good fight. And it’s not always been with a cup of tea. We’ve wandered into bars so big and boisterous that our conversations had to be shouted. We’ve cabbed it to faraway dives rumored to be “IT,” only to find the dives had already dove off the deep end. We’ve soldiered through unbearable conditions: awful music, horrid food, snail-paced service. And what’s worst of all? Just like what George Washington endured — paddling across nearly frozen rivers, trudging uphill in the snow, and then finally shouldering our weary way through a crowd to find nothing to do but order another round. No pool tables, no darts, and — YIKES! — no karaoke. I can report to you that it’s been a long, treacherous, and sometimes headachy journey. But it’s been worth it. Our quest has at last led us to the perfect place to party. We’ve found a haven where we can cue up, tee off, score a few bullseyes, and belt out a couple of rowdy tunes.

So come on down to the Pour House on South Patrick Drive. Join me, Moose, Boris, and Natasha in a drink, a game of eight-ball, and a song. As Gretchen Wilson sings:

“I work hard, I play harder. I’m a good time’n American daughter… ”

Yep, Mr. Hannity won’t need to tell you that, along with the frogs in our voices, you’re hearing patriotism.

Not that I’d want that guy in “my” bar. But hey, it’s still a free country.

Happy Fourth y’all!

No Stinking Excuse
• Judy Forney •

I was out riding my bike the other day and came up on one of those flashing signs warning of imminent roadwork. I didn’t know if the City or County or whomever was going to tear up roads, lay new sewer pipe, or pave a cycling lane (Now hey… There’s a good idea!) because the blinking lights didn’t spell out any reasons for the work. Besides, the “why” wasn’t what got my attention. It was the “when.”

“Work begins June 1. Expect periodic lane closures.”

“Wow,” I thought to myself. “They sure are giving the citizenry plenty of notice. I mean, June? Hell, that’s eons from now!”

I pedaled past the sign. And that’s when it dawned on me.

“Like sands through the hourglass, so go the days of our lives…”

Dawned? No, wrong word. That’s when it crushed me like a 273-ton cement mixer.

“… sands through the hourglass…”

June is not an eon away. All the love bugs, bees, and even the giant spider in my sink (who was crawling up and then skating down the porcelain sides like an eight-legged Tony Hawk) should have clued me in that June was here. Again.

“…days of our lives…”

I braked. Hard.

“Stop. Stop. Stop already!” I said to no one in particular. “Somebody better flip the freaking ancient timekeeping mechanism back over!”

I gulped water, drops dribbling down my chin. “I’m not crazy,” I said, and smiled at some guy who had just come out of a shop and was strolling down the sidewalk. “Lots of people talk to themselves,” I added to his back as he crossed the road… well away from me.

Pushing off again, I couldn’t figure out how it had happened. Where in the world had the days, weeks, and months gone? Forget about granular time sifting slowly and gracefully through an hourglass. This past year had howled out from under my feet with some sort of Steinbeckian wind straight out of “Grapes of Wrath.” I mean seriously. Can you believe it’s nearly summertime again? Wasn’t it just June, like, a month ago? I gotta cry foul. My birthday is the 25, and I refuse to turn 51 till I’ve worn out the warranty on 50. And I’m not even close to having done that. Am I? But then again how do I know if I don’t know? Hmmm… A conundrum…

O.K. No panic. What I needed was my own little “lane closure.” A few minutes detour off the road to think. This had happened to me once before. I had an entire year go by without having a clue as to where it had disappeared.

But back then I had a solid excuse. It was the year the twins were born. Show me anyone who’s not hazy over the first year after giving birth to multiples and I’ll show you someone who is… I don’t know, a celebrity millionaire with three au pairs and a shrink on speed dial. Also, my husband and I have photographic proof from way back then of a year well… spent. Snapshots of newborn babies. Diapered little crawlers. Birthday cake-smeared smiles and curls. So I guess you could say that even though I’d entered a fuzzy year, I’d come out again focused and toting two of my three favorite Forney Boys. But what about this current 12-month span of time? What’s my explanation for being so unprepared for June 2010?

I turned and rode my bike back toward home. The road sign still blinked its bright message. On; off; on; off.

“Expect delays… “

And that’s when I realized the truth. I don’t need no stinking excuse! There’s an old joke… something about life throwing lemons and making lemonade. Well you know what? Sometimes hurled citrus is hurled citrus and a girl gets an eyeful of stinging pulp. All she can do is stumble out of range, rinse her peepers out, and try to find a little sugar to mix in with the tang. That’s what this has been from my last birthday to this upcoming one: the year of living sweet and sour.

I gained closeness with my younger sister, but lost my mom. I finished writing a novel, but new blank pages are terrifying me. I found the perfect neighborhood bar, but now have to sing karaoke with friends… badly. I got my empty nest back, but (don’t tell the earlier-hinted-at third of my three favorite Forney Boys), occasionally miss having company underfoot. And it seems to me that everything happened in one blurry blink of an eye. Seriously. No way does one blurry blink void the warranty on an entire year! … Right?

“Expect delays… “

Expect and accept them… then focus on moving along. Maybe that’s an important lesson to have learned this past year. But still, I refuse to claim 51.

How about “Happy 50-and-a-third Birthday” to me!

Lamp Lighter
• Judy Forney •

Grief is a wicked jester who, without bells jingling on his toes to warn of his approach, can creep up behind a girl to try and knock her flat.

I knew this May would bring the first Mother’s Day without my Mom — much like November brought Thanksgiving and December brought Christmas. But I can make plans to deal with holidays.

The first weeks of May bring both a flight out to see my sister in Denver and a visit with my BFF from Washington State, (who is coming out to repeat some of the nonsense we got into last year… Watch out, beachside!). We’ll probably shed a few tears together, but we’ll also find things to laugh about. Just like we did in November when my Dad, cooking for the first time, had to scribble down a “business plan” on one of his endless supply of yellow legal pads to make sure the meal timed out right. Or in December when my brother… baked pies?! See, it’s hard to stay tearful when you’re forking up “Mom’s” pecan pie and picturing your older, flour-dusted brother wielding a rolling pin.

No, it’s not the significant dates that do me in. It’s almost as if there are road signs for that. You know: “Visibility Reduced When Tears Are Present,” or “Memory Lane. No Easy Throughway.” But it’s not the jokester’s way to mark the trail. Like I said, the dude is evil. He’s sneaky. He delights in smacking me down when I least expect it. Like the other day when I was out and about and a pair of sandals in a store window caught my eye. Suddenly I was whisked years backwards to a Saturday shopping trip with Mom. Every store we walked into had shoes on clearance. We had to make, like, three trips back to the car to drop off packages before we finally gave in and went for donuts and sodas instead of deciding between any additional clogs or lace-ups. It was a ridiculous outing we often laughed about over the years. As a matter of fact, from that day I on, I’ve had an obsession with shoes (my hubby likes to pretend some of the boxes in our closet are empty. I guess a guy’s got to have dreams…).

The same creepy jester also adores reminding me, especially when I have news of the Forney Boys to share, that I can’t just pick up the phone and give Mom a call. But I’ve got something the little badass isn’t aware of: I’ve still got a connection with my mother. A signal. A light. And that’s what I hang on to.

Seriously. I understand that this is going to sound weird (yeah, I know. What else is new?), and I don’t know if it happens due to the grace of God or faulty FPL wiring, but when I’m blue, or lacking confidence, or worried about family, Mom switches a lamp on for me. Of course, I’m joking about the good folks at Florida Power. I’m sure Mom’s not communicating through them, (although I bet she’d get a kick outta driving one of those big ol’ crane trucks), but I’m not actually sure she’s hitting me up from heaven either. As you might guess from that, I wasn’t raised in a traditionally religious home. We read Bible stories from time to time, but we also listened to tales about Harry Houdini. Occasionally, we kids would spend a Sunday morning at church with my grandmother, but we also loved to play the “Clairvoyance Game” with our Mom. That’s why, as I wrote in an earlier column, we had both prayers and — because Mom loved a good monster story as much as the next person — talk of zombies at her funeral.

O.K., well maybe “non-traditional” barely covers it, and maybe you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow. Poor Judy. She’s completely nuts!”, but I’m really thankful for my upbringing because I know the flash of the lamp is from Mom. When I need a swift kick, she’s kicking. A cheer squad? She’s leading. A soothing? It’s her voice I’m reminded of. I believe now, more than I ever have before, that in the end there will be light and welcome. I still don’t know if I’ll find my self inside pearly gates, walking the streets of an alternate universe, or battling zombies. But wherever I find myself, it sure will be fun to hook up with Mom again… especially if we can go shoe shopping.

Happy day, all.

Now go hug your mothers!

ANTS IN MY… PANTIES
By Judy Forney

As some of you out there know, I’m a sci-fi movie nut, especially if the story was filmed in black and white in the 1950s.

My husband and I have been collecting old retro flicks for years. The only thing that would make our showcase collection of DVDs, (yes, DVDs) more awesome would be if the films could be yanked from their plastic cases and rewound on old 8-mm reels. Then we could enjoy the action on screen in the way the filmmakers intended. Add Wavy Lays and a glass of Chardonnay to the entertainment and I’d be over the moons of Altair 4.

It’s one of the reasons I like living where we do in Florida. Satellite Beach is a strange and wondrous place. I mean, duh, it’s part of the Space Coast. Shuttles launch. Rockets blast off. Plus, around here we’ve got all kinds of weird creatures, like three-foot tall birds stalking fishermen on the beach and giant turtles swimming just off shore. Coming from eastern Washington State, it’s all rather otherworldly, and I love it.

Anyway, one of my all-time favorite science fiction titles is, “THEM.” It’s about a small New Mexico town that’s infested with huge, irradiated, man-noshing ants and the small police force that finds itself in an epic fight against the hideous creatures. And just like those poor desperate desert folks, I too recently had to battle back an attacking army of antennaed renegades.

It started in the far and barely civilized reaches of my bedroom on the dry, hot and barren landscape of my iron. A few days before the invasion, I’d almost used the object soon to spew forth doom, but then promptly thought of 352 million better ways to pass the time than pressing shirts. Seriously, who chooses ironing? And the board? Now really. Everyone realizes those things are best utilized as storage planks! I mean I don’t even know why the contraptions have springs that allow a person to fold them flat for storage. But back to the point of my story, this is a cautionary tale. If only I’d known then that in three days time…

It was mid-morning on the fateful day and I couldn’t put chores off any longer. I’d just plugged in my Rowenta when I spotted the invading ant scouts. They scurried across the temperature control, and down the front of the heating plate. Looking closer, I saw that the water reservoir was crawling with critters and that two lines of wiggling troops had already begun their creep, creep, creep across my counter. Oh my gosh! The first battalion had reached their objective: my Flintstones vitamins!

I grabbed the bottle, swiped members of the family Formicidae to the floor, and then peeked inside. The contents wriggled and crawled with little black bodies but, thank heaven, they hadn’t turned into super bugs yet. I’d caught the marauders in time. I mean, they could have morphed into — as the blurb on the back of the DVD box says — “A horde so horrifying no word could describe: THEM.”

I know, I know. In the old movie the mutants munched their way through a vat of underground uranium or some such radioactive agent that caused their metamorphosis, but my vitamins are Flintstones Complete — pediatricians’ number-one choice and packed with nutrients. There’s also a picture of Fred on the front. Who knows? Maybe the ants figured that after crawling inside they’d be able to answer that age-old debate: “Who’s hotter, Wilma or Betty?” Not quite the argument it’d be over Ginger vs. Mary Ann, but I don’t think any of the castaways ever lent their images to supplements.

And speaking of hot… or the better word might be warm, or maybe temperate.. so, speaking of temperate, the second offensive repelled from the counter’s cliff and then, on solid footing again, marched towards my not-everyday-underwear drawer. My “fancy pants,” you might say. I’ve also got… umm… “bath” oils in there. I was horrified. Really, a girl can launder satin and silk, but she certainly doesn’t want pests in her Kama Sutra products… well, beside the one she’s married to.

“Man, you little monsters better not be running ’round in my good things!” I hollered, yanking the drawer from its slide.

Shouting seemed to startle the bugs. Troops disassembled and began to wander aimlessly. Luckily I’d been in time to avert disaster! Relieved, I sat the drawer down out of reach of the army and surveyed the battlefield. I swear I could hear insects crooning up at me, as if in apology, in little Cyndi Lauper-like voices, “Ants just want to have f-u u-n.” The crafty devils were trying to trick me into some kind of truce! I ran for my vacuum.

Like I said before, this is a strange place, and I love the Space Coast. Antennae and all. But in choosing to live the Florida lifestyle there’s one thing everyone should remember: forget about watching the sky. Keep an eye on your small appliances instead.

Trust me. You don’t want an ant invasion. Especially in your panty drawer.

SAND SIBLINGS

I’ve got a couple of girlfriends, one local and one back in Washington State, who each have a teenage son and daughter who at times… uhm… squabble.

Recently I was chatting on line with the west coast girl. She’d HAD IT with her younger brother. She’d typed and sent me a list of “The Idiot’s” most recent transgressions.

“You guys,” I clicked back, “need to try mixing a little brotherly/sisterly love in with the hate.”

While I waited for my response to fly through cyberspace, I realized I was repeating myself and that I’d said nearly the same thing to my Floridian friend’s kids, too. I guess maybe it had turned into kind of a running joke. At least I’m pretty sure the kids thought I was crazy when they heard me say it. “Love my, (insert brother or sister here)?!? Eeewww!”

“Yeah well,” a new message dinged across my screen, “you don’t know what it’s like. Your brother is nice!”

True. She knows the guy because we all lived in the same town out west. He’s a mild-mannered, helpful, devoted single father. What’s not to like? Now.

“Sure,” I typed, “but I didn’t always think so. Let me tell you a story about how it used to go down between us back in the day…”

I always planned attacks carefully, and tonight would be no different. I snuck in, dropped to my knees, and slid the paper plate under the bed. The sandwich crusts on the plate were gooey with peanut butter and jelly. When mom found the mess, and she would… oh boy, watch out! Crumbs attract ants, and Mom hated ants in the basement. Yep, this would bring big trouble down on the head of my enemy!

Twenty minutes later, just out of the shower, and brushing tangles from my wet hair, I walked across the hallway to my bedroom. Opening the door, I smelled them. Gym socks tucked in among my stuffed animals. Dirty, grass-stained, eye-wateringly stinky gym socks. Oh, how I hated my nemesis — my brother!

Two days later, our family piled into the station wagon headed off on vacation. Of course, the big jerkface and I ended up squished together in the middle seat. As we turned out of the driveway he shoved hard against my shoulder. I gave him the evil eye. He yelled at me to stop looking at him. I asked him to please stop breathing. Mom handed out cookies. I bit into mine then tap, tap, tapped chocolate crumbs into his lap. He returned the favor. I accused him, loudly, of pretending his cookies were cigarettes. Mom reached across the seat and squeezed my knee. My knee! I glared at my brother, folded arms across my chest, and hoped I could sleep the rest of the drive away.

I felt the familiar ess-ing curve of the road and opened my eyes. The miles of Western Washington State’s tall evergreens had bowed to scraggly, wind-battered beach pines. We were nearly there! My brother and I bumped elbows, grinned at one another, and began talking at once.

“As soon as we get to there…”

“…We should check the fort.”

“I was going to say we should hit the waves, but yeah, I guess we could check on the fort first.”

Last summer we’d gathered driftwood for one entire day, and had built the best fort ever between the two biggest dunes on the beach.

After arriving at the cabin, we ran toward the dunes, climbing to the top of the biggest one. Our fort was nowhere to be found, but we had five long days ahead of us to build another one. We slid back down the dune, coating our skin in rough grains.

“Hey, look,” I pointed to my legs, “sand’s like ‘Shake and Bake’ for people.”

We thought that was so funny we collapsed. Then we raced to the water. My brother hit the water seconds before me, his holler at the cold echoed by mine. The first waist-high wave knocked our breath away, but when it came back, it came back laughing.

Every day we were up at dawn till after dark. We listened in on seashells and chased crabs down their holes. Built castles and watched them wash away. There were smoky campfires, hot dogs crunchy with sand, and marshmallows, burnt to perfection.

Five very short days later we piled back into the station wagon. As we pulled away from the cabin, Mom and Dad shared the joke they did every year.

“It’s a shame we can’t bottle ocean air and pump these two full of it year round.”

“Yeah, keeping the ‘sand’ in siblings might keep the rivalry out.”

I rolled my eyes and then closed them. I hated to leave the beach behind. I thought back on the trip. Boy, we’d had a blast! “Sand siblings,” huh? Well, I guessed that was O.K. But just wait till we got home and my beach buddy found what I’d left tucked in his dresser drawer. Five days of vacation couldn’t have done it much good. I grinned and peeked out from under one eyelid.

“Stop looking at me!” my brother yelled and shoved, hard against my shoulder.

The big jerkface…

And what about sports celebrities who rack up incredibly high scores… even in their spare time? Wow! Well, recently I’d been noticing all the stories about folks having trouble with their homeowner associations or condo management companies. The reports I’d seen or read had ranged from the silly to the sad, but just like I’ve never uncovered a million-dollar thrift find or stood twelfth in line to “play a little golf,” the stories I’d heard hadn’t had much to do with me. That is until I received the following letter…

XYZ Property Management, Inc.

Tenant,

This letter serves as notice that you are in violation of code 3375, section B, part 5: Sanitation Nuisance/Danger. The specifics of your violation will be explained on page 2 of this document. Be advised that this is an evictable offense…

Evictable! Wait. What? I keep a pretty tide home. Even my collection of robots get a regular dust up and sponge down, whether they need it or not. There was a glass of wine out on my kitchen counter, but I was in the process of drinking it. I mean, it’s not like there was a column of ants marching up the stem or a film of suicidal no-see-ums floating on the surface. I continued reading…

The specific Sanitation Nuisance/Danger violation you are being charged with is: SHOES LEFT ON FRONT PORCH. Violation cited by inspector EFG.

Please use the form on page 3 of this document to explain reason for violation, and detail steps you will take to rectify the situation. Be advised that a phone call will not be considered a legal response. We must receive your response, in writing, within ten days…

I took a swallow of chardonnay and looked around my family room for hidden cameras. This had to be a joke right? Besides I don’t have a front porch. Our door opens out onto a common area. I do have a deck off the back, but we don’t live on the ground floor, so the inspector would have had to come in and through my house to spy anything out there. What the…? Then I remembered.

A few days before receiving the letter, my husband and I had gone out walking on the beach and had been caught in a rainstorm. I had left a pair of sandals beside the front door to dry off for a couple of hours. Clearly I had been caught in violation of code 3375, Section B, Part 5! Of course, being guilty of the charge, I sat down immediately and wrote my response.

Hello, XYZ Property Management, Inc.,

When I received your letter my first thought was, “Wow! I’ve got a front porch? How in the world did I miss that?!.” Of course I soon realized the shoes were out on your “catwalk’”… as in “We’re going to be performing maintenance on our catwalk.” How disappointing. Sigh.

Oh well, be assured the offending beach sandals have been removed and severely punished. And you were right to send the letter. Thank you!

Seriously, imagine if it had been a pair of high-heeled pumps standing around out there like a couple of little ladies-of-the-evening on a corner! That could have really messed with inspector EFG’s sensibilities! No worries though. I’ve spoken to all of my shoes and they’ve promised to stay off the cat porch/front walk deal. Of course I’m not sure I can trust the above-mentioned heels. They do have a tendency to dance off on their own and get into trouble. I may have to lock them up.

On another note, while we’re exchanging friendly and courteous correspondence, could you let me know when you guys might be able to get our elevator working consistently? Seems it’s down more than it’s up, and as I’m sure you know, being tool-wielding maintenance types, that those particular conveyances work best when they go both ways. (I have a friend who insists we’d all swing both ways if we’d just let go, but I guess that’s a conversation for another time). Anyway, if you could let me know, like maybe in about ten days or so, (oh, and in writing, if that’s convenient), that’d be great. I mean, I don’t mind taking the stairs, but my high-heeled vamp-it-up pumps hate it!

In the meantime, I hope you have time to get down to the beach and enjoy life. I know that always helps me chill out and clear my head.

Thanks again for writing.

Hearing from you was such fun!

So far, the management company has not written back.

I’m disappointed that they don’t take me as seriously as I took them. And I’m getting a bit concerned. I’ve heard grumblings from the shoe cellblock. I’m very much afraid there is a breakout being planned, and as every one knows, once delinquents run, they run amok!

I was going to write a column titled, “All I Want for Christmas is Three Young Men,” but before I could my husband and I went to Vegas and I cracked a tooth. (We also did a lot of things that were more fun, too!) (Oh, and the idea for the column had come to me before traveling… not after seeing a “Thunder Down Under” show.)

See, the Forney Boys were all supposed to be in Florida for the holidays, and I figured on writing about all the fabulous things we planned to do. The broken molar really has nothing to do with anything except that on the morning I was supposed to start writing the above mentioned piece I was, instead, sitting in the dentist’s chair.

Then, that afternoon, my Seattle son called with bummer news.

“Mom, you know how the last two years the design shop has closed up between Christmas and New Year’s?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, this year we’re staying open and taking orders during the entire holiday week…”

“So… ?”

“You remember my band’s tour in October?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Since I took those 12 days off, my boss won’t let me take any more…”

Errgghhhh!

I’ll admit to fighting tears. And not just ’cause I’d had a series of diamond-bit drills in my mouth all morning. This was supposed to be the first Christmas in five years all three brothers were together. We’d had the conversation way back in August. I’d made the guys promise me Florida in December. Seriously, I had put my foot down about it. No excuses!

“I’m sorry, Mom, but he’s being a real D-head about it and I can’t afford to lose my job. It’s not like new ones are growin’ on trees out here.”

“I know, honey. It sucks big-time, though…”

After we hung up, my beachside son stopped by on a break from work. He wanted to let me know that the grocery was going to be open on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and he figured on working ’cause he could use the extra cash.

Then my son who has recently left active duty in the service called. He was concerned about an upcoming reserve weekend out in Tacoma, Washington fouling his travel plans. He’d maybe have to cut his visit short. Or maybe fly down in January instead.

Errrgghhhh, again!

Did no one remember? Foot. Down. No excuses. All I wanted for Christmas, dang it, was my three boys to be home!

And that’s when it hit me. I don’t know why it had taken so long. After all, a couple years ago I’d stomped my size sevens over the then-living-in-Japan son’s difficulty in flying home for a visit. Seems the Air force doesn’t pay much attention to mothers and where they place their feet. Anyway, I’ve finally realized my foot no longer has any clout… and I guess it shouldn’t. It’s not like back in the day when a little “Santa’s-coming-better-be-good” threat worked wonders. I mean, when your kids are 5 and 8, it’s good for them to have a bit of healthy respect for superstition and a mom’s control over their lives. But at ages 21 and 24? Not so much. No, I wouldn’t want any of the Forney Boys to have grown into guys who are easily pushed around — even by relatives — or felt like they had to humor their dear ‘ol mom. I don’t want obligation; I want our times together to be stress-free and joyful… whenever those times may be.

As it turns out, I will get to enjoy time with my newly out-of-the-Air Force son who will be home during the holiday for the first time in years. Hoo-ray! Still, I’d guess on Christmas morning I won’t be able to stop myself from sending a few evil vibes towards a Seattle boss who’s a “D-head,” a humbug, a Grinch. I’ll probably take a minute to wish that, like in the old days, the markets stayed closed for the day (although you can lay odds I’ll end up running in to pick up something I’ve forgotten). Bottom line, though: kids grow up and mothers have to, too. Family life branches out and goes on and that’s how it should be.

But, hey. Speaking of “branching out”… I wonder…

Bet ya when a Grandma puts her foot down folks really take notice! Now there’s something to look forward to in future Christmases!

Hope you enjoy the holidays, wherever you are, and whomever you’re with.

“Judy! Where in heck is your (insert month) piece?”

“Geez, T. Stop your dang presses for a minute!”

“If you don’t make deadline girl, you’re soooo fired!”

Ha! Nope. Never happens that way. I’m not exactly Lois Lane reporting for duty on a Daily Planet assignment — which is good, ’cause I’d have blown Superman’s cover ages ago. “Hello, Mr. Kent?!? Glasses as a disguise?”

Anyway back to my public flip-out. This month marks my third November column for The Beachside Resident.

What the…? I’ve been writing this column for two solid years! How can that be? Where has the time gone? Of course the cash I’ve been able to sock away for my efforts has been phenomenal… Oh, did I say cash? I meant appreciation. Each month I’m richly rewarded with warm regards for my work.

O.K. So now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, back to the matter at hand. In honor of this month being an anniversary of sorts, I thought I’d look back through past pieces and… be lazy and repeat myself. Sort of. Last November, as I’m sure you all remember, (Oh, come on. Pretend!), I wrote about the perils of holiday travel. You know, having all that fun waking up at dawn and dozing down the Beachline Express, shuttling from a satellite lot at Orlando International, and then shuffling slowly and shoelessly through security. And then, once on the plane, who wouldn’t want to sit next to “Chatty Kathy” from Kissimmee?! Well, I’m here to tell you that having recently completed two flying trips the dangers of this happening have escalated. With the advent of checked bag charges, this year you’ll find yourselves traveling with a new breed of passenger: the crazy carryonners. Everything that won’t fit in the interior of their 22″ x 13″ x 8″ American Tourister they shove into outside pockets, which then won’t… quite… zip. If you like aisle seats like I do, (Yes, because we get our chardonnay first!), you can already picture it can’t ya? — overhead bins and bodily harm. My first encounter with the carrying kind was back in September.

I’d had a rough week away and was on an early morning flight home. I’d settled into my seat when — cue the evil music — another gal walked up the aisle awkwardly lugging her luggage. She stopped beside me and tried to lift it up and overhead to house, but the bag was too heavy. As she waved an attendant over to help, I noticed the unzipped pocket stuffed with files. The steward hefted the bag, the pouch contents shifted and heavy, paperboard folders wafted down on my head. As I said, I was coming off a couple of rotten days, and seeing the skin gouged from my arm, blood spurting from the cut, I was suddenly like the camel and her last straw. I burst into tears. When the entire flight crew sprang into action I was so appalled about sobbing that I just rambled on and on.

“Oh, man! That hurt!”

“You need a cold compress. A bandage… ”

“Yeah, bunch of blood, huh? Gosh, sorry about your upholstery!”

“A corner must have caught you. Looks deep… ”

“Really, it’s just a scrape… at least these first two inches or so. This part might scar, but oh well. Character and all that… ”

“Here’s some ointment… ”

“Thanks. That’ll help after it stops spouting red… ”

“Can we bring you a drink? On the house?”

It was only 8:09 a.m. and yes, I gave my usual answer in the affirmative.

My second run-in with a roller-bagger was during the middle of October. This time it was a guy who boarded pulling a beat-up leather suitcase that strained at the seams behind him. He lifted the bag up and tried to shove the thing into a bin. It wouldn’t go, so he pulled it out, turned it round and pushed it in again until it finally fit. That is, it did after a side compartment burst open and pencils, pens, and paper clips rained down on me. After the office supply shower stopped, there was a dropdrop of two quarters, and the plop of a pair of glasses into my lap. I was stunned for a second, but then I just started giggling. Seriously, who’d believe my luck? This time only one stewardess responded to the commotion. By the time she did, I was laughing and babbling about everyone being out to get me. A few minutes later while demonstrating the workings of an oxygen mask I could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. I knew she was also trying to figure how to fashion one of the things into a straight jacket for me, her kooky customer with the persecution complex.

So here we are in November. Later this month my husband and I are traveling to Nashville and I’m nervous. Really, what’s going to smack down on me next? Someone’s less-than-whitey tighties? The hubby said not to worry. Since he’s a super-duper-frequent-platinum-flyer, he’ll be cleared to board our flights first and grab the safest spot to…

Hey! Wait a second — spot, not spots — once he’s through the gate he’ll ditch me!

Oh well. Maybe avoiding mistakes on a plane this holiday season will be that easy. All of you just avoid sitting near me, too.

Happy trails!

God and Zombies
By Judy Forney

When I was in the second grade our family moved and my new bedroom was a dream.

It wasn’t a frilly-headache-pink-every-girl’s vision either. Nope, I had blue, nubby, silk floor-to-ceiling draperies I could hide behind and read by flashlight late into the night. I also had a bedspread sprouting bright flowers and mounded with button-tuft pillows I could throw myself across and cry into when my older brothers teased. I loved it. It was a very comforting place, and my mother had pulled it all together just for me. She’d sewn the drapes, coverlet, and pillows.

Mom was an amazing seamstress, and not just of household stuff. Halloween costumes were another specialty. If one of us kids wanted to be a vampire, she’d stitch up a costume guaranteed to have neighbors grappling over garlic. How about a fairy princess? Any mirror could tell we’d be the fairest of them all. My sister was a deck of cards once and she could have shuffled her way onto any high-rolling table (if, of course, the players were 50-foot Vegas Venusians who would know how to hold or fold four-foot tall cards, but you get the idea). We kids played in those get-ups year ’round, creating and exploring any world we wanted, knowing that the real one always awaited our return.

A couple of summers later, Mom was pregnant and bedridden with my soon-to-be sixth sibling. The rest of us were out of school and underfoot. My oldest brothers were supposed to be in charge of getting lunch and keeping us younger kids occupied. The way I remember it, they hadn’t done a very good job. They were bratty and bossy. They wouldn’t play Monopoly or Life. There was no way my younger sister and brother or I could hang out with them and listen to records. All those boys did was talk on the phone with girls. Finally, I’d had enough and I ran upstairs to tattle to my mother.

“O.K. I’ve got a game idea,” she said. “Go into your room, pick something up, think about it for a minute, and then come back in here and I’ll guess what you were thinking of.”

I made seven or eight trips, each time grabbing a favorite stuffed animal from their place of honor on my bed. Every time I ran back down the hall to Mom, she’d guess correctly which critter I’d been holding. I couldn’t believe it.

“You didn’t know I was psychic, did you, Judy?” (Years later, she told me she’d been able to “tune into” the items I chose because before grabbing each one, I’d call it by name — loudly.)

I wasn’t sure what that was, so Mom had me climb up beside her in bed and told me a tale about mind readers and magic. That same summer my great grandmother had given me a children’s Bible and told me that God would always know what I was thinking. We weren’t a traditionally religious family (which, of course, is why I’d gotten the good book. My “great,” bless her, was afraid for all us heathen kids), but I’d been enjoying reading some of the stories, and sitting there, snuggled up with Mom, I thought maybe I had the answer.

“I bet God is psychic!” I said. “‘Cause in my book, He always knows how stuff’s gonna turn out, like for the good and junk. It gives me a nice feeling.”

“Well, I don’t really know,” Mom responded. “But if I read a book that makes me happy, or sad, or even maybe a bit scared, I think there must be some truth in the telling. No matter if the story’s about faith, magic or monsters.”

Mom passed away in August. Family and friends gathered in eastern Washington State for a memorial. During the sermon, the minister asked if we’d all given thought to what happens to our mortal bodies after death. I knew she was talking about souls and ever lasting life in heaven, but I swear I heard my mother’s voice whisper in my ear — “Well, Judy, there could be zombies!”

I had to hiccup and swallow back both tears and laughter. My husband sat on one side of me and my best friend on the other. They each grabbed one of my hands, both of them sure I was about to become unhinged. One of my sons turned to grin at me from the next pew even as he blew his nose. After the service when we filed out into the sunshine, I told everyone what I’d heard echoing through my mind. Hubby and buddy smiled. My sister threw back her head and laughed, while the Forney boys weighed in…

“Gee, that’s appropriate Mom! HA!”

“That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, that’s so Gramma Mac! Bibles and monsters…”

“Perfect!”

“Totally…”

“She’d so say that!”

And do you know what? My guys were right — and I realized something else. It’s okay if, as they say, “You can’t take it with you.” The important thing is what you leave behind. Mom gave me love, laughter, and faith. Comfort, creativity, and imagination. God and zombies.

Not a bad legacy to live on with at all.

Did you know that fashions have gone completely bohemian hippy chick? The four-page spread I browsed could have been shot on Satellite Beach. Apparently, I’m lucky to live beachside because whether I might prefer shopping, clubbing, or strolling along the shoreline, a softly blowing, sea-sprayed environment makes the whole casual chic look perfect for me. You know, a maxi-length dress, ankle bracelet, and big ‘ole hoopy earrings. I should have blamed the laughing gas, but after leaving the doctors office, I had to have a hippy dress of my own.

I went to Stein Mart, (when you go, you really do get it!), and found a gauzy, flowing, turquoise concoction perfect for the new “boho” Judy — except for the fact that it had a plunging v-neck. Regular readers of my column (thanks to the entire gang of, what? Six or seven of you?) know that I may be wonderfully witty with words (O.K., so at least I think I am. Whatever…), but woefully underwhelmed with… ahh… other natural attributes. Happily though, shopping down another aisle, I found the perfect solution. According to the tag it was “the incredible 62-different-ways-to-wear-it-bra! It pushes up! It pushes in! It gives every woman control over her cleavage!”

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “I’ve certainly never had power over it before, but what the heck? Today may be the first day of the rest of my faux-fronted life.”

So I dug through the rack, found my size, and brought my own little miracle masher home. That’s when I discovered the problem. I called my husband, who was working in D.C., because I know he likes to stay involved with all the important things going on at home.

“I bought a new 62-different-ways-to-wear-it-bra and I’m having a hard time figuring the thing out. I mean, it’s got black straps plus clear ones, multiple hooks, loops, connector thingys, and extra little sponge pads that slip into pockets inside the cups.”

“Well,” he replied, “I probably have only a little more experience with these things than you do, but…”

“Ha ha!,” I said. “Seriously, I need a freakin’ diagram for this thing! I’ve discovered, maybe, three configurations. There can’t actually be 62 ways to wear it!”

“What I started to say,” my husband continued, “was remember when we used to hunt through junk stores for china to re-sell on Ebay?”

“Yeah…”

“And shops would list services for 8 as having 37 pieces or whatever?”

“Uh huh…”

“Well, some of the things they counted as separate were stupid. Like counting sugar bowls and lids as two pieces instead of one?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I bet these bra people are like that. Wearing it with black straps counts as one way, clear straps as another. Criss-cross or not. Padding in or out. That kinda thing.”

“Maybe,” I offered. “When did you get so savvy anyway? Same time you met the ‘Bra People’? I can hear the movie trailer now: ‘They’re black! They’re lacy! They’re coming for yooouuu!’”

“Exactly. Except the ones that attack ’round our place aren’t all that scary. You know, due to their… err… stature.”

“Oh, funny. You might want to remember something.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“This contraption may or may not have 62 ways to be worn, but as Paul Simon points out, there are 50 ways to leave a lover.”

“Good point.”

Anyway, after I hung up the phone, I fought, forced, and struggled with straps and grommets. Somehow I kept ending up with the cups riding my back. Forget the battle of the bulge. This was the ultimate brassiere smackdown! Finally though, I figured out how to configure the dang thing into an appropriate halter style. Of course I put in the extra padding. Then I slipped my new dress over my head, wiggled its full length into place, looked down, and… wow! There was straining against the bodice! I’ve never even stretched, let alone strained a bodice in my life. I pictured myself on the cover of a Harlequin romance. I twirled dramatically to catch my reflection in the mirror. Unfortunately, instead of spying a vision of Fabio, myself, and artistically stressed frontage, what I saw made me think of some poor woodland creature frozen in oncoming traffic and screaming, “No! Not the headlights! Stop!”

Seriously, I could have hurt someone with the things. Never mind what my hubby had said before. The Bra People would have been impressed. I was sure the new look would scare everyone I knew. I couldn’t imagine going out in public. See, the people I hang out with aren’t all that polite. Some folks have friends who might look them straight in the forehead and ask, “You look great. Did you color your hair?” But I was sure my pals would be like, “What in God’s name did you do to… yourself?!?” while making direct eye contact with my chest.

Sigh. Well, that’s what I get for making clothing choices after a visit to the dentist. Of course I called my husband back to tell him the sad truth, that my fashion experiment was — ha! — a bust.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Might be fun to… err… I mean, you know, get used to the look…”

Idiot. Hopefully he remembers before he flies home what Mr. Simon sang:

“Hop on the bus, Gus/Don’t need to discuss much/Just drop off the key, Lee/ And get yourself free…”

Shhh! Don’t be alarmed, but I’m here to tell you that there is a secret society afoot in the Space Coast you should be aware of. Our members generally meet in the early mornings. Some arrive in spandex, sipping bottled water. Others, like me, sport baggy sweats and slug back nonfat mochas. All of us come in from the too-hot, or too-humid, or too-much-du jour that our weather can be around here and begin walking through the empty, echoing halls. Our reflections follow us, skipping silently from one storefront window to the next. What is our clandestine club? Of course you’ve guessed, and it’s really not all that hush-hush. We are all mall walkers!

But my fitness friend and I do have a secret the others don’t share. Again, don’t be alarmed, but H. G. Wells has nothing on us. We two are time travelers.

That’s right. The mall is our year-jumping journey machine. We meet in front of one of the department stores to begin our walk, and as we walk we talk. Husbands, kids, and jobs are the first topics of conversation. Both of us usually have a “current event” to discuss. Kids will do that to you. I don’t care if they’re 2 months or 25 years old. They’re always up to something that needs airing.

And then, whether we’re laughing or tearing out hair, telling on our kids often zips us backwards to our own school days. Oh the cliques! The angst! My own horrible report cards…

“Miss McElroy. You could do much better than this…”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

“…if you’d just attend class once in awhile.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.” (While thinking: “Ha! Fat chance Mr. J!”)

Poor guy, Mr. Jones. You couldn’t pay me enough to be a high school counselor! Anyway, talking about being 16 again often has my friend and I reliving dating disasters, hair color catastrophes, and fashion fiascos. We find new stories every time we travel back, and in comparing our pasts to our kids present, we mostly agree that it’s true what they say: Apples don’t fall too far from the tree.

Then, suddenly we’re rocketing forward, chuckling or shuddering through the years. We share embarrassments, joys, and truths stranger than fiction. Slowing for marriage tales and birth day stories, we question why it is that kids break out in chicken pox on wedding anniversaries. Or catch the flu for Christmas. And why was one of my twin boys — at the age of two — scared to tears by his great grandmother, screaming bloody murder any time they shared a holiday table?

“No, no, no! Not that Gwam-maaaa!”

My buddy and I realize there are no answers. (Seriously, my mother–in-law used to have to move vases, candles, or even bowls heaped with mashed potatoes for heaven’s sake, just to camouflage the kid’s line of vision across the table. Thankfully, when he hit about five years of age, he and his “Gwamma” became the best of friends.) But as we travel along, we can laugh now at what we couldn’t then.

And as we hurtle into the future, we see ourselves as a couple of youthful, hip, swinging grandmothers. Yes! We know there will be payback for the all the things our children have put us through. There has to be, right? Just think (cue the evil laughter) of the stories we’ll be able to tell the next generation of little apples that fall. I can just imagine…

“Gramma Judy?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“Did my daddy ever…”

“Oh boy, you bet he did, and then some! Haven’t I ever told you the story of your father, the B.B. gun, and the neighbor’s unsuspecting sliding glass door?”

“No, but you did tell me about Uncle Steve, the ketchup, the mustard, the eggs, and the vice principal’s office.”

“Ah, yes. Another classic…”

I can hardly wait! And my friend and I agree that conversations like that are going to be such fun, that we almost always come back to the present laughing — and that’s a great way to start any day. So, if you’re up early one morning, and the weather is too much of something for you, come join us. Bring a friend to walk and talk with. Maybe chug a mug of chocolate-laced coffee and, by all means, hop on our time traveling mall machine.

You’ll enjoy the ride!

The other evening it dawned on me that I was way past due for my semi-annual house cleaning. I dragged out the vacuum and hosed and bagged enough sand to reverse erosion along the beach a mile in either direction, then I got down to my favorite part of the job.

I took all my “junk” off the shelves, lined it up on the kitchen table, grabbed a glass of chardonnay, some rags, glass cleaner, and Goo-Gone, then sat down to dust, polish, oil, and wind gears. We’ve got a huge collection of…stuff. I blame it on the fact that I used to work at an antique mall back in Washington, and never could resist taking in a homeless radio, robot, or ray gun. Anyway, I finished up a little after midnight and, yawning, decided to head to bed. I figured I’d just wait till morning to put everything back in place. I don’t know if it was the wine, Windex fumes, or late hour, but when I fell asleep I had the strangest dream…

A vacuum whines and whirs. Its roller brushes clack-click-clack over old staples and dropped pennies buried in the ancient carpet, then gobbles them down. Yep, it sounds like the booth next to mine at “Spark’s Second Chance Collectables” has changed hands again. It’s always the same. All new vendors believe in the magic of a good cleaning. The incantation for profits goes something like this: dust out, suck down, spiff up. Repeat. I know from experience the spell doesn’t often work. Odds are that six months from now someone else’s Hoover will be happily munching up this dealer’s mess.

The vacuum switches off, its sound replaced a second later by the tha-wunk, tha-wunk of a staple gun. That’ll be yet another business name being tacked in place. The only consistency around here is the lack of it. I use the relative quiet to try and get through to Mr. Spark, proprietor. Or I should say through his thick, addle-brained, might-as-well-be steel-skinned skull.

“It’s not fair…”

“See, that’s the difference between us,” Mr. Spark continues. “I was willing to take a risk. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t have resisted. You looked so sexy behind the wheel of that car! And I was right. Except for that one little problem, you’re nearly perfect.”

“It’s not fair!” I shout. “I saw you first!”

…The next morning, as I put everything away, I realized my dream was true.

Who I wondered, really collected who?

My husband was out of town for a couple of weeks recently and I decided to re-do our master bedroom and bath. You know, new bedding, towels, and a general re-arranging of furniture and junk. It gave me something creative to do while the guy was away, with the added benefit that he’d be tripping all over stuff for a few days on his return. I guess what they say about payback is true.

Anyway, during my furniture-shoving, shelf-painting, pillow-fluffing frenzy, I kept the television on for company. I listened to that appliance guy and his sidekick over and over and over. I heard time and again that my old, damaged, or divorced jewelry could make me a ton of cash. Every station assured me that their programming was unforgettable. Unforgettable.

“Mayday!” I thought to myself after a few days. If I couldn’t empty my brain of all this network nonsense, my head was going to explode!(I don’t know why I was thinking in nautical distress terms. Yes, my ring tone does play “What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor,” but that’s just a personal quirk.)

Since no one sailed in to rescue me (aren’t “maydays” supposed to be answered?), I figured I’d best get out and about, and well away from the paint fumes for a bit. I stripped out of my grungy work duds and threw on jeans and a cute little polo top onto which I’d stamped a fleur-de-lis pattern. As I buttoned the shirt, I didn’t know that my choice of attire would mean trouble. No, there would be no wardrobe malfunction, but I was about to find myself in a close encounter of the random kook kind in our local bookstore.

Here’s the exchange that took place:

“Excuse me. I was just noticing the design on your shirt.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what that symbol represents?”

“No. I just liked it, so I painted it on.”

“Have you heard of Reptilians?”

“Rapscallions? Aren’t they like clumsy pirates? Or maybe it’s traveling troubadours that only cover old ‘Queen’ tunes…”

“No, I said Reptilians.”

“Can’t say as I’ve heard of them. What do they sing?”

“They don’t. They’re not human. Let me put it this way: How do you feel about aliens?”

“I love the little green dudes! Seriously, I write lots of stories about them…”

“But you wouldn’t want them living next door, would you?”

“Oh, no big deal. I figure they do anyway. We’ve got some pretty strange neighbors.”

“These are evil creatures! Do you know what ’shape shifters’ are?”

“Yep, they’re beings that can take any form and blend in with any group.”

“That’s right! And they’re in residence, on our planet, right now. They’re here to buy up all our gold and silver supplies…”

“…So these guys are big into bangles and baubles…”

“No. They snap our precious metals off the market to grind into a dust that strengthens the environment to better suit their species. Shape shifters also spread misinformation and distrust amongst us.”

“Well how do I know you’re not one? I mean you’re handing out some pretty strange information this afternoon yourself.”

“I can assure you I am just a very concerned humanoid…”

“Mayday!” I thought to myself. “I’m gonna die from trying-to-be-polite-but-can’t-keep-a-straight-face-itis if I don’t get outta here!”

Again, no Coast Guard cutter steamed into sight, so I thanked the gentleman for sharing his thoughts with me and hurried out to my car. I’d gotten quite a kick out of our encounter, so I didn’t mind the lack of response to my distress call. Granted, it had been a strange exchange, (not my strangest ever. That would go to a guy at a bus stop in Seattle who asked me to feed him his vitamins…which I did), but it’s kind of a blessing that folks feel so comfortable talking with me.

Back at the house I poured a glass of wine, grabbed my paint brushes and flipped my TV back on. Within about a half hour, I was amazed again by low, low-priced side-by-side fridges, convinced I’d never get the drama of “America’s Next Top Model” out of my head, and… Wait! What? There they were on the screen again. Someone was asking for my gold and silver jewelry. “Is it broken, tangled, or chomped on by the dog? We don’t care. Send it in!”

“Mayday!” I thought to myself again. “The aliens DO want our precious metals. We HAVE been invaded!”

Just then, a gust of wind blustered in off the ocean and blew my electricity out for a second. Thankfully, after the lights blinked off and then on, my television stayed dark. I’ll admit to being a little freaked out though, so I powered up my computer. I figured every conspiracy theory must have a website, right? But then I decided I’d learned enough about shape shifters for one day, and instead plugged M-A-Y-D-A-Y into a Google search. Turns out that when calling for help you need to do it something like this:

Mayday! Mayday! This is drunken sailor. Mayday!

Kind of like Dorothy clickin’ her heels and wishing for home, the third time is the charm. I guess the wind gust that blew my TV off had been a rescue from the sea! At least I’d been invoking the distress signal all day for the right reasons. Seems it’s appropriate for threats like imminent explosion, death, and…alien invasion.

Well, O.K. that last one wasn’t listed, but I’m sure official nautical types could be convinced it’s necessary. I’m afraid though that a shout-out for rescue from annoying appliance commercials might be a tougher sell.

Unless of course the Reptilians start cornering the refrigerator market, too…

Twenty-ish years ago after our youngest son was born, tallying our family up to its final five, we bought a minivan. Not only was it our first big vehicle, it was also our first brand new car. And the coolest thing about the huge grey beast was its cassette player.

My husband has eclectic taste in music, but back then his eccentricities didn’t stretch to embrace children’s tunes. No Raffi, Barney, or Muppet covers of the Beach Boys would be played in our car. Nope, the kids could listen to what Dad chose to play and like it. That’s how, of course, some famous, classic lyrics were totally screwed over in versions by the Forney Boys.

No one could really blame my guys. The three of them were young and prone to ear infections. Their hearing was sometimes a bit off. Now, a big purple dinosaur singing, “I love you/You love me” is easy. But what about listening to Robert Plant belt out Led Zeppelin’s, “Whole Lotta Love”? Well, that’s not quite as simple. Seriously, every time we road tripped some poor rocker got ripped a new one. You had to feel sorry for Tom Petty, and his song, “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” as preformed by my three car-seat artists.

“Runnin’ down the drain…”

“…working is a misery…”

I always thought their rendition made sense to the guys at the time, because my husband and I had just battled an infestation of silver flies in our bathroom. We’d had to rip out a wall, snake the pipes, and bug-bomb the room. We washed a lot of gross junk down the drain and it was miserable. Heck, the boys probably thought their dad had written the tune just for Mr. Petty and his Heartbreakers.

Of course I don’t have an explanation for every lame lyric. I mean, I have no idea where the Forney Trio came up with their version of The Who classic “Won’t Get Fooled Again.”

“I bend my knees…”

“…we won’t get tools again.”

I guess I could make something up, too. A really juicy story involving my lost weekend with a traveling handy man. Or maybe an orthopedic surgeon. That would certainly make my early 30s sound as if they’d been more daring!

To be honest though, I had had my own lyrical challenges when I was a kid. Unfortunately I wasn’t three years old or five…or even cute. I was fifteen. I didn’t know why a band would write and sing about…a female product. I wasn’t even real sure what “douching” was, although I had seen commercials. But I figured what was good enough for Manfred Mann was good enough for me, so of course I sang along At the top of my lungs. In the car. With my mom. I remember her trying not to laugh as we pulled into the grocery store lot. She attempted to tell me what the real words to the song were. But I got so mad. Like, right, get a grip — my mother was totally old. How would she know any lyrics to any songs playing on the hip station? Geez! As soon as we got home, I jumped on my bike and pedaled over to my best friend’s house to share the old lady’s shame. Of course she told me, after collapsing on her bed giggling, that my mom’s rendition of the song had been the right one. She laughed so hard she couldn’t talk, although she did manage to hiccup something out about the good folks at Johnson and Johnson and how maybe I could sell them on my great jingle idea. Former best girlfriends always think they’re so comedic.

Recently I discovered that me and mine are not the only lyrically lost souls. There are many of us. Entire websites are devoted to the subject. My favorite is www.kissthisguy.com. They list hysterical examples of misunderstood lyrics and sometimes the back stories as well. But not always, which is fun because a person can make those up. Like this one from the band R.E.M. and their song, “Losing My Religion”:

“I pee in the corner/I pee in the spotlight…”

Can’t you just imagine that this guy spent one, (or a few) too many years in bell bottom blues, clicking his lighter on and waving it over his head at concerts? Or maybe he just clicked it on and lit up…

Another screwed-up songster misheard AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds” thusly:

“Dirty deeds and they’re done with sheep…”

That’s just whacked! Maybe the country is just filled with folks running around in need of antibiotics for their ears.

One song that’s listed on nearly every site is a certain tune, again from AC/DC. It caught my eye because it always ended up, back in the day, on our road trip playlist.

“I’ve got big balls…”

“We’ve got the biggest balls of them all!”

Well, oaky. The Forney Boys got the words right, but really, isn’t this where we started?

Don’t get fooled by, (false), tools again!

I was frightened. Terrified, actually. My husband said it was a fluke.

“Judy, it’s just your wacky current.”

“My what?”

“You know, your personal electromagnetic vibes. It’s not like they’re strong enough to drop  planes from the sky…”

“Or foul up a beach side cop’s radar gun…”

“Right, but they’re obviously strong enough to mess with anything around here that runs on electricity. Aren’t you always telling me the microwave beeps at you mindlessly? The computer is just another small household appliance. Somehow, you’ve piggybacked onto some stranger’s internet search.”

But I knew my hubby was wrong. Something much more sinister was going on. You see, when I’d lifted my laptop’s lid, powered up, and logged on, I discovered someone, or something, had the ability to read my mind! I was afraid for my very soul. Or at least I feared for a stress-free shopping experience online.

The afternoon had begun, innocently enough, with a pair of sneakers. I’m a shoe nut. Yeah, I know it’s a cliché, but I’m a girl that can’t get enough canvas and leather to wrap her feet in. I figure that’s O.K., though. I’m not a particularly predictable person, so what’s the harm in adhering to one little stereotype? I’ve bought a ton of toe tappers from Shoes.com. I wear a size 7 medium, except in tennis shoes, which I need in a 7 narrow. Anyway, I’d logged on to the shoe site and was trying to decide between two pair. I figured the good folks at Shoes.com recognized me and knew my sizes and that’s why slipper suggestions were popping up on the screen as I shopped. I didn’t mind that, but then the thing happened, and I was scared!

You see, I’d jumped over to check an online auction, and there, scrolling across my screen, was a gallery of pictures…all of them tennis shoes in size 7 narrow! O.K., I told myself, breathe. I mean I have bought and sold on Ebay. But that had been toy robots, tiki mugs, and movie junk. Not shoes. How had the site known sneakers where on my mind? The only answer, of course, was that it had scanned my thoughts and sucked them from my brain!

“But honey, look…it knew what I was thinking about!”

“Seriously Judy, it’s just a coincidence.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. I’d understand scrolling wind up toys or Orchid of Hawaii mugs, but not sneakers. The computer wants me to want tennis shoes!”

“Well that’s a novel way to convince yourself you need another pair…”

“Very funny, dear.”

I IM’d a friend and told her of my terror. She wasn’t any help. She agreed, mostly, with my other half. She called it my chi, or chow or something, interacting with the world around me. Whatever. I reminded her that I hadn’t had any chow around the stupid machine since the night of the Great Chardonnay Flood of the Keyboard Region. No, I frantically typed to her, evil was emanating from each and every one of my screen’s fifteen inches. Why wouldn’t she believe me? She answered that maybe I should surf over to a different site…or better yet, give the wine another try. “Just sip slowly,” was the last message I received from her.

Well, I figured, what could surfing hurt? I brought Amazon.com up on my screen. Right under the menu bar, there was a message for me. The site had “suggestions.” The computer thought it knew what I wanted! With a trembling hand I reached for my mouse and clicked on the missive.

“Honey…”

“Gawd, those things are ugly. Why’d anyone want to stroll around town with plastic egg crates on their feet? Tell me you’re sticking with the sneakers.”

“It’s not about the shoes. I want the computer to vacate my head! I’m terrified to take the volume off  ‘mute.’ I just know the thing will start talking to me. You know, like Hal, from ‘2001 Space Odyssey’? Or that mainframe that caused Matthew Broderick all that trouble in ‘War Games’?”

“Calm down. I don’t really think we have a world crisis situation here. I bet it’s like, ‘National Buy a Pair of Pumps Day’ or something…”

“Oh, please, like I wouldn’t have already decked the shoe tree for that holiday…”

“Well, I still say it’s either a weird coincidence or your freaky vibe has gotten some wires crossed somewhere. I think your friend was right, though. You do need a glass of wine.”

“Maybe…”

“I’ll get us both one.”

“K. I’m going back and ordering the tennis shoes.”

“Are you sure you dare?”

“Ha, ha, dear.”

I heard an answering chuckle, but it wasn’t an exactly human sound. Of course neither was the echoing beep-beep-beep coming from our microwave…

“Honey, I picked up a copy of the Resident. Tell me you didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“Oh, come on, ‘The Big 5 – 0’ ?”

“No way. I know you don’t want any attention drawn to your age. Besides, you know me; I’d be just as likely to have written a column all about Jack Lord as Steve McGarrett in that retro Hawaiian cop show. If you don’t believe me, find your cheaters and read the entire article.”

“O.K.”

“Actually I was going to title the piece, ’50 Fabulous Reasons to Adore Florida in February!’, because it’s the month of love and all that, but I’m not sure my editor likes long titles.”

“Well, in quickly scanning this document, I don’t think I find fifty items listed.”

“As usual, Mr. Information Technology, your documentation scan is correct. I did fall a tad shy of that number. My deadline was looming, and really, a number is just a number. Besides you know what they say, 50 is the new 30… And it’s not actually titled ‘The Big Fifty,’ as you can see, it’s called…”

The Big 5 – 0

This is our second February living in Florida, and I’ve got to say I don’t miss the winter weather in Washington State. I mean, bonfires on the beach can’t be beat. Especially if you’ve got a best friend back home and you can call her to gloat about there being no need to shovel snow. Hey, I don’t mind being called the “B” word if it’s well deserved.

It’s a great month for strolling along the shoreline and hunting for sea glass. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a bit chilly out and competition for the booty is down, or if all those folks who cruised out of Port Canaveral over the holidays dumped a bunch of bottles overboard, but the wave-tumbled treasure is out there.

February winds can be a bit blustery, which is great for flying stunt kites off the beach at low tide. But beware. Tangling flying lines with fishing lines could be a problem…although the pelicans would probably appreciate fish flown up to them for a change!

My guy and I love to drag chairs down and sit like lazy bums while people watching on the beach. We try and tally up a tourists versus locals count. In February, the locals seem to have it…barely.

If you indulge in the above bumming, then maybe you should hop on a bike and pedal up A1A for pizza at Cibelli’s. Huge slices of pie and wine. Yum! And bicycling back home negates all the calories. Win, win, right? Except we usually just hop in the car and drive up the highway. Hey, do as I say, and all that.

I recently re-discovered Old Melbourne. Or is it Historic Melbourne? Whatever they call themselves, browsing around over there is a great way to spend a late winter day. You’ll find antiques, groovy clothes, shoes, handbags, jewelry, thrift stores…and wine. Yum!

Watching the surfers is a ton of fun. Those kids are amazing. (And by kids, I refer to anyone who participates in the sport…whether they’re 6 or 72). First, it’s February, so they’ve got to be brave enough to hit the beach in skin-tight wet suits. Secondly, they can actually stand on those boards! I used to try to water ski, and even with my feet strapped into two platforms and a rope to hold on and pull me, I could never stay standing for long. Thirdly, can anyone tell me how these guys and gals don’t crack up on the rocks? Are Satellite Beach surfers actually some strange sonic-powered shark/dolphin/human hybrid?

But do you want to know what my favorite thing is this month? Well, on February fifth, my husband turns 50! But, shh! You didn’t hear it from me. I’m honoring the guy’s wishes and not mentioning his big 5-0 to anyone. He says it’s depressing. You know, his long and arduous trudge up the hill of life is over and now he only has the slippery slope down to look forward to… I just don’t get it. Really, as far as I’m concerned, a number is just a number. I mean 20 years ago, on his 30th birthday, the guy was going gray, and he’s still going. We were married then, and are now. He was father of three little ones then, and those boys still seem awful young today. See? Nothing much has changed! Fifty is the new thirty. I guess maybe I have a better attitude about it because I’m so much younger than my husband. Months and months younger.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Honey!

Oh, and try and remember in your dotage that, when June rolls around and it’s my turn to celebrate, the big 5 – 0 will be, officially, the new 25…

NEW YEAR NEW BODY
NEW BODY NEW YEAR

Well of course that makes sense. I’d bet a gazillion bucks that promising oneself a better workout ranks at the very top of most New Year’s resolution lists. I know it’s made mine a few times in the past. As a matter of fact, just a few days before the message went up in lights, a friend and I had decided to get ourselves into better shape. She didn’t want to join a gym, though. Nope. She’d called to convince me to give the modern, “as-seen-on-TV” way fitness method a try.

“Hey Judy.”

“Hi.”

“I was calling to tell you, that I’ve got the biggest loser.”

“Oh, please. He’s not that bad. I mean, geez, you guys have been married forever and…”

“…No, you idiot, I bought the ‘Biggest Loser’ workout videos, you know, from the television show.”

“Oh. Got ya.”

Well not really. I don’t watch reality programming. Who’s reality is it anyway? Seriously, I have no problem believing those “the-truth-is-out-there-UFO’s-do-exist”-type documentaries, but wife swapping and survival shows? I’d rather watch “Gilligan’s Island” re-runs. They’re more believable. Russian subs? Sure! Space capsules in the lagoon? Why not? And what’s up with those young ladies in the “Bad Girls Club”? Their parents must be so proud…and sorely lacking in disciplinary skills. I remember my sister and I coming to blows, just once, when we were in high school. Technically, I’ve just come out from under that grounding. Anyway, I don’t know how my girlfriend talks me into stuff. Probably cause she never drops an idea once she gets it in her head.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Or maybe just funny… But we should give it a try. The sessions are only 20 minutes long, but the trainer gal is really tough and the workouts are hard.”

“Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind a flatter stomach.”

“Cool. We’ll start tomorrow afternoon.”

I went to bed that night dreaming of a new career as a 40-something swimsuit model. It reminded me of an old joke. You know: Gal has three babies and after the last one is born asks doctor, “Will I ever model bikinis again?” Doc tells new mom, “Sure.” Mom says, “That’s amazing, because I’ve never been able to even wear one before!”

The next day, my girlfriend and I hooked up at her house, fed the DVD into the player and met our “personal” trainer, Jillian, for the first time. She was attractive and fit, but we’d be too soon, so we couldn’t hold that against her. Jillian explained in an upbeat, friendly, and encouraging voice how her combined cardio, strength, and stretching program would work together to give us the best bodies of our lives. Then she introduced us to her two lovely, toned assistants. Again we wouldn’t throw stones into the house where we’d soon live. Then Jillian sang out: “Let’s begin.”

That’s when my friend and I encountered our first problem. Her husband couldn’t resist teasing us. Maybe he really was that bad. Secondly, about seven-and-a-half minutes into our twenty-minute exercise routine, we found ourselves knocking up against death’s door. Thirdly, and most importantly, we discovered that our trainer was the wicked witch of the workout set! She kept yelling at us.

“Exhale…exhale…exhale!”

“Five more! Three more!”

“That knot you feel is fear leaving your body!”

Actually that last shout out was a relief. I’d been sure it was lunch about to leave my belly. Oh my God! Was I really so out of shape that twenty minutes of jumping jacks and abdominal crunches would prove fatal? I mean, I’m not a big person. I walk places. I take the stairs. That should count for something, right? Nope. As the Wicked One pointed out, you can’t just climb a few steps and expect to be fit and strong. O.K., I thought, gulping in air, I won’t hate her cause she’s beautiful. There are so many other reasons. She’s bossy, punishing, evil…

When I woke the next morning I discovered that during the night my legs had turned to lead, and I could practically hear my stomach muscles screaming. I rolled out of bed, found a phone, and called my friend.

“Hey, I’ve exercised and I can’t get up.”

“Oh, gawd. Me too!”

“I don’t think I can stand…or sit. Makes it hard to…”

“Yeah. If we were guys, it wouldn’t matter. We could just go outside.”

“Ha. That would be the only benefit. Seriously, someone’s gonna have to wheel me around on a dolly today.”

“We’ll feel better after exercising again this afternoon. Like Jillian says, we need to hang in there and get strong.”

“Well I say she’s a twisted, fiendish, masochist…”

“Three o-clock, O.K.?”

Like I said, my girlfriend doesn’t drop an idea once she’s got it. Luckily, she also travels for work and her exercise craze collided head-on, a few days later, with a trip out of town. I swear I didn’t call her office with some bogus lead. Really, I mean how disappointing to loose my workout buddy!

I’d maybe actually get my knees bending correctly again, and prevent my arms ripping away from their shoulder sockets. It did feel good to be ahead of the game, new year’s wise. Cross that first one off. I tried.

But if you’re just making a list of resolutions, and getting in shape is at the top, happy new you! I’m perfectly content with the old me. I will keep up the abdominal crunches, though.

You know, I have my modeling career to think of.

The doctor said so.

No, this is not some sad tale of Holiday abuse. We were cowering away from the television and that mean one, you know, Mr. Grinch, or sometimes the Evil Heat Miser. And how about that Abominable Snowman? Yikes! Those Rankin and Bass guys really knew how to put fear in with the festive on the small screen.

But for me, what was even worse than watching a giant, ragged-toothed crystallized creature that every year wreaked havoc on Rudolph’s home town was sobbing my eyes out over all the different show’s soundtracks. With the first strains of, “There’s Always Tomorrow,” or, “Welcome Christmas,” I’d be done. Gone. Bereft.

And with three older brothers sitting front and center on the sofa, tears meant trouble, so I’d try and distract myself to stop the emotional rush. Staring toward the ceiling looking for cobwebs never did me any good, because my mom didn’t allow any of those inside our house. Counting only the blue flowers, not the green ones, on the back of the couch cushions usually worked to keep me from bawling…for about a minute. There where times when I thought about pinching my sister and making her scream as a diversionary tactic, but instead, every year, the same thing would happen.

“Look you guys, Judy’s crying.”

“Shut up!”

“Ha! Boo-hoo…”

“I’m gonna call Mom!”

“Why? She already knows you’re a baby…”

“Crybaby! Crybaby!”

Of course, my bratty brothers where right about me. Ask anyone; I’m still the biggest crybaby… Ever!

We all have gut reactions to people, places, and things. Like I know that Steve Martin will make me laugh and strolling along the beach will make me relax, I also know that I’ll sniffle through the Season. Carolers, high school music productions, (Yes, Shan, I did cry!), “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and elves who want to be dentists.

Forget miracles, I’m just a plain old Christmas mess. I remember when the Forney Boys where little, one of their favorite holiday shows stared Kermit the Frog and company doing their version of Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol.” They loved that movie, and it got to be a tradition to watch it each December. We’d do the whole family deal; you know, popcorn, sugar cookies, and sodas while we gathered together to watch. I swear, every year, about thirteen minutes into the show, I’d be done. Gone. Bereft.

And again, with three smart-alecky kids sitting front and center on the sofa, tears meant trouble. Luckily, counting cobwebs in my house worked — sometimes for as many as five minutes. Then I’d play what I liked to think of as the “no-rest-for-the-weepy game.” I’d start jumping up to replenish snacks, mop up spills, maybe pour a glass of wine, or wonder, aloud, how in the world it’d gotten so late. Ultimately though, I’d be busted.

“Ahh…Mom? You do know these guys are just puppets, right? Like, not alive?”

“They’re not puppets! They are Muppets! And Tiny Tim might die. Even after everything his dad has done trying to save him… sob!”

“Ehmm… I don’t think he’ll end up dead. And Kermit? He’s not really anyone’s dad. Again, you know, hand up a shaggy cloth body. Not even a living breathing frog…”

“Well, it’s not easy being green. Oh, man, why’d you remind me of that song, it always makes me cry…”

“Oh, wow! News flash, guys!”

“Yeah, imagine a song making Mom cry…”

Yep, there is nothing more rewarding for a girl than slaving over the stove shaking up hot Jiffy Pop, sugar sprinkling dough and icing sodas, while providing her family with cherished memories, and having that selfsame family collapse into giggles at her expense (thus my motto in life: wine early and wine often). But I’m not only a mother. I’m also a bit of a martyr. You’d think with my boys grown and flown, I’d spend the season watching Mr. Martin in “The Jerk” or splashing out in the surf. But no, not me…

Just the other day as I surfed through television channels, I spotted him. It was none other than that horrible coach who interrupts the reindeer games so everyone can laugh at Rudolph and chase him away with their bullying. Just ‘cause the poor kid’s nose is red. Gawd, that guy is an ass!

But I knew I’d torture myself. Even though I know the story by heart, even though I knew my mascara would streak, I had to watch. So I sat there, one bawling baby alone, front and center on the sofa, while Santa fretted, Rudolph ran off, the Abominable Snowman attacked, and the elves got lost in the fog, until…hooray! A holiday is saved, the misfit toys all find homes, and Burl Ives sings “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” Then, thank goodness, it was over.

I’d still have time to get the red out of my eyes, because with a husband on the way home, tears meant teasing. Except, of course, scheduled next where all those Whos down in Whoville. Poor Cindy-Lou, she’s no more than two, and her dreams are about to be dashed!

Oh well (sob), guess at our house we’ll have another done, gone, bereft Christmas.

And I hope you have a fabulous one, too!

One day in Southampton England, a large ship docks in the harbor. It’s a wine merchant’s craft named The Mayflower. There’s a huge banner hung above the gangplank that reads: “Chardonnay Tasting: 1:00.” Of course a bunch of like-minded people hurry aboard. I mean, they’re offering free drinks! Who wouldn’t? Anyway, these folks all toss back a few samples, get a bit toasted, and begin missing Aunt Sue, or Grampa Joe, or whomever, who’ve already re-located to the New World. Everybody gets a bit teary eyed, throw arms around each other, and begin talking at once.

“You know, Pilgrims, we should hire this vessel! Sail right on over to see the family.”

“Yes! Brother John Wayne is right.”

“Let’s away!”

“Aye, it’s a great time of year to be shipboard…”

So, in 1620, 120 amateur sailors set sail. Unfortunately, The Mayflower was not built to carry passengers. No one could get comfortable in their seats, and the ride was bumpy. So much so that when they finally touched land again everyone was a bit cranky. I mean they’re all starving, and Cousin Adam hasn’t even shot the turkey yet! Back in England, everyone had had such high expectations for the visit, and now… What happened? I’ll tell you what happened: Holiday travel. That’s the insane tradition the Pilgrims passed down to us.

I’m thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Puritan as I wait at the gate in Orlando’s International Airport. It’s 6:20 a.m., and the plane is finally boarding. I’ve been up since 3:30, driven an hour in, parked at the satellite lot, and passed through security. All I can say is, “Gee, thanks guys…”

I mean, I bet the Pilgrims didn’t have to shed shoes or suffer searches, and that guy that thought that autumn might be a great time of year to be sailing? He must have been the ship’s idiot! He obviously never considered the girl having to leave sunny, warm Florida for cloudy, cold and frozen Washington State.

A couple of amateur flyers jump ahead of me in line. I can be mean in the morning, but I calmly point out their mistake, and take my rightful place. On board, my seat mate can’t get comfortable. He fiddles and wiggles. After reaching cruising altitude, he stands up, excuses himself past me, walks the aisle, and then settles back into his seat. Repeatedly. He’s very polite, but the proximity of his butt to my face is a little too close. You know the Puritans didn’t have all these problems. Yes, most were amateur sailors, but that was a positive thing. They were all in the same boat, so to speak, experience-wise. And I don’t think they were allowed to be aware of rear ends — even ones inadvertently stuck in their kissers. I do feel sorry for my seat mate, though. Like The Mayflower, this “ship” wasn’t built for passengers either.

I flip through the airline magazine and discover that November is Aviation History Month. Well, that makes sense — I can’t wait till this flight is an ancient memory. The lead article briefly explores flying from the time of the Wright Brothers to moon landings, and it gets me thinking: The Space Shuttle would be the way to do holiday travel right! For most of us living beachside, it’s a shorter drive than going to Orlando to catch a plane, and it’d be a super fast flight. I mean, we’ve all watched the launches and those puppies go from the Space Coast to Houston and beyond in, like, minutes. Perfect! The complication would be the “ups and downs.” My flight is going from Orlando, to Chicago, to Salt Lake, to Spokane. Unlike Southwest Flight 846, the shuttle doesn’t puddle jump, it zooms. Then the answer hits me: Escape pods.

Here’s how it would work: All passengers would have to suit up in space gear. The beauty of being dressed in regulation uniforms is there’d be no reason to go through security. Well, maybe the TSA would still insist on some kind of individual scan, but there wouldn’t be two hundred and three million different combinations of shoes, purses, laptop bags, and jackets to search, so it’d be much quicker. Anyway, I envision everyone wearing blue coverall-type things with little turkeys embroidered on the fronts, and “Team Gobble-Naut” lettered on the back for Thanksgiving travel.

For Christmas I see something a little different, like green suits with miniature trees, and “Team You’ve Got Balls” across the shoulders. After suiting up, attendants would line and board folks based on where a person’s scheduled jettison is off the flight. Simple. You’d radio relatives waiting on the ground the landing coordinates, and presto, you’re at Aunt Nancy’s carving turkey!

I realize I’m brilliant and am about to share the news with Mr. Butt in the next seat, when the problem dawns on me. What about the return trip? Dang those Pilgrims, they didn’t think the whole process through. They never intended to sail back to England. Well, all I really need is a launch site built in Washington, aimed toward Florida.

As I’m mentally composing a letter to the good folks at NASA, the captain’s voice comes over the intercom. My flight is in its final decent into Spokane. Wow, that was fast…

The Mayflower trip took two months, not ten hours, but what if the Pilgrims had had more to occupy their minds during the journey? Who knows, imagining space flight may have made their voyage seem quicker too. Of course, if they’d shared their thoughts like I am they’d be accused of being witches. Apparently that wasn’t a very positive experience. Then again, holiday travel probably wouldn’t have caught on. Hmm…that’s a win-win situation.

Gobble, gobble!

You see, at the time, all our family pictures were thrown willy-nilly into a box. They needed to be organized and I was the gal for the job.

Now, I wasn’t looking to put together anything too cute. No pinking shears, glitter, or multi-hued gel markers for this girl. I wanted something more utilitarian. I figured I’d buy four or five big, cheap, chunky photo albums, and divide our cardboard housed mess of memories between them; you know, baby books, vacation books, holiday books, that kind of thing.

I spent one entire weekend sorting, labeling, and…going mad over the enormity of the task. So much so that on Sunday, I heaped all the snapshots back in their cubbies. What can I say? It was a short-lived phase; only slightly longer than the one in which I decided strapping on skates and “blading” around the neighborhood would be fun. That phase ended the day it began, with me on my butt in the road, and my darling children all pointing and laughing.

Anyway, as a failed “scrapper” I am condemned to forever lug around a pile of Polaroids. Right now they’re stacked on the top shelf in the den closet. At least they were until the other day, when I slid the closet door open, and — BOO! I was bopped on the head by a big ‘ole blast from the past!

I think I screamed. I know I plopped down — hard — in the doorway. I recall shaking my head to clear my bumped brain. Then I noticed the ghosts. They were scattered all over the carpet in living color. Each one was about 3 x 5 inches and howling for my attention. I picked one up, and…laughed out loud.

There were the Forney Boys at the beach; probably Ocean Shores, Washington. Two 10-year olds and a 7-year old caught, forever in time, building a fort of wet sand, driftwood, and what looked to be soggy pieces of a smashed Styrofoam cooler. All three are having a great time and grinning for the camera. I remembered that later the same day all three kids got in a fight. The youngest ran off and hid in the dunes, scaring the other two half to death until they found him and wished him dead, too. It’s true what they say: Boys will be boys, but brothers are lethal. The apparition made me feel slightly old, and a little sad, but I had to smile at it.

As I sat there, another phantom wavered into view and I made a grab for it. Oh my God! Look at my husband! What’s that on his head? Why, it’s hair! He’s got tons of it and every strand dark in color! And is that me? Why am I wearing so much eye gunk, and every lash so dark in color? I look like someone straight out of Oz. And I don’t mean Glenda the Good. What was I thinking? All I know is that after this engagement photo ran in the local paper, I ran screeching to a salon to get my face “done.” No way did I want a witchy wedding portrait. Looking at the frightening vision, I also remembered telling my then future husband that if he ever lost his beautiful and bountiful hair, I’d divorce him. That may have been a tad shallow of me. Of course we’re still married, but not for his follicular retention. He’s got other…ah…talents that keep me happy.

I got up then to get a glass of chardonnay. Spirits require spirits, I always say. And I’m glad I have that philosophy, because after I sat back down, the little goblins kept jumping out at me. They splashed in first baths and blew out candles. One pedaled a tricycle, another rode a bike. Others strummed guitars or banged on drums. They paraded in birthday suits, Halloween costumes, and graduation caps. An especially spooky creature kept changing the color of his curls. He went from blonde to blue to green to pink. His message, whispered across the portals of time, seemed to be that sometimes teenagers are weird. I whispered back that I agreed, but that what he didn’t know then, I do now: That particular strange one went from bad to worse to…a young man to be proud of.

Talking to spooks? Sure! I must have sat there for a couple of hours conversing with them, and I felt grateful for the random haunting. I hope this year you’ll be lucky too, and run into a few personal gremlins from the past. When you do, let them go bump in your night. Believe me, it’s really not a bad kind of magic to have memory ghosts fluttering around inside your heart. I’d suggest though, that you don’t let them bash you up side the head.

Happy Halloween!

Glasses! I looked back over my shoulder at the man-monster who had just spent the past hour putting my peepers through the wringer. He rubbed his hands together gleefully, and cackled.

“I fortell bifocals in your future.”

What a nefarious plan! Of course, I foiled him. I never went back. I fled ‘cross country instead.

July, 2008. I was standing in the checkout at the grocery store with one of my sons when I glanced over and read a tabloid headline.

“SAX SELLS!”

O.K., so I’ m not much of a jazz fan. My husband loves the stuff, but when I listen, all I hear are freight trains barreling through my brain. Really, the only thing a sax could sell me is aspirin to relieve the headache brought on by high, blasting blues notes.

“Look at that headline…I don’t get it. That’s migraine music to me.”

“Music?”

“Yeah, saxophones… Kenny G, John Coltrane…”

“Mom, it says S-E-X… You know, everybody wants it so they’ll buy anything to get it.”

Oh, Sex! Not Sax. Got it. And that’s when I realized the doc’s curse had followed me to Florida. I swore I’d fight it, but the battle has become increasingly difficult.

Last month, I pulled into the parking lot at the mall right behind a black SUV. Traffic was slow and spaces hard to find, so I ended up following the same vehicle up and down a few rows. The driver had a sticker on his bumper that read: “Life is a trip. Take a puddle.”

Huh? I mean how would one carry a puddle? In, like, an empty milk container? But then you’d really just have a jug of water, not a puddle. And why would someone want to carry one? By “trip,” do they mean“fall down” and splashing into your own little pool might soften the landing? I really hate moving missives that are so hard to figure out! I parked a few spots away from the SUV, and as I walked past, I looked again at the message: “Life is a trip. Take a paddle.”

Yep, makes more sense. Although it still didn’t do much for me. I’d guess the driver is a canoeing enthusiast, but maybe he just liked to whack on things. I remembered that when the oldest Forney boys turned 18, they and their buddies went to an “adult” store. One item that impressed the guys was a giant paddle hanging on the wall. It had a saying painted on it, something about spankings and monkeys. So I guess that could be this guy’s “trip.”

Anyway, I certainly don’t need no stinking glasses to correctly decipher bumper stickers! They’re tiny. No one can read them clearly at first glance anyway. It’s not like perusing a billboard, right?

A couple of weeks later, I was riding shotgun, my husband driving, when a colorful shop sign caught my eye: “HOMELESS PORK ROAST.”

Immediately a picture flashed in my mind of a petered-out pig wearing a ragged t-shirt, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and smoke curling up over his snout. He’s holding a flap ripped from a cardboard box. “Will work for slop” is printed on it. Poor, poor Porky !

“What do you think Judy? That’d be good. Maybe I’ll cook up a boneless roast when we’ve got company next month.”

“Yeah… Yum…”

Not “H” as in homeless, but “B” as in boneless. Of course! I didn’t panic. I mean, it was really no big deal. My eyes were just a little tired. Besides, it’s not as if the butcher where advertising on the side of a bus or anything huge like that.

And then, finally, there was last Saturday.

“Hey Vic, come and look…See the red and white tour bus out there. The Doobie Brothers! Are they playing the King Center or somewhere?

“Honey, it says ‘Donate Blood’…”

September, 2008. I’ve made an appointment with a local ophthalmologist. Maybe this new one will turn out to be the eye trades equivalent of Dr. Jekyll to the old guy’s Mr. Hyde. And I’m thinking, as I type, that wearing specs won’t be all that sinister.

That is as long as I can find a very go-with-everything-in-my-wardrobe-saxy pair. Err…I mean sexy pair.

Why do they have to make the letters on these keyboards so dang small?

No, that particular movie was translated from Russian. The “in” of the title, should have been “on,” so no dirty dancing ever filled the screen, but apparently my kids didn’t fall too far from the Mother Ship.

Anyway, we’ve moved cross country three times, and any place we’ve found ourselves living isn’t home till our posters are hung. We’ve also got old space toys, books, and a ray gun-wielding, sparking, head-spinning robot collection. Again, I know what you’re thinking: She’s a nut!

…And you’d be right. I am an expert. Having been trained by the best low budget sci-fi films available while also being highly suggestible has made me sure that one day, we of earth will be taken over by “worlds unknown.” I know aliens are out there, and I know they are coming. I can prove it, too. I’ve found the signs washed up along the seashore.

It started two years ago. Back then we were living in Washington State, but would fly out to stay and play with friends living beachside. One day I was strolling along the wave line at low tide when I spotted something odd among the broken shells. It was an astronaut! On closer inspection, I discovered he was about two inches tall, and his suit appeared to be made of some weird, hard bodied, futuristic white material. It looked a little like plastic, but of course couldn’t have been because, duh, plastic couldn’t withstand the heat of re-entry, and obviously the guy had fallen from space! Gamma rays must have shrunk him. They do that sometimes. I washed my miniature man off in the waves, (realizing later how lucky I was that salt water hadn’t restored him to normal size), pocketed him, and hurried back to where our landing party…err…friends had drug chairs and coolers beside the water and planted umbrellas in the sand intending to spend the afternoon.

“Look…”

“You found that? We never find anything!”

“Cool, huh?!”

That night I dug Mr. Astronaut out of my pocket and laid him on the dresser. I dozed off half expecting to wake and discover him fully grown and scrounging for coffee. I just hoped he’d have found a robe to put on. When we finally moved to the Space Coast, I gave Mr. A a place of honor on the kitchen counter. He seemed lonely, but where does a two-inch tall man find companionship? I was about to find out.

There had been a big storm and debris littered the sand. Seaweed had been thrown up nearly to the dunes, and I was out looking for treasure when I stepped into a pile of the green gunk, slipped, fell, and found…a love interest for my space man. She was beautiful. Her gown was knee length and looked to have been fashioned from the same un-earthly material as Mr. Astronaut’s suit. She’d come from a distant planet, too! Perfect. The only problem might be her size. She was a gargantuan five inches. Oh well, everyone knows aliens can’t be choosers, especially when it comes to the matter of re-population. I bundled Seaweed Girl into my beachcombing bag and ran back home. My husband was facilitating a repair to a malfunctioning lunar pod…err…was on a conference call with his office, so I had to wait till he’d hung up to share my find.

“Look. A wife for Mr. Astronaut.”

“Or, ‘The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman’…”

“Better yet.”

“Honey, I think the salt air is messing with your head.”

“Maybe you just married a monster from outer space.”

“Well, there’s a news flash!”

Mr. Astronaut took to Seaweed Girl immediately, (I’m sure there was more to the attraction than his being able to look up her dress), and the happy couple seemed to settle, tranquilly, into life on their earthly kitchen island. That is until the following Tuesday.

The tide was low and I’d waded out, hoping to find some chunks of sea glass under the rock ledge. Tiny fish darted out of my path, and one crab raised and shook his claw at me. As I watched him scurry away, two things floating in the foamy water caught my eye. The first creature was hideous! Green scaly skin covered its body and knife sharp ridges ran the entire inch and a quarter up its back from tail to head. Could it be? Had I snatched an outer space dinosaur from the sea? The second monster was brown and hairy. It stared up, from the palm of my hand, with round monkey-like eyes, and wore what reminded me of a tattered white T shirt, just like something a human would wear. An extraterrestrial ape! His home planet must be eerily similar to ours considering his attire. I splashed back to shore, put one alien in each of my shoes, (they might have fought had I put them together), and carried them home to show my husband.

“Pets for the newlyweds?”

“No way! We can’t have four beings plotting against Earth!”

“Seriously, honey, stay indoors…”

He doesn’t get it! Mr. Astronaut, Seaweed Girl, Space-O-Saur, and Roddy McDowall joining forces would mean planetary destruction! I’ve seen it happen in realistic black and white. So come on by, if you dare, but be prepared…you’ll leave a believer, too.

The park is crowded. Kids race in, out, and around strolling adults. Everyone looks a little less wilted under the shade of the giant sycamore trees. One of the high school bands is playing.

“Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light…”

That song always cracks me up when it’s played for a crowd. You just know everyone is trying to remember the words to sing along. It’d be funny to randomly shove a microphone under a few pair of mumbling lips and see what lyrics it picks up. I purchase my watermelons, some corn, and a of couple nursery flats of flowers. I figure I’ve got just enough time to get home and get things planted before company shows up for tonight’s BBQ.

“What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?…”

I drive home, unaware of the fun I’m about to have, humming the song whose title will never be the same for me again…

Sirens wail. Fire trucks! I hear them in the distance, screaming closer.
Three boys pump bike pedals, race up the road and holler toward the house.
And, of course, one of those boys is mine.
Resigned, I set marigolds and gloves aside, and wait for disaster to brake in the drive.

Sage burns hot, then smolders and smokes. Five acres gone just — SNAP — that fast.
Policemen join firemen in grilling three wide-eyed terrified guys.
And, of course, one of those guys is mine.
No use in denying it! Roman candles leave clues!
Guilty is guilty, accident or no!
Listen here Mrs. Forney, did you raise an idiot kid? Well, yes Sir, obviously I did.
Exacting punishment? Go on, you’ve got my attention. I like murder. What’s your opinion?
Death is too easy? You think so? Well, maybe.

Banishment? Sure, it’s a dream of mine, true, but hardly fair to strange folks somewhere.
Ukulele solos? That’s perfect! Can you pipe them into his cell, 24-7, down at the jail?
Mothers from the neighborhood drive by and glare.
Mothers whose “angels” are toddling still.
Each of those gals needs to be told…
Reality sucks. Toddlers grow. Teenagers are stupid. Believe me I know!…

I know what you’re wondering. Did I commit homicide? Did we throw the BBQ as planned? Well, no and yes. Initially, with the “law” standing beside me in the smoking field, I couldn’t get my hands on the boy and have a prayer of getting away with murder. Then, during dinner, family and friends talked me out of it. Somehow ending the story with strangulation just seemed too “movie of the week.” The kid did have to go to juvenile court the next week. The judge sentenced him to attend Fire Starter School. Yeah, I know. It seems like he had that part down…

“And the roman’s red glare… the candles bursting in air…’

Happy Fourth of July!