What Possessed Me???

2015-05-06T17:27:00.001-04:00

Frau Farbissina Was Right.....Exhibit A

2014-08-07T19:01:00.000-04:00

Lies!

I have become Frau.

I am Frau,
because this is
now the

only word in my

vocabulary.

You see,
I am a drained consumer.

I have consumed.

I have been guilty of

a Naive Mind.

And, now
I have no mind.

I have lost it..

There, I said it plain.

I always believed
that I am quite thorough,

when it came to
purchasing products.

Whether I did my
incessant research on an item,

read every damned label

in the supermarket,
called the company,

PURCHASED a subscription to
Consumer Reports,

I have been thorough.

True Fact:
It takes me forever to food shop,
in seeking out food that does not have
an expiration date from 1997 or prior...
Thus, I once found myself in our local A&P at night.

As I read and searched and perused
and lost track of reality,
I came around the corner
of the next aisle &
banged into a pimple-studded
seventeen-year-old with headphones
attached to his head.
He took one look at me &
actually shrieked.

Oh, shit.
Was my mascara down my face like
Ozzie or something?
Was I that scary at night?

"What are you doing in here???????"
he, no kidding,
sincerely inquired,
cause he didn't seem to know.

I paused,
as I considered my response.
"Um, I think
I'm grocery shopping, dear.
Does that sound correct?"

"Lady, we CLOSED two hours ago...
You're not supposed to be here.
You can't be here.
I was supposed to make sure
no one was still here. Shit."

I blinked rapidly,
as I processed his declaration.

I dropped my head,
to scan the overflowing contents
of my grocery cart.

My loaf of bread protruded
over the side like
an accident victim
waving for help.

I shopped in a fog of
best-used-by-dates,
fat and fiber content,
Non-GMO vs. Organic information

so deeply that
I failed to notice
that I hadn't passed
another shopping human
for over 120 minutes.

How f'ing sad is that??

This is what my life
had been reduced to.

I was so over-due,
that the cash registers
were shut down & it took
a manager another 2 hours
to process my sale,
without the benefit of technology.

He had first insinuated
that I should abandon
my flowing cart of choices &
call it a night.

When he saw the contorted
look of horror on my face,
I think he figured utilizing a
calculator was better than utilizing

the S.W.A.T. Team.

Just to "F" with his mind,

for failing to make

that requisite announcement

at the close of day

for selecting food & household items,

when he announced

the amount that I owed,

I presented him with my

neatly organized & paper-clipped

pile of coupons!

I had spent three-million seconds
in that place, carefully selecting
unexpired foods & items that were used
to lure me in, at a ridiculous price.

I certainly was not
going gently
into that good night...

or the empty parking lot.

But, it matters not.

If
I

bought it,

I guarantee it sucks.

And, I can prove it.

Exhibit A:

My husband and I
peacefully co-existed

with a refrigerator from 1979,

until the door jumped from
it's hinges and the duct tape
couldn't take it no more.

Even the duct tape failed me.

This refrigerator,

although old, unsexy and
unkind to my broken back,

owed us nothing &

saw us through.

When it's demise presented itself,

we were forced to enter this century

and buy a new one.

I was stupidly excited
about our future
refrigeration needs!

I had never had a new one.

When I bought my apartment,

it was included...and it served me well.

Then we had old faithful

for

10,000 years

NEVER, ever had a repair,
a problem or a headache.

Granted, I made my
own ice cubes.

I did. I admit it.

I had an old, award-winning
family recipe &
utilized it on a near daily basis.

I could live with that.

When we selected our
dearly departed's replacement,
I thought long and hard.

I knew what was important.

I did my research!

I did my side-by-side comparisons,

of price,

of ice,

of ease and

of peace...

I must have been
hitting the crack pipe
a little hard that week,

cause my research

was shit.

We journeyed to LOW'S

(Nope. Not spelled incorrectly.)

to pick out a new baby.

Yes, yes...I was slightly tingly.

It was a first for me &
I wanted to enjoy it.

Good thing I enjoyed

THE PROCESS.

We asinine-ly
selected a
SamShit,

doubled doored,

freezer-on-the-bottom-cause-I'm-a-gimp,

with an auto ice maker.

No water dispenser, thank you.

As it turns out,
I wouldn't have been
strong enough for

that amenity.

As I perused my new addition,

I was dreamily picturing

donating my trusty,

plastic ice cube trays...

that I would never need again!

Like a real adult,

I could open the freezer drawer &

fill my cup with

the magical droppings

that would be provided for me
by Tokyo.

Uh, huh.

Three weeks into
my relationship,

I went for some
magically made ice &

found

NONE.

WTF?????

Where's my ice?

My stomach did a little flip,

as I just knew we were sailing into shit.

I went to call the 800-number for
SamShit,

that is included on the unit.

If you are in possession
of the Hubble Telescope,
you MIGHT

be able to pick the number
up correctly.

I wear reading glasses

& they were useless.

Using a magnifying glass,
I assumed I had the
correct number &
stupidly placed the call.

I was transferred through
a bevy of experts.

The final expert
stayed on the phone
with me for nearly
AN HOUR.

When I explained that

my brand-new
SamShit,

was not producing
my beloved ice cubes,
they stated that they would
hold my hand &
walk me through

The Valley of Death.

The nice lady
that was doing
the hand-holding,

had herself

a little attitude.

As she was
expertly guiding me,
from her trusty little
how-to guide-a-moron guidebook,
she was insinuating
that I was a little...

SLOW.

She had a little
snide sneer
in her voice,
that said I had
been the problem
with the
SamShit,

not producing as promised.

Their service model
SOUNDS
incredibly professional.

They asked for my first name,
& then thanked me
for that information.

Ditto on my last name.

Just as grateful,
she did sound.

Wow, the Japanese
are really stepping up
the customer service,
I unintelligently
thought to myself.

She took me through
pages of instruction,
on how to get those
frozen nuggets of water
to drop down
into my anxiously
awaiting ice bin.

She had me push buttons that
N.A.S.A.
ain't never seen.

Some odd configuration
of a seven-second
hold on one button,
while you whistle Dixie &
try to depress the other button...

at the same time.

When it needed repeating,
she got a little attitudy.

Professionally attitudy, that is.

It was masked with
a crappy version of
"I'm here to help you"
false-facade.

False facade??

Ugh. I'm going to hell.

So, after scolding me
for being a moron,
the tutorial comes to
a screeching halt
when she announces that

I
SHOULD
see
AN
ICE
CUBE
within

24-hours.

Ok, I admit it.

I got rude.

Just a little.

I abbreviated
my profanity,
so as not to
personally assault
this Robo-Rep's ears.

She took
complete umbrage at my
utter unwillingness
to wait the
required waiting period

for
one
single
ice cube
to appear.

"Well, that's how it works,"
she snidely let me know.

Really????
Does it say that in your manual??

24 hours?

Why not a week?

I have time.

Well, that encounter
finally ended &
at the

hour mark,
a single nugget
of frozen bliss
plopped into
its' waiting bin,
as promised.

They were true
to their word.
With two to spare...

Yeah, me.

Some months later,
yet still considered
brand-new...

I was returned
to the scene of
the crime.

No ice.

I don't think
I had enough
cash on hand

for bail.

Repeated the
entire scenario,
except this time
they accused me
of having items
in my freezer
and blocking the vents
that appear all around
the pull out bins.

I was informed
that these vents
MUST be kept clear,
so that the
'freeze'
can actually
circulate throughout.

As this information
was given to me,
I perused my freezer &
according to the specs of this
freeze-resistant box,
I could easily plan
to store
two items

without
blocking anything venty.

In late May of this year,

it happened again.

This time,
no bevy of experts.
No hand-holding.
They were
sending out

a tech!

Wow.

The tech shows up, after

WAITING

A WEEK

for an appointment.

He needs to see my

proof of warranty,

which was not
mentioned or
reminded to me
when
the appointment
was made.

Reluctantly, I called
SamShit.
Yes, I did.
I had to.
They informed me that our
ONE YEAR WARRANTY
had expired
at the close of April.

How does a

$2,500

appliance
come with
one year of service??

She quickly
reminded me that
we had paid
for an extended,
four-year warranty,
through
LOW'S ,
and that
SamShit
should not have
booked the appointment...
this was now
LOW'S

baby.

So,
LOW'S
tries to relay to
Mr. Repairman
that we are covered,
but his iPad
ain't getting the message.

After an hour and a half,
Mr. Repairman
is instructed by
his Mothership

to leave,
as they can't
rectify the situation.

I chased (ok, hobbled)
after his truck,
begging him to
come back for cash...

Or golf clubs.

No go.

No way.

And No ice.

But!!
before he left,
he threw
a thermometer in
the refrigerator &
informed me
that it
was approximately
60°

in there.

Back on the phone
to LOW'S.

LOW'S re-books
the appointment,
with the
same service center that
SamShit
had sent,

A WEEK &

A HALF LATER.

They inform me
that we have
$250 worth of
"Lost Food Coverage"

under our warranty.

Yippee. Great.
I had to dump
the entire contents of
the hot box &
write down
each item & it's price.

Just my organic mustard collection
cost us more than that...

10 days of take-out, salads &
bowls of cereal later,

two new Mr. Repairmen
show up on Tuesday.

They assure me
that they
are here
to save the day!
Real nice guys,
but I had no faith.

They informed me
that the
back panel of my
14-month old
SamShit
was frozen solid...
In the REFRIGERATOR.

Frozen!!!!

That's the word
I had been
looking for all along!

In the freezer, unfortunately.

When they realized that my

LITHIUM

required refrigeration,

they placed the order
for the parts,
on an
EMERGENCY BASIS.

The parts would be
over-nighted &
then I could call for
a new
appointment!

So, a big box
shows up
on Thursday,
which is over-night

on other planets.

I call the service center,
as directed
(and I use that term reluctantly)
&
tell them that

the parts have arrived.

I beg them
in three languages
to send someone
right over.

After they finished
rolling on the floor,
they inform me
that they can't do any better
than the following

TUESDAY.

We're now at the
four-week mark

and they're still using the word
'service'
in their name.

Apparently,
my now
unchilled Lithium stash
was of no mind
to them.

Stupid move.

On Monday,
another part
shows up by UPS!!

Gee, thank God
they sucketh mightily &
wouldn't get me in earlier...

I even, stupidly inquired,
(not because I'm anal retentive,
but because I've been
screwed over so many times),
at the time of the
placement of the emergency order,
if all parts would arrive
at the same time.

"They should."

Uh, Huh.
My other favorite word.
Like when I ask my husband,
"Honey, do we have enough gasoline
to get us home?"

"We SHOULD."

So, Tuesday comes &
they return.
This is what my
REFRIGERATOR
looked like:

Thank God we didn't opt for
the automatic water dispenser....

We'd probably get
flames shooting out.....

The now, over-flowing bin of ice
is just about the only
thing that's in this
piece of crap.

We're buying new
Duct Tape.

Suck it, SamShit.

~SusiTheJ~
Just a humble, ice-cube making kinda gal…

Hunter Mountain Heart Failure

2013-07-25T13:00:00.002-04:00

One fine, snowy weekend,

Lori and I decided to go to our

Ski House at

Hunter Mountain

on a girls-only outing.

She told me that she had invited

a co-worker.

As I recall,

a small chill

went down my spine.

I don't know why, exactly.

Then we discovered that the

co-worker had

failed to inform anyone

e.g. SURPRISE US!!!!

that she had invited

her psychotic sister.

Dana, the psychopath.

At first, they seemed

like a

hoot & a half.

They were like night and day,

in appearance

and, well

everything else.

Mostly Morals.

Debbie was

somewhat sweet...

Dana was a nightmare.

This girl spent

the first 30 seconds I met her

ragging on her

stupid-ass boyfriend,

who built her a

multi-million dollar home

in a tony town in

Westchester County, New York.

This man owned and operated his own

auto body repair shop.

She was pretty much using him,

to get everything

that she could manage to get from him.

She was pretty.

But she wasn't that pretty.

I guess she had that

certain..... jenesequa

that he just couldn't

do without.

Whatever.

I sat with my mouth

wide open,

listening to her go on and on

to an almost total stranger

about what a schmuck he was...

for all that she had

already

managed to take from him,

apparently without his

conscious consent.

So, after a good

6 minutes of

her braggery

about the

Green Metallic Jag-U-R

he provided

Ooops.

Wrong Pic.

and the size of her pool

that he dug with his

own two hands,

she said she

couldn't stand him,

had no respect for him,

yet was pleasantly surprised to find

that she was having

the time of her life...

all on his dime.

I didn't even know

this poor fool,

but sooooo desperately

wanted to

find him and buy him

a few cups of coffee...

She then painted us a picture

of her wedding day

(to someone else)

when she came down

with a raging

Kidney Stone.

She had a $50,000 wedding

& didn't care if

she had blood

dripping from

her tiara...

she was, in fact,

getting married.

She was in such excrutiating pain,

that the doctor had given her multiple

rounds of Morphine

that morning.

She was so trashed,

that they had to wheel her into

the church..

Her head was hanging

off the vinyl back

of the wheelchair,

as her veil was getting caught up

in the wheels &

pulling on her head

like an upside down puppet.

The groom had NO IDEA

what had taken place

that morning,

so he was shell-shocked to see

his beautiful bride

drooling,

cursing &

singing at the top of her lungs,

as she was wheeled down

the aisle to him.

She swore to us that when the priest

asked if she took this man

to be her husband,

she loudly announced,

"Hey Father,

What The F#$ck do YOU think??"

So. It's Friday night in Hunter Mountain.

The bestest night of the week

in Ski Country, New York.

We were four ladies

(actually, make that three...

the other one was a dirtbag)

looking to go out and

find us a little fun

in the downtown boondocks

of Tannersville, New York.

In the parking lot of our Condo,

it was quickly and unfairly decided

that we were NOT taking my

leaking, Cutlass Supreme to the hot-spot.

We were going in Dana's

extortion mobile.

When we got outside, Lori thought I

was drooling over the car,

as I gently petted it.

What she didn't realize

was that I was crying on the inside,

remembering my

METALLIC GREEN

PEA PICKER...

The color had stuck in my little brain,

all of my life &

I found myself drawn to the color,

whenever I'd come upon it.

So no, short of chucking

all of my values out

the window,

I'd sooner take the bus

everywhere I went,

as opposed to using a man for a

luxury form of transportation:

PROVIDED THAT BUS WAS

HUNTER GREEN METALLIC ...

The club we went to

was packed....

Now, I was no stand-out

in a crowd,

but I was deeply & thoroughly

enjoying myself.

We had struck up a conversation

with a group of nice gentlemen

& we were dancing &

drinking & dancing

& hanging out.

It was just one of those nights

when you were completely ON.

Ya know?

They laughed at my jokes,

bought me drinks

and danced with me.

A lot.

Lori was the bystander...

she had a boyfriend,

back in Westchester.

It was just a good,

fun night.

About an hour

into my mayhem,

Lori comes over,

grabs my arm & says,

"We're Out Of Here...Wrap it up."

"Whhhhhaaaaaa????" I literally cried.

"Debbie is having

a HEART ATTACK &

we need to leave."

Wait.

What does that

have to do with me????

I don't know this woman.

I sure as hell

despised her sister &

I wasn't quite ready

to make hay.

My CPR skills weren't even

all that great, for Christ's sake!

"Are You Alright? Are You Ok?

Oooooh! I love this song!!!!"

I was always easily bored.

As I was dragged

off the dance floor,

I was sort of whining, crying &

stomping my feet

that my fun night had come

to a very screeching halt.

The next thing I know,

Lori & I are squooshed

into the backseat of

Dana's PussyMobile.

Well? What would you call it???

Dana the ho, is whipping down

Route 28

to the hospital in

Saugerties.

(Really??????)

I sure would

have begged to

be airlifted to Westchester.

Just saying.

This chick could not

drive for shit.

She is winding down

the mountain,

with Debbie in the front seat,

crying out that

she's seeing bright

lights flash before her eyes.

Uhm, Deb...that's not the

Angel of Death, love...

that's the on-coming headlights

from the on-coming traffic.

This is quite the cracker-jack gene-pool

I'm sitting in.

Oh, boy...is this gonna be a

long night in Saugerties.

Lori & I are huddled

together in the

back seat of this

emerald box on wheels,

with our arms

wrapped around

each other.

"I loved you, Lori.

You do know we're gonna die, right?"

" I loved you, too Sue....Yes, I know."

Maria Andretti,

the bloodsucking slut

was going to plunge

us off the side of the

icy mountain,

to our icy deaths below...

AND if we survived,

all four of us

would now be in need of a

defibrillator.

How does EMS determine

which coronary patient goes first???

Does the original person who cried "heart-attack!" get jump-started first?

I guess that would be only fair.

Hhhmmm...

So. The tires are

spinning & screaming.

Horns are blasting at us,

as Stupida can't even properly

kill us in her own lane,

but is now crossing the double line.

Lori & I remained in our

huddle of death,

with our eyes tightly shut,

as we didn't care

to witness the

decapitation of Debbie,

who was intermittently

screaming & praying.

I couldn't make out

if she was praying to God

because she knew

she was going to die

or because she could actually

see

that she was.

It was just a jumbled blur.

All of a sudden,

Dana The Dangerous,

spins the car

into the perfect parking spot

in the Emergency Room lot.

Dana is violently dragging Debbie

out of the passenger door,

as she's screaming for a stretcher &

a priest.....

because her beloved sister

is about to die.

Debbie suddenly looks up

at Dana with an expression of,

"Oh, shit...I am dying. I knew it!"

Somehow, Lori and I got

left in the still of the Saugerties night,

in the back seat,

with both the

driver's door and

passenger door

wide open, like something out of

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

We sit silently, staring ahead for a good

minute or so.

Then we stare at each other.

We suddenly realize that

we are both trashed &

we crack up laughing...

This car is so f'ing small

that we had to pull each other

out of the tiny bucket seats

to be able to exit the car.

We're both in four-inch heels,

trying to maneuver

the icy pavement

beneath us.

This is probably the

turning point in my life,

when I started to

carry sneakers with me,

wherever I would go.

You just never

knew when your evening

would go to shit.

By the time we are upright...

out of the Jag,

we are drunk, laughing &

stumbling through

the doors of boondock medical hell.

We are trying to ascertain

where Debbie & Slutso went to.

Can't find them anywhere.

We're waiting in the hallway

& Lori decides to call her boyfriend

even though it's many hours into

the wee hours of the morning

and

he's a surgeon..

who had surgery the next morning.

Just to say "Hi."

Yikes.

We are giggling through

this whole episode

because we never got an

opportunity to consume any food

while we consumed too much vodka.

The nurse finally comes out

and tells us that our friend...

singular, as in only one of them,

would like us to come in.

Oh my God.

Did this chick really die?????

We're giggling like drunken sailors &

she passed away??

Wait! Maybe we'd caught a break

& Debbie was still breathing!

We walk into the E.R. bay

where she was lying and say,

"Debbie, how are you feeling?"

"Susan, you are sooooo drunk!" Ho-Ho, the

shitty driver loudly exclaims

for the nurse to hear.

"That's not Debbie, that's Dana...

I'm Debbie!!"

Lori shoots me a look that

tells me I'm not the slow one here.

Apparently, Debbie had herself NO

medical insurance,

whatsoever.

But guess who did????

Probably the only kind of

kind act

this girl ever committed...

even if it was illegal.

So, Debbie-Dana stupidly

keep engaging us

in conversation

that frankly,

we were just too drunk

to keep up with.

Every time we answered

one of them,

it would come out as

Debdana....

Not bad...it worked...

I believe this is

where presenting

a picture I.D.

with your insurance card

was born.

By the time we were sprung from

Saugerties Hospital,

it was 4:30am.

Debdana was released

with a very

serious diagnosis:

"Gas????

Are you f'ing kidding me???"

We were almost plummeted off

the side of Mount Hunter....

were yanked away

from the best

night of innocent debauchery

we'd had in a dog's day

& she's got GAS????

Coulda, woulda, shoulda

stuck a pin in her

& went back to the dance floor.

f.m.l.

Now, here's the kicker:

Two weeks later,

I was creamed on the

Cross Bronx Expressway...

Yep. This one.

I was banged up pretty badly,

but came out alive.

My car, however,

did not.

My brother, who was a

Police Officer in a

somewhat local vicinity,

made arrangements to have my

half-dead car

towed to the guy

that did all of the body work

on the police cars.

When I could finally

move around,

Mike drove me

to see this man...

to talk about the damage on my car.

Mike introduces me to Billy,

who is just a teddy-bear of a guy...

a real sweetheart.

We chatted for a while &

then he leads me to a trailer,

which doubled as the office...

to fill out some paperwork.

I hobble up the stairs on my crutches &

I'm face-to-face with.....

the Jaguar-owning skank.

Now talk about the merits

of having a defibrillator

at your place of work.

Anybody got change for the bus????

~SusiTheJag-U-R-Less~

KarmaKarmaKarmaKarmaKarmaKarmaKarm

Hi Ho, Hi Ho....It's Off To The Betty Ford Clinic, I Go....

2013-02-10T18:44:00.000-05:00

It appears that my fat ass is

on the verge of being

shipped off to rehab,

by my fed-up husband.

I'm not drinking,

too, too much.

I'm not using any illicit drugs.

I'm not a sex fiend.

I am psychologically ravaged by

BEJEWELED BLITZ.

You know...

That stupid f'ing game that is offered

through your facebook account.

I was never a "blingy" kind of girl...

I have my beloved

engagement ring &

wedding ring &

a few pieces of NICE costume jewelry....

No. The gems I pine for are electronic.

They go BOOM!

This game is free of charge to play,

which has proven to be

the unraveling of

what's left of my mind.

It is, no doubt,

a game that has been developed by

psychotic Nazis.....

Or Former Nuns.

Same Jello mold.

The kind of geniuses they recruit

from Think Tanks,

Brain-Trust Roundtables &

Hospitals for the Criminally Insane.

Lunatics, in a word.

I have had to defend my incessant play

of this miserable form of self-entertainment

on many an occassion.

But in my defense of my demented self,

I explained to my

beloved, pissed-off spouse....

It's The Voice Of The Man In The Game

That Keeps Me Coming Back For More:

I picture a Chinese Warrior,

for some stupid reason.

I'm mentally torn on whether I'm channeling

Confucius

Christopher Walken in Drag.

Doug and I were watching Kill Bill, Vol. 2
last night & I loudly exclaimed,

"Hello, Lov--ah!!!!!"

No. It was not Fabio, in a loincloth....
It was not some supposedly hot,
hunky,
hollywood
homeboy
that made me squeal...

...ONLY MY GOLF PRO CAN DO THAT...

woof.

This was the man of my subconscious dreams:

PEI MEI

It's what he says,

when I do good.

"Excellent."

"Awesome."

"Spectacular."

There's another, greater superlative...

but I'm not so good, that I get to hear it very often,

and subsequently can't recall it.

I guess I just figured that if I play this

f'ing game enough,

that would be all that sticks in my empty head.

I think I've actually gifted my husband

with the gift of escape:

I don't require him to ply me with these

adjectives, the way that I require Pei to do...

that would appear way too needy.

Instead, I get my jollies

from an unknown 900 year-old Chinese Man,

who apparently doesn't know any better.

I giggle when he rewards me with

my descriptive accolades.

When I venture out to get my piggies painted,

my cute little Korean Nail Chick named Su

laughs at me, as she's sloughing off an extra foot or two and hears Pei pseudo-patting me on the back with his purty talk....

"What dat???"

I tried to quickly explain it to her,

but she insisted on watching me play.

Now, every time I go to see her, I place my ugly

dogs into the footbath & she starts:

"Whas new? she will inquire.
Me: "Uhm, blah blah, blah blah..."
"YOU AWE.....SUM!!!!!"

"I hate Chinese men,

but this guy cool!"

Good Grief.

I've started a race war in Dutchess County.

My absolute favorite part is when

Cat's Eye is activated.

Now, if you follow my blog

you know about my feelings and

historical experiences with felines.

Not my pet preference, for a pet...

but this cat,

with eyes like the

robot from the Scooby Doo episode

is one cool kitty.

Fritz the Cat is downright f'ing jealous.

After all, Fritz can't blow crap up with

his killer laser eyeball,

Probably cause he ain't got one!

(Take THAT application

of the English Language,

all you Ruler-Swinging Nazi Nuns!!)

God, but the number of pain in the asses

I could cross off

of my daily

"To Do Today" lists

would up my productivity level,

for sure.

I see a spin-off for Kitty & I....

Egg Rolls, anyone??

~SusiTheBeJeweledJBlitzer~

MEDIFAST, MY ASS...

2012-07-28T15:13:00.006-04:00

Doug &

I recently

came to a conclusion:

We Are Fat.

Yes, I believe

we're awesomely

PHAT,

but I digress.

My butt

looks like a side of beef.

Which, coincidentally

I would sell my Mother

for at this moment.

We decided that

due to

ridiculous schedules,

complete exhaustion,

a couple of botched surgeries &

a very deep love

of all things cheese,

and bread

we are

way

out of control.

Enter Dr. Ken Kochman.

Leave it to my beloved

golf pro of a husband,

to give a lesson

to a member

& I end up

starving.

Dr. Ken is a chiropractor,

who no longer is a

practicing chiropractor.

Apparently,

he made so much

damned money

by making so many people

so damned hungry...

Oh, good.

More Useful Information.

"After I lost 58 pounds on the Take Shape for Life Program,

I now enjoy sharing the gift of a Healthy Body,

~~A Healthy Mind~~ (nice try) & Healthy Finances!"

http://www.drkochman.tsfl.com

Dr. Ken was a big boy,

ONCE.

Now he's a tall skinny dude,

who doesn't go

to his office anymore.

He has replaced

the ability of being a doctor

with the ability

to make me

hungry and

grouchy.

He has a laugh

that I can't get enough of.

I've tried to explain to him,

with all due respect...

…That his laugh

is a dead-ringer for

Brian Griffin,

drinking martinis,

drunk off his doggy ass,

No shit.

That is what he sounds like.

It's the only thing

keeping me from pouring

bbq sauce all over him

cooking his

Long Island ass

'til he’s

medium rare.

This man was apparently

put into our lives,

to guide us through &

show us the lite

(yuk, yuk, yuk).

Secretly,

I'm waiting for him to

guide us to

Wendy's,

but I sure ain't

holding my breath.

I'M HUNGRY.

I'm a big girl.

I was born a big girl.

I need to be properly fed.

It says so

in the instruction book

that I came with.

I have lost

ten pounds in

2,200 days.

Ok, ok...

It's been

22 days.

But it sure feels like it

deserves a comma.

Great, huh?

I should be

pretty

danged

stoked.

But I'm not.

My husband

has probably lost

the same amount

as I have

on THIS DIET,

except

EVERYONE

is complimenting

HIM

on how he is

MELTING AWAY....

Wanna Hear F'd Up?
When I was little, I CRIED when they
melted the Wicked Witch of the
WEST...
My parents looked at each other &
shuddered a little.

My beloved,

freaking husband

went on a diet,

BEFORE we started OUR diet.

It's akin to

cleaning the house,

before the f'ing maid

shows up.

It's f'd up, is what it is.

"Ooohhh Dougie....

You're wasting

away to nothing!!"

“Hey, Sue…

Doug looks

soooooo good,

Maybe YOU should think

about trying the diet

he’s on…”

Bite Me, Dougie &

All of the fools you

paid to say this crap to me.

Love You To Death.

I'd Die For You.
(Except For That Aruba Bathroom Door Thingy)

But Bite Me,

Big Time.

I'm thinking about sabotaging him,

just a little

to bring him back to

where he

SHOULD

have

started out with me..

I REFUSE

to be seen in public

with my skinny husband.

If one more person comments

on HIS weight loss,

I will remove their eyeball

with a cocktail fork

& dip it in

Walden Farm’s

Calorie-Free

Cocktail Sauce,

Goddamnit..

Fair warning, fools.

And Dr. Ken....

Go try tennis....

~SusiTheVeryHungryJ~

<

<

Swimming In A Sea Of Chick Peas..................In The Caribbean Sea

2012-07-23T16:02:00.000-04:00

My husband has this

"feeding thing":

He feeds all

of God's creatures,

whether they want it,

or not...

If there is a remnant,
a scrap of a
piece of bread, roll or cake

in our house,

you'll find it on
the front lawn.

If I pull a

science experiment

out of our refrigerator,

Dr. Doolittle swoops in

& claims it for our

Dutchess County friends.

I watch him

tearing chunks of bread & such

& tossing it from the front steps

of our house

like he's in the park

feeding the freaking pigeons.

Tuppance, this...

Oh, they'll all come out & over

to investigate his generosity,

strewn across our

football field of a lawn...

(I HAD TO SHOW A CLASSIC, OR I'D BE TOAST..)

That doesn't mean they'd touch it

with a ten-foot pole.

Sorry, no pictures available of

Bambi pole-vaulting...

Every time he starts
doling out old food,

I like to do the commentary on it,

standing behind him.

"Hey Joe,"

one deer calls out to his friend.

"Did you see what this
heartless bastard

has dumped on us

NOW?????"

"Oh, Man!

What color is that bread?"

"Do you think he intentionally

doesn't eat this stuff &

WAITS until it's that color,

just so he can leave it for us?????"

"I don't know, man.

But that's f'd up...

I ain't touching it."

After one

Halloween-Birthday bash,

where Douglas had requested

Chinese food,

as his party fare of choice,

we ended up with a tray of

three thousand extra

EGG ROLLS.

Doug was all a-twitter

to count how many were left over,

as he had a BRILLIANT PLAN...

"I shall feed the family of

RED FOXES

RED FOXX

living in our backyard."

"Yes."

Good Lord.

Six little innocent Red Foxes,

no doubt dead on arrival

from such a gas pain,

that you could hear them scream

Dead Foxx

as they prayed for
God to take them,
quickly.

Wait. Get the mental picture.

Cabbage, Pork, Carrots &

WonTon Wrappers

deep-fried to golden perfection.

The level of sympathy
that I felt

for these poor,

furry creatures &

how they died

will haunt me til the day

I DIE.

Doug took the

same approach in Aruba.

Yes. THAT Aruba.

Now, this food

wasn't past its' prime....

it was just left over.

We do some

ass-kicking

food preparation

in our tropical kitchen.

We make a beautiful, fresh

Buffalo-Mozzarella Caprese.

Uh, Moo?

We make homemade Hummus.

And Bruscettas...And Seafood Salads.

But one of our favorites

is an ice-cold

Chick Pea Salad.

We include razor thin strips of

red onion,

fresh cilantro,

holland peppers...

& fresh garlic.

It's healthy &

it's delicious.

But it requires

having a glass of

Listerine as a chaser....

Whenever we make it,

inevitably we end up snorkeling

the very next day.

As my C.P. salad is

further marinating over-night,

Doug gets all giddy,

remembering the last time

he polluted the Caribbean Sea,

feeding Garbanzo Beans

to the innocent fishies.

Don't get me wrong.

It's an absolute hoot & a half

to have fishies of all sizes

surrounding your body

in the ocean,

waiting to see
what you brought them.

Like little puppies,

licking your face...

The giggle factor is the same.

I have tried to
persuade my beloved

to stop

f'ing up the Food Chain.

Apart from remnants of the

aforementioned

red onion,
orange, yellow & red
Holland Peppers,
garlic & cilantro

floating about in the once
crystal-clear Aruban water,

Chick Peas contain

roughly

10 Grams of Fiber Per Serving.

Yikes.

Roughly...

is an extremely

appropriate word.

Without the proper intake of water,

fiber in a human digestive system can

mimic spackel on dry wall.

Now picture the agony of

a six-inch fish, trying to

do away with a

half-inch legume...

Ouch, Baby...very Ouch.

I think this is a big factor

in the actual cause of a

TSUNAMI...

Hey, Doug....

Stick with feeding

those pigeons.

~SusiTheJ~

The Fishie Whisperer

Is There Ever Enough Holy Water, To Snuff Out The Flames???

2012-02-19T22:39:00.002-05:00

Doug & I took

my 83 & 1/2-year old Mother

out to dinner this week.

It was a little Valentine gift,

since we hadn't seen her
for a few weeks.

While we ate bruscetta
in one of her

favorite Italian joints
in Yonkers,

she was filling us in on the

recent happenings in

her social circle.

Since my Father passed away,

she has kept busy & active

within her community.

She still sits on the

board of directors

for one of the

local organizations.

She was at a

monthly board meeting

the other night.

They brought in

some member of

some fire department,

for either Yonkers or

The Bronx.

This was a nice fellow.

A helpful fellow.

He gave an informative talk

about Senior Citizens &

fire safety awareness.

He talked about
evil power strips &

how they are the biggest

cause of interior flames

since Mrs. O'Leary's heffer

kicked the lantern &

made crispy critters

of downtown Chicago.

So now,

she's on a tear through

her house,

seeking out

evil, killer power strips.

And, she wants an

inventory head count,

on how many

her children & grandchildren
are employing.

She then muses out loud,

"I never thought about it,

but since our house

is two stories (plus the attic),

This is the house from
The King of Queens...

This is my parents' house...
Can't watch that show.

what do I do if there's a fire

in the upstairs hallway?"

One of her
Senior Citizen comrades

had asked the nice

fire representative

if putting a

WET TOWEL

over their head

was a good idea.

He chuckled a little &

clarified for the man

that putting a wet towel over

one's head is only advisable

when you have NO CHOICE

but to run through the flames,

in order to save your own ass.

Sitting in your bedroom,

with a wet towel

draped over your head

will accomplish nothing...

(except to get your hair wet)

"You could take a wet towel &
stuff it under the door,
to block the smoke from
entering your bedroom,"
he generously threw in.

Even though that
cleared up

a real toughie,

my Mother remained on point,

talking about how inefficient

of a solution that would be,

in her world...

as her bathroom is

DOWN THE HALL...

THE ONE THAT'S NOW

ENGULFED IN FLAMES.

How am I gonna wet my towel???

What do I do,

not having an attached

Master Bathroom???

I gently, yet dutifully,

in the persona of her
smart-assed daughter,

gently suggested
that since

she has multiple
mini bottles of

holy water at her bedside,

from The Holy Land

The Promised Land

Disney Land,

and Neverland...

She's going to be p.o.'d,
that I told you this about her...

...that should a fire,
(God Forbid)

beset her &

catch her off guard

on the second floor,

she should practice flinging
open bottles of

the said Regal Waters,

in the direction of the towel.

She actually laughed &

thought her daughter

had a nifty idea,

in both wetting the towel AND

getting God's
blessing of protection,

all in one fell swoop.

She then circled around &

said, "Be serious, now....

What do I do???"

"Mom, you may not have an

attached master bath,

but you DO have an attached

MASTER OUTDOOR PORCH.

Go stand on the porch,

until either the fire department

shows up

or your children do...

whoever comes first."

"I won't burn out there???"

"No, Mother....

You live in a

brick house

with an attached brick porch...

Think of The Three Little Pigs, Mom."

It then instantly hit me,

that last I journeyed
to her upper porch,
there was tar paper on the

floor of the attached porch.

I jumped back in.

"Ooohh, Mommy!
I forgot!

Pick up your feet!!
Pick up your feet!"

"What?
Now what is it that I have to do?"
she nervously inquired,
as if the porch had eerily,
spontaneously combusted,
while we were smack in the
middle of the fire-safety review.

"If the flames hit the tar paper,

you're toast.

Pick up your feet,
sit on the brick railing &

wait to be rescued,"

I helpfully advised her.

"And for God's sake,
don't be a pill &
jump off of the damned porch,
because you think they are
taking forever
to get there!!"

She looked a little relieved,

when she informed me that

there is no longer tar paper

on the floor of the

attached master porch...

There's Rubber...

Uh, huh..

Hey Mom...

I went on-line to the
Our Lady of Lourdes website

ordered your Holy Water in the

30-Gallon
Economy-Size
Drum....

~SusiTheJ~

Got A Light?

A Nun With A Southern Twang

2012-02-19T11:55:00.003-05:00

Having been a victim of the
Catholic School System,
for 14 fun-filled years,

I thought about how much time
I spent under the influence.

Yet when I further dissect the experience,

I come to realize that
all of my nuns came from the same place --

The State of Rhode Island.

There are only 1.4 Jewish People
in the entire state.

Oh wait.
That's 1.4% of the entire population
of Rhode Island.

My bad.

But it certainly explains
why I'm not writing of the
mass exodus of Rabbi's
out of The Ocean State...

The Nunsters have it.

The Official Nickname of Rhode Island
should not be "Little Rhody"
nor should it be
"The Ocean State..."

It should be

"The Sister State."

Could be worse.

Could be "The Mother State."

It took until I was in
the third grade to

intellectually get it,

that Rhode Island did not
export nuns as their
biggest GDP...
although the Quahog clam
seems to be running
neck and neck with the Nunsters.

See? See?

They come from the Sea! They come from the Sea!

Talk about a strong case for

for some wicked-strong

legislation for

Nun Control.

So, in my long-winded way,

I got to thinking about what

a little diversity in

the nunery would look like...

Or more importantly,

sound like.

Having all of those

Sisters & Mothers

out of New England,

I can't help but feel I was robbed

of the experience of some

culturally mixed up geography in these ladies.

What the heck

would a red-neck

nun sound like, anyway?

Sweet, yet stupid-like?

(forgive me, Lord...)

Ever hear a nun say,

Y'll??

Yikes.

I don't want to know if my nun had

baled hay and could rope a dogie

from the time she was 10.

I mean, she had to have had

some semblance of a life,

before committing herself to

The Archdiocese of New York, right?

Did my nun eat pork rinds?

Was she a NASCAR fan?

For Crikey's Sake!

Did she ever tip a cow

in her misspent youth?

"Thank you...

Thank you very much.

I'll be here all week.

Don't forget to Tip Your Cow."

Jus' Wondering....

~SusiTheJ~

Free at Last

Paula Deen Will Make Ya Scream, Y'll...

2012-02-12T10:11:00.000-05:00

I suppose that anything I say here

will simply come off as pure,

unadulterated jealousy, but...

I despise Paula Deen.

She laughs like a squirrel

trapped in a clothes dryer.

I defy you to watch

11 minutes of her show,

before you off yourself...

out of the sheer desire to do so.

And Cupcake Wars.

What am I supposed to do with

Cupcake Wars???

Florian Bellanger critiquing
someone's frangipane..

Pepe LePew bitching out
the almond paste???

Wow. Kill Me. Now.

When I want to go to

my unhappy place,

this is my show of choice.

Again, I don't have me

a cooking show &

I sure don't have me

a baking one, either.

But personally,

I'd rather collect
cans & bottles
in my trusty
stolen shopping cart,

then to use my
divine creativity
to figure out how to incorporate
the ingredients of

a chimichanga

into my cupcake batter.

I don't get it.

I just don't get it.

Now, I like Hungry Girl

I like Pioneer Woman.

She speaks to me....

And Bayou Billionaires

My Big Redneck Vacation.

OMG...Tom Arnold,

doing pop-up commentary on

Rednecks in The Hamptons.

Sign me the hell up.

~SusiTheJ~, Yaaaaawwwwwllllllll.....

Keep That Kid Away From Me, Will Ya?

2012-02-10T22:01:00.003-05:00

At a recent family Christmas party,

my cousin was talking about how

their dog Mickey was, uhm...

On His Way Out.

Mickey was a good

three hundred years old,

in dog years.

He was talking about how

they had recently noticed

how Mickey was literally

Going To The Dogs.

This poor animal had begun

to experience, very inexplicably,

the loss of great patches of his fur.

They couldn't figure out

why the dog seemed to be worse,

right after a family gathering.

This was such an anomaly.

Everyone always petted Mickey &

gave him great affection.

All of these people

loving on Mickey &

he seemed to slip a little more

by the next day!

My cousin &

his wife had taken

this poor creature to

the Doggy Doctor,

on numerous visits

to determine

why the dog was molting.

They ran tests.

They tried some

strong medications.

They made the poor fella

take his cod liver oil.

But to no avail.

There was no apparent cause &

ergo...

No way to exact a cure.

So, it was just a

sadly accepted fact that

Mickey's days were few...

He slept alot,

God Bless his baldy

little soul.

While we were at the

Christmas shin-dig,

Bill was telling stories of how

Mickey had scared him,

on more than one occassion.

He'd come down in the morning,

to an unmovable, unmoving lump of

patchy dog.

"Oh, no.

No. No. No.

Not today!

I have to be in Boston

in three hours &

my bald dog is dead!

Shit, Shit, Shit.

I can't have Lorraine & Kara

come down and find him like this.

But I gotta go. Now!

Do I put the dog in the car &

take him to Beantown with me?

What are my options here?

He went to the storage ottoman &

took out the biggest, thickest

blanket he could find.

He put his briefcase on the floor &

draped his

dead, baldy-dog in a

Dora The Explorer quilt.

As he worked himself into

a crouching position, to gather the

dead family pet into his arms,

he reached down to lift the limp dog &

Mickey lifted his head,

from under Dora &

licked Bill's face.

Holy Shit! Holy Shit! Holy Shit!

You're alive. Holy Shit!

After Bill changed his pants,

he folded up Dora &

put some fresh water

in Mickey's bowl.

So. Mickey persevered,

but remained listless,

as the family had little choice but to

continue making big, thick

red X's each morning

on the calendar,

illustrating the ticking of

the clock for all to see...

Including Mickey.

"WTF????," Mickey must have

thought, from his spot in the kitchen.

"They're writing me off???"

"When is my expiration date???"

"Oh, God...I'm dying?????"

"Now, I'm depressed."

"I'm just gonna sleep all day."

It's a vicious cycle.

We were back in Bill &

Lorraine's house yesterday

for my Goddaughter's 19th Birthday.

My Goddaughter is a force of nature.

She's four foot, five &

she can beat up my husband.

Kara has Down Syndrome.

So does her nephew David,

who is turning 4.

These are beautiful,

loving children.

Except when Kara is pissed off.

Then she's kind of scary.

She can take my husband.

Anyway. I was playing with David,

with a giant balloon.

We were having a grand ol time,

until he got bored.

Then he was put into his jammy's,

to settle down.

When I looked at my feet,

he was sitting on

the floor, playing with something.

I reached down & asked him,

"Whatcha got, David?"

He smiled widely at me,

as he handed me his book of stickers.

"Let's go play with the stickers!

I'll go & get some paper."

I went to Bill's desk,

to fetch some

nice paper to

put David's stickers on.

As I was searching

for something nice,

David appeared at my side &

grabbed my hand.

He was tugging on it,

asking me to come with him.

My hand in his, I got up &

followed him

back to where we started.

He proudly pointed down to the floor,

directly at a napping Mickey,

COVERED IN

MONSTER STICKERS.

When we fell on the floor,

laughing at our discovery,

David added to our joy
by removing

a few of his stickers
from Mickey's side,

covered in patches of fur.

Thank God the Vet

suggested waiting,

on pulling the plug.

You're welcome, Mickey...

You're so welcome.

~SusiTheJ~

The Doggy Whisperer

Johnny Rides An Imbecile

2012-01-26T19:33:00.002-05:00

Growing up in the 1970's
on Heath Avenue in The Bronx,

we spent every waking moment

that wasn't eaten up by school,
homework or chores,

OUTSIDE.

We played a million different games
on that street,

but one of my favorites, stupidly, was

"Johnny Rides a Pony."

Until I wrote this,
I didn't know if this brain-storm
was indigenous

to our neighborhood or not:

I just know that
wherever Johnny is today,

he's one wealthy bastard &
it's not because

his Father was a plumber.

Johnny's brilliant,

yet sadistic Father

must have been tired
of slumming &
gave his son

some succinct instruction:

"Make up a game, that all of the kids

will want in on,

that will render all of them
with future back problems

and the need to see a doctor

three times a week,

until they die."

"I shall call this new breed of doctor...

A Chiropractor.

So, one person on Team A
is "THE BRACE"
against the wall of the building
(this was the crappy job, that no one wanted.)

The next idiot bends down,
tucks their head to the side &

holds onto THE BRACE for dear life.

Five more crowd-pleasing morons

repeat the process, tucking their heads
in alternating directions,

until there is a "Pony"..

a six-foot long Pony.

Then, the first player from Team B

would get a good, running start...

from three blocks away.

That person would go

galloping toward the Pony

and like Greg Luganis
hitting the high board,

would launch their pre-teen body

as close to the Pony's head
(THE BRACE)

as they possibly could.

The next moron would line up &

repeat the process

until the entire opposing team

was on board or

until the Pony collapsed

under the weight of Team B

and required Life-Support.

How f'ing stupid were we?

My parents drilled my brain about

being a leader...not a follower &

what did I do??

"If all your friends created a horse out of

their bodies & then had the rest of

the neighborhood jump on top of them,

would you be a part of the horse, too???"

"And for God's sake,
at least be THE BRACE!!"

That parable went

right out the f'ing window.

If only technology had been sped up,
we would have been inside,
frying our brains on video games

like nice, normal kids of today do.

I bet they won't need back surgery &

be screaming in the night,

like their idiot
pre-adolescent
predecessors.

I think "THE BRACE" was a ringer

that Johnny's Dad brought in...

Jus' sayin...

~SusiThe J~

I Gave My Love A Chicken

2011-11-10T17:50:00.006-05:00

I am all for innovative products

that aim to save the planet.

However, I am not for

innovative products,

that haven’t been

properly thought through.

When the Scott Paper Company

rolled out their

TV ad campaign for the first

“Roll-less roll”

(it's actually phrased as a "Tube-Free roll",

but that has no written cadence for me.)

my first thoughts were

of marketing genius &

a real American kind of

Greener than Green

“go get ‘em.”

All the little empty cardboard tubes

gather together & go rolling out

the front doors of their captors.

They roll on down to the landfill,

to demonstrate where they will end up,

if someone doesn’t show some chutzpah &

come up with an answer.

I couldn’t come up with the clip

of the actual commercial,

but the following CNN piece

is sort of cute & funny,

mostly because of

the guy that admitted

he made a BONG out of an empty roll.

Watch it all

...or not.

It’s not my personal work.

I won’t be insulted.

http://youtu.be/e9H3WjOk6go

Then there is a piece from

http://www.theresident.net/

that I found on YouTube:

http://youtu.be/DZbR9_RdjEM

that is pretty funny.

According to Kimberly Clark,

17 BAZILLION

(OKAY, IT’S ONLY 17 BILLION)

cardboard toilet paper tubes

are produced every year in the U.S.

Crikey.

So, we can agree to agree

the Scott Paper Company

apparently had to hire a gaggle

of employees to remove all of those

dreadful cardboard landfillers...

(Hence, whacking you

for an extra buck fifty at A&P.)

The only problem that I can see

is what the consumer is left with,

as the roll diminishes.

Now, EXCEPT for good quality….

I don’t really give a second thought

to any of the aspects of the

Mother of all Necessities.

You need it,
you get it &
hopefully it’s still there...

when you need it.

Basically, end of story.

My only proclivity is the

DIRECTION

from which it is dispensed.

If I go to your house,

and it’s coming at me

INCORRECTLY,

I WILL change it.

Count on it.

This is right in line

with my peeviness

with our bank...which I adore,

EXCEPT for their unbelievably

egregious practice of

not putting cash in the

same damned direction.

Some are correct...

some are backward...

some are upside-down...

AND

some are backward

upside-down.

It screws me up.

Now I can count cash,

like nobody's business,

but I can't count cash

that's not in perfect,

continuous order.

How's that for scary???

I start counting a pack of 20's.

One little bill is out of whack &

I've lost count,

because I'm too busy verklempting

about how sloppy this is,

FOR A BANK!!!

I'd be a little more lenient on say,

a Bookie....

I liken it to taking your brand-new baby

home from the hospital &

the morons put the diaper on his head.

Soooooo…

(I’m working on my habit of digressing.)

The only other thing

you might notice

if you come to our house...

The next available "square",

folded into something pretty.

Just f’ing with you….

All you’ll get is a pretty point.

It is such a lovely discovery &

it freaks the hell out of people,

when they’re not in a hotel and

they find this waiting for them.

Or we can hear them say,

"Oooohhh!!"

Soooooo…

(I’m still working on my habit of digressing.)

Back to the problem with this

new-fangled wunderkind:

As the roll winds down,

what the consumer is left with

looks like the equivalent of

A Chicken
With No Bones.

Since it’s ridiculously

important to me,

that you're not under the impression that

” TheJ ”

just dreams this drivel up &

doesn’t back up her theories...

I am a woman of my word &

I research EVERYTHING.

Susi Curie

I have obtained
photographic proof,

for your consideration.

This is pitiful!

(But, please notice the

PROPER direction)

And sideways…..

This is just wrong!

All of that slack just allows for

too much room,

as the roll is whittled down…

I could house a small

Mexican family in there.

Just kidding.

I love Mexicans.

Oooohhhh!!! Chimi-Banana!!

Doesn’t appearance count,

even at the end??

Is presentation only important

in the beginning?

This makes me feel like

someone broke in &
went on a Christmas-crafting-rampage,

to make those stupid-ass

candy-filled-cardboard-roll

Popper Gifts,

that they deliver to

our poor,
defenseless senior citizens,

at the holidays.

I made those things in Girl Scouts &

I thought it was creepy when I was eight.

I always referred to them as

Pooper Gifts.

I made damn sure that I was

UNAVAILABLE

on the day that
we were scheduled

to go to “the home” &

dish out these disgusting delights.

I was so afraid of a 98-year-old

tripping me with a cane,

out of sheer disgust

of our holiday gift choices

to the elderly.

It’s just not right.

The Japanese have

this aspect correct,

on the respect we should

show to our elders.

I bet the old folks in

a rest home in Okinawa

never get crappy gifts like this.

(pardon the crappy pun.)

I think they would be

so insulted,

that if I were a little

Japanese Girl Scout,

I would strip that Popper naked,

dump out the stupid hard-candy

and give them red-wax-candy lips

with a 'smoke-hole' carved out

so they could make a bong out of it…

"Washi no yō ni tobu..."

Jus’ Sayin…

~ SusiTheJ ~

Billy Meagher & A Training Bra

2011-11-08T13:37:00.213-05:00

I have a repressed memory

from the sixth grade,

which was burned into my head

like an engraving tool was used.

I attended first grade…

clear through eighth grade,

with a carry-over into High School...

with a cretin named

Billy Meagher

(which rhymes with BRA.)

Now, in order to not disparage

Mr. Meagher’s credibility

as a good human being,

I’m going out on a limb here,

to say that I just
didn’t know him very well.

Not anywhere close

to the way
the doctors at Bellevue

knew him.

This boy was
the epitome of

a mean, mean kid.

I think I saw him smile, ONCE….

But he was
torching an ant farm,
at the time

...so I don't think that counts.

Striving to be a

good Christian woman,

I can now hope & pray

that nothing amiss

was going on for him, at home…

If God just built him nasty,

well, alrighty then.

So. It’s sixth grade.

We’re 12 years old.

Not all of the girls had, um,

fully developed, quite yet.

BUT WE WERE
12 YEARS OLD,

FOR CRIKEY SAKE!!!

Gosh, but I picture

Anna Nicole Smith at 12 &

figure ol’ Billy
would have been such

a sweet young man,

being in her classroom.

Anyway.

Apparently Billy
had him some stupider

influential older brothers,

who were feeding him

inappropriate adult banter

about how girls

did or didn’t measure up,

in a “real man’s” eyes.

Or, he got off the school bus
at the pub each afternoon &

hung out until he had

to go do his homework.

Regardless of the source,

this boy was tainted.

While he should

have been focused on

baseball & football,

his mind…

well, it went
a-wandering.

For some reason,
that I am currently

too senile to recall,

our normal nun

was down with something:

Yep. It was most likely

down with the sickness...

SO I DIGRESSED AGAIN...

... & the geniuses that
ran that school

were apparently short
on back-up nuns.

So they secured themselves

a 22-year old substitute,

to fill in for the missing Sister.

I remember she was blonde.

A tiny bit on the stocky side.

She was sweet,

but she was greener than

Kermie.

When she opened her mouth

to exert her authority as
the only adult in the room,

she sounded like the
female police trainee in
all of those stupid
Police Academy movies,

1 through 36.

She sort of squeeked
as she yelled,

yet nothing came

out of her mouth

except for fear.

Billy smelled her fear &

swooped in for the kill.

When she couldn’t
control the class,

12-year old Mr. Meagher
gladly took command.

As the chubby,
blonde teacher

sat down,

Billy stood up.

He then proceeded,

in a psycho-methodical manner,

to walk up & down each aisle….

LITERALLY

SIZING UP

each female classmate,

AND

announcing her status

to the rest of the class.

After he passed by

Jimmy,

Bobby &

Johnny,

he zoomed in

on his first victim:

And away he went…

With a sickly,

grotesque finger

that would make E.T. jealous,

he would extend it

at his arrival

next to each new girl that

he stumbled upon.

“You’re Flat-chested,”
he informed her,
as if he was letting her
in on the fact
that she was Italian.

Finger retracted,

as he slid down the row

to the next victim.

Finger re-extended:

“You’re Flat-chested,”

he loudly proclaimed

in a ridiculously erudite tone,

as if he had been studying

female physiology

instead of playing
baseball & football,

like the normal boys.

He was finishing up
on the last victim,

in the first aisle & rounding second

when I caught wind of what

he was saying & doing.

I instinctly dropped my chin &

took a quick inventory of my

“12-year-old goods.”

Oh, crap. I’m doomed.

I was sweating profusely &

my heart was beating out of control,

under my near flat-as-a-pancake bosom…

Everything was moving
in slow-motion,

along with the words that were

coming out of psycho boy’s mouth.

“Yyyyyoooooouuuuuuu’rrrrrrrrreeeeeeee Flaaaaahhhhhhtttttt-cccchhhhheeeeessssssssttttttteeeeeeddddddd……”

The sound was a stupid mix of

Darth Vader

the beginning of

Def Lepard’s

“Love Bites.”

Click on the link below,
but STOP

when the music starts.

I think you'll get my drift.

http://youtu.be/MQSkIFhuli0

I always thought I was
quick on my feet,

but creativity was failing me,

on how to escape
this uninvited persecution.

I looked to our

fearless adult teacher,

for her saving grace,

as well as her ability & desire

to vanquish this little bastard.

Lot of good that did me.

She was pretty much
sucking her thumb,

rocking back & forth in a corner…

attempting to self-soothe
her professional ego,

that was broken & left for dead

by a miserable

little shit of a 12-year old.

By now, he’s cleared

the second row,

leaving the boys

with their jaws agape,

in some sick twist of

amazement & repulsion,

and the girls in either hot,

mortified tears,

or the fervent desire

to kick the ever-living

crap out of him,

...en masse.

As he’s making his way
through row 3,

In which sat ME….

I did the only logical thing

I could come up with:

I prayed to
our Heavenly Father,

to strike Billy down.

Strike him right the hell down

& mute,

while he was at it.

Let his stupid finger
snap off

& fall to the ground.

So he’d end up getting

a neurological work-up…

B.igF.ingDeal.

Lots of respectable people
take Lithium.

Think of the
years of therapy
these innocent girls would face.

For some inexplicable reason,

he just stopped...

Two girls short of my location.

It was like barely escaping
being creamed, in a

15-car-pile-up

as you braced for it.

Perhaps the

Mother of all Nuns walked in.

I don’t recall.

But at that moment,

I felt that I had been given

a divine gift,

of divine intervention.

Or,
I SIMPLY
HAD THE GIFT,
MYSELF.

My parents didn’t

bust their butts

to send me to

Catholic School

for nothin’…

Money well spent,

I think.

Billy Meagher,

wherever you are…

I hope that

Our Heavenly Father,

in his INFINITE WISDOM

has seen fit to bless you with:

Well-Blessed

Girls...

~ SusiTheJ ~

Fete Accompli, a la Grucci...

2011-10-30T23:35:00.004-04:00

Because I have lived a life marred
by such occurrences as
being born on Leap Year,

being an actress...

from the very second of

my entrance onto Planet Earth,

as well as being the
general class clown that I am,

I decided…a long time ago,

that I would have to

exit Earth,

spectacularly.

I have attended my fair-share

of memorials & the like.

I have heard every sweet story,

of having ashes sprinkled

over the heartland,

over the ocean &

over ex-lovers,

but mine is unique.

I told Doug, when we were planning
our final arrangements,

just what I envisioned.

Now, being a wee lass,
who is a whopping six years

younger than my husband,

I have to have contingency plans,

in case he goes first.

or not

My plan is to

execute,

pay for &

have Notarized,

my final wishes...

for my final hur-rah.

I plan to pay for this shin-dig
with all of my F-You Money...

that's code for money that I've earned,

killing myself for nothing:

...my pension from Revlon.

I have documented my desires,
should my husband outlive me &
try to take the proceeds
for these plans &
have his beloved
1980 Trans Am rebuilt

or something..

I’ll expect you
to do the right thing &
call him on this,
should you out-live me & actually get
an invite to this beach bash...

As it just so happened,
I recently portrayed
a Blonde Zombie in

"Rusty Hillenmeyer's-

How To Survive A Zombie Outbreak,"

so it's obvious that I am
an expert on the subject.

And since I have

SOMETHING

against

ANYTHING

eating my remains...

be it worms,

maggots or

the dreaded Zombie,

I wish to be cremated.

After everyone is done
throwing their
grief-stricken bodies on my
limp & dead remains,

I want my ashes to be

taken to the Grucci family,

to be professionally
stuffed into specific
Roman Candles & the like.

I expect

AND

will pay for

a magnificent display of my

dead ass...

all over the night sky.

I envision this Last Soiree,

as follows:

A whole fun,

family-surrounded-afternoon of

sun,

surf,

food & booze.

Hopefully, no one goes &
gets eaten by a shark &

tinkles all over my final festivities...

But I selfishly digress.

At dusk, everyone can go
to the provided facilities &
shower off, from their day

in the sand

and the sun

and the Banana Boat.

They will put on sweatshirts &
return to the beach...

to a prepared,
ass-kicking clambake &
liquor-fueled fest.

Those little sand chairs
will be provided,

to sit as low as you desire

to the ocean,

as you sip your

Kendall Jackson Chard

and think of how
stupidly generous I was,

serving MY favorite Chardonnay,

when I don’t even get a sip,

cause I ain't got no lips...

You will eat,

drink &

be very merry...

all on my dime.

You will reminisce about

stupid things I’ve done with you or

shared with you or

how I almost

got you killed that one time.

When the sky is pitch black,

all of the sand chairs will be
pulled into a nice circle,

like the beginning of Jaws...

hopefully without

the ending of Jaws.

Grucci employees/descendents

will be toiling from

a safe distance,

to light up the sky...

with Moi, inside.

When the first ooohhhh!

is heard, that’ll be me

you’re ooohhhing at.

I will be colorful &

I will be spectacular.

There will be no tears…

Just some good Chardonnay,

as you share an old, old girl's goofy stories,

with a few snarky observations thrown in,

from real time....

When you gather your kids

(or your great-grandkids)

to go home,

you’ll be all warm & fuzzy,

as the stardust from the evening sky,

will remain in the children’s hair,

long after you tuck them in to sleep...

I can’t envision a

more wicked ending,

to one hell of a wild ride...

~ Thanx, D.J.~

I hope you can make it...

~ SusiTheJ ~

SUBDURAL SUPERNOVA

2011-10-27T15:38:00.005-04:00

When you peruse

SusiTheJ’s
"Bucket List"

(I thought it was a good idea to start documenting this stuff, NOW),

you will see that I have had
the privilege &
the good fortune to spend
10 years or so

in the company of an

ass-kicking-Not-For-Profit

(rocking good news)

Comedy Troupe called,

"COMPANY PLAYERS."

We normally did two or

three shows per year,

in addition to some road shows

that we schlepped
to other venues in the area…

for charity and um, no profit.

The week that a show opens

is normally referred to as

“Hell Week,”

because you normally

rehearse every night &

this is the time for

MURPHY'S LAW

to come & wreak its'
predictable havoc.

The actual night

before a show opens,

is normally referred to as

“Hell Night...”

In the very professional handling

of our acting tasks,

this night is typically a
"breezy walk in the park"

for the actors...

Just finalizing a few items &
tightening things up, nicely.

We lovingly renamed it

“F-Around Night.”

We were so tight on our lines &
blocking & timing and just knew that

The Tony

was just waiting to be placed

on the mantels in our homes…

We were that good!!!
(not)

…that we would clown around &
make funny ad-libs out of our dialogue.

These nights have
gone down in history

as some of the funniest shit

that has ever popped

out of my brain…

Well, for this particular show...

we were, in ALL honesty,

ALL so f’ing horrendous.

But everyone knows that
you only take a role in a
community theatre comedy troupe
for the thrill of ad-libbing on

“Hell Night...”

We sucked!

I think I was still “on book”,

the night before we opened!!!,

due to the interference of

MY PAYING,

COSMETICS-CAREER-DAY-JOB &

the actual work that they expected
to be pumped out for that paycheck...

but I still wanted to
get my schtick on &

get the laugh.

Our beloved,
patient director,
Joel...

was taking it & taking it & taking it.

He really did take it.

Then, like naughty,

errant children,

he kept warning us.

“Ok, Sue….
that was very cute and very funny,

but you still haven’t learned your lines…

…so whatcha say
we get back to work?”

He warned us,

multiple times...

if not thousands.

When we were still performing,

but not a lick of material resembling

the actual show,

his brain exploded &

he lost his mind all over us.

“I’VE HAD IT!!!

I’VE TOLD YOU…YOU ALL SUCK!

AND YOU WILL SUCK EVEN MORE

TOMORROW NIGHT,

WHEN THE CURTAIN GOES UP &

YOU LOOK LIKE F’ING FOOLS
IN FRONT OF AN AUDIENCE.

YOU SUCK,
YOU SUCK, YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

Twelve documented adults

standing on a stage,

being verbally spanked

by another adult.

We all had our heads

hung down in shame,

shuffling our feet &

feeling so guilty for getting him

to the point of a
subdural brain hemorrhage.

We thought his eye balls

were going to pop out of his head &

continue to burn into our vacuous souls

from the wood floor of the stage…

That’s how deeply
he was enraged

&

screaming at us.

Now, count s-l-o-w-l-y to 6…

One Mississippi,

Two Mississi…

The one

UNDOCUMENTED adult,

Howard “Skip” Lundquist,

throws his right arm, hand, fist & fingers,

out towards Joel,

as if he’s about to break into

“Mammy”

and says,

“HAVE A CORONARY.

WE INVITE YOU

TO HAVE A CORONARY.”

The eleven of us contrite children

were stunned by Skip’s invitation to Joel.

It sat there, ringing in our ears

for a good 4 seconds or so before

Yours,Truly...

falls on the floor & rolls across the stage,

screaming-laughing,

with tears running down my face &

holding my sides in pain…

...like I had been kicked in the ribs

by a pack of Raging Rockettes,

wearing steel-tipped boots…

on both sides of my body.

This was 1989 &

I can’t tell you how many times

this line crosses my mind,

during multiple loads of laundry,

dishes & the like...

And I still lose it.

I shared it with

Will & Doug...

and they have laughed their butts off,

since they were itty-bitty boys.

It is was a private, little-known-fact

that I secretly get my jollies from

the fact that they

BOTH went into Theatre.

William, our Lighting Designer...will tell me,

“You don’t know how many times,

during an asinine situation that
I’m embroiled in, that the

CORONARY
INVITATION
LINE

is on the tip of my tongue!!

I may not have given birth to them,

but I sure ruined them...

just as if they was my own…

You’re welcome boys…you’re welcome.

"Ar feadh nóiméid amháin

Nach raibh tú ag fás

FAOI MO HEART,
Ach I sé ... "

~SusiTheJ ~

How EVERYTHING...Went From NJ TO NY TO NC TO NM TO NH

2011-10-25T20:58:00.014-04:00

This is a true story,
one which I will not
personally link myself to either way,
by outing my relationship as either
a friend or family member of Trudy.

I Plead the 5th &
all liability goes to Trudy,
the cracker-jack attorney.

In order to protect the innocent
and/or the unindicted,

I have changed ALL names & geography….

Here’s a Helpful Little Key,

for Following Along:

CONNIE:

Not short for "Constance",

But: HYPOCONDRIAC.

MOTHER OF

TRUDY,

JOANNIE &

KIERAN.

FIRST WIFE OF PERRY,

SECOND WIFE OF DIRK &

THIRD WIFE OF TATU.

PERRY:

UNLUCKY HUSBAND #1 OF CONNIE.

DIRK:

MUCH-LUCKIER HUSBAND #2 OF CONNIE.

DIRK IS THE CLOSEST NAME TO “DEREK”, WHICH IS A PLAY ON THE REAL NAME

WHEN THE REAL NAME IS TRANSLATED INTO A FOREIGN LANGUAGE…

never mind.

TATU:

Luckiest Man on Earth....
HUSBAND #3 OF CONNIE.

TATU MEANS "3", in Swahili….

If I used a Dutch translator it would have been:

“DER-DE..."

and you would have

gone through this stupid story

thinking he didn’t bathe.

Tatu, it is.

TRUDY:

Oldest Daughter &

Child of Connie & Perry.

CRACKER-JACK ATTORNEY.

JOANNIE:

Youngest Daughter &

Middle Child Of Connie & Perry.

KIERAN:

Only Son &

Youngest Child

Of Connie & Perry.

SECOND CRACKER-JACK..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok...Here we go.

Connie & Perry were married

in late 1940something,

& had three children:

Trudy, Joannie & Kieran

& moved to the outer suburbs of New Jersey.

Connie was a Big Ol’ Beotch,

before the word ever existed.

She was a psychotic Mother,

who never should have been

blessed with children.

Connie treated her
husband, Perry...like shit.

Always.

Perry was horribly burned

as a young child,

yet it never stopped him

from an honest day’s work &
being a great man.

One time, Perry asked his wife
to make a sandwich for him
& her loving response to him was:

“You’re not crippled…

Get up & make it yourself.”

His burns had left him with a fraction of a foot….

After twenty-five odd years

of hell on Planet Connie,

Perry filed for divorce from Connie.

Connie couldn’t get
her arms around the fact

that he had dumped her,

after all those years she toiled at

treating him like pond scum &

emasculating him on a daily basis,

I have found & freely highjacked

material which caused me to shoot my beloved

360º Double Chocolate Vodka

Economy-size

& its' "Mini-Me",

right the hell out of my nose,

so I thought I'd make the day of

AngryWhiteDude

http://www.youtube.com/embed/lwtz2Au6BGQ

So poor old Steve comes home all excited because he saved some money for the family…maybe to buy his bitch-ass wife some more plants to dink around with. He needs, like a puppy, to get patted on the head by his master for doing something good! But the boss is an American woman and has been trained to think all men are stupid idiots! Just watch any commercial or TV show! So she immediately thinks Steve has made a (heaven forbid!) unilateral decision and it will cost more money. Money she had planned on using to buy another ubiquitous, over-priced Louis @#*& Vuitton ugly brown purse that every spoiled, self-serving American woman has to carry to prove to her spoiled, self-serving girlfriends that she is someone special!

The piece that really puts me in jail is when she mumbles under her breath “I should have listened to my Mother and married John Clark.” Screw you, screw your old hag mother and screw that half-a-*&( n @#*&ing Clark!! Steve also wishes that ugly wildebeest had married John Clark too…so now it would be John Clark who’s miserable and sitting in the car dreading to walk in the house after work because he knows he’s going to get his ass kicked over something else by his big, fat, nasty, miserable,
bitch-ass wife!

I don’t know why this commercial is set in a greenhouse. Every movie I have ever seen with a greenhouse always has somebody getting killed in it! I kept waiting for Steve to chop his wife’s head off with a shovel or something. He could have at least locked her ass in the greenhouse and pumped in some poisonous gas. But no, Steve is the brow-beaten American man who won’t even stand up for himself by verbally reducing this fat-n-nasty to a heap of feminist sludge...

Please give a little love to A.W.D.,
by visiting his site, which I've included:

http://angrywhitedude.com/2011/09/att-male-bashing-commercial-has-awd-on-breathing-non-pc-fire/

Sorry, I swerved:

Soooooooo......

Connie did the next logical thing
she could come up with &

drove him to the cleaners.

On the trip to divorce court,
Connie 'manipulated' her adult son
into siding with her,
in court & under oath…
Swearing that he
had witnessed his Father,
beating his Mother.

Perry wasn't 150 pounds,

soaking wet...

with cinder blocks

tied to his feet.

Perry lost

EVERYTHING...

All due to that disgusting display
of lies & heart-break,

in the promise of inheriting

EVERYTHING...

when his Mother’s time to go,

would come.

So, this loving son strayed
from his Father’s loyalty.

And killed his Father, in the process.

He tried to apologize to his Father,

but Perry shut the door in his face &

never saw him again.

In the late 1970's,

Perry was fortunate enough

to find & marry a woman who loved him,

for who he was….

But all of that love couldn’t save him &

Perry literally drank himself to death,

out of the grief & emptiness

of his only son's betrayal.

This snake of a son had no choice

but to have all of the mirrors

removed from his house.

A short time later,

Connie got her mojo back &

snagged wealthy husband #2…DIRK.

Connie made the move to Dirk's house,
in Glenmere Lake, NY.

One fine Autumn weekend,

Connie & Dirk went to Monticello, NY
to visit Kieran & his family.

The next morning, Connie &

Kieran’s wife went shopping.

Dirk was puttering around in Kieran’s garage..

Kieran thought, “great!” &

went to watch some slasher movie marathon...

Meanwhile, Dirk keels over,

has a massive heart attack &

dies while waiting for Kieran
to come lend a hand
with the puttering & find him.

Oh, he found him, alright….

Nice going, Kieran...

You're two for two.

In her indescribable grief &
simultaneous stroke of
pure marriage luck,
Connie decides to
move to North Carolina,
to the house that she and Dirk
were supposed to go & occupy together.

She soon snags her a new hunk…

a big Dutch dock worker,

who emigrated from

Holland to North Carolina,

just so he could fish until he died &
not freeze his ass off.

She makes the
necessary preparations
to make him,
& his loot...

her own.

I shall call him:

TATU.

any resemblances would be completely creepy

(See Follow-Along Key)

While living in North Carolina,

poor ol’ Tatu soon develops dementia &

is pretty much, permanently...

out to lunch.

One day, Connie decides she’s
having another medical emergency &
like she's calling for Chinese take-out…

calls for an ambulance,

to take her to her favorite place

in the whole wide world…

the Emergency Attention-Getting Room.

After fetching the ambulance &

before leaving on a stretcher,

she realizes Tatu is not safe by himself,

so she locks him in a back bedroom,

with a sandwich & a glass of milk.

For whatever stupid reason,

the hospital admits Connie.

When she suddenly realizes

that she left Tatu under lock & key,

she calls a neighbor with a spare key,

to go and check on him.

The neighbor realizes

that this is just not right &

shows up at at Connie’s
bed-side in the hospital,

with Tatu in tow.

She’s yelling at Connie
that she can’t lock an
Alzheimer’s patient in a room &
go traipsing off to the hospital!

Connie realizes that she’s really not
in a position of strength,
to make a decision about
where Tatu should sleep that night,
so she tells the neighbor

that he will stay in her
hospital room with her…

The disgusted neighbor

calls Tatu’s daughter,

who comes to pick up her father &

take him home with her to Minnesota,

(she apparently also emigrated for a more temperate climate)

after being granted legal guardianship of him.

She calls Trudy in New Mexico,
to inform her of what’s happening.

She also tells her that Connie
will be taken into custody,

upon her release from the hospital,
for negligent care of an
Alzheimer’s Patient,

as defined by NC law:

Neglect: A person is guilty of neglect if that person is a caretaker of a disabled or elder adult who is residing in a domestic setting and, wantonly, recklessly, or with gross carelessness: (i) fails to provide medical or hygienic care, or (ii) confines or restrains the disabled or elder adult in a place or under a condition that is unsafe, and as a result of the act or failure to act the disabled or elder adult suffers mental or physical injury.

Trudy tells her,
"Your father isn’t even my relative,
but I have such empathy for him."

“You mean because of his dementia?”
she asks.

“No, because he had to live

with my f’ing Mother.

So Tatu is off to his new life in the woods…
back to the very climate that he
desperately left his homeland because of..

…And Trudy is off to NC
to take possession
of her felonious mother
after she was arrested, booked & released.

She takes her back to NM with her, to live…

After a few months in hell,

Trudy tells her that a new plan is in order,

as this ain’t working.

She moves her into

an assisted living facility,

in Albuquerque.

Connie likes her new digs
for a few, quick weeks
cause she’s the new-kid-on-the-block &
all the NM’an eyes are upon her.

But as soon as the next,
brand-new 89-year old-
new-kid on-the-block moved in,
it’s kapootsky’s for Connie’s love affair
with her new home.

One day, an aide finds Connie sitting
at the bottom of the shower.

Connie tells her that she fell &
remained there for two hours.

The administrator calls Trudy &
tells her that her Mother requires
additional services ($$$$)
that need to be implemented,

or she can’t stay.

Trudy tells her that
"We’ve got to sell your house,
to pay for these additional requirements."

Connie says,

“Oh, no….I have NOTHING &

my house is worthless…”

Connie wants to go back to

Trudy’s house to live.

When that’s kyboshed by

Trudy’s very-smart husband,

Connie gets on the phone to her

OTHER daughter in NH.

Enter Joannie…

Now this daughter is an apple picked straight from her mother’s orchard…
When she adopted a baby, she dyed the infant’s hair BLONDE,
like her own, so that people would think that she had truly given birth,
although no one ever saw her with a bulging belly.

Joannie arranges it so that

there is no communication

with her two siblings & their Mother,

as she has had

a P.owerO.fA.ttorney executed

&

now has control of the controls.

Trudy drives from
her home in
Montezuma, NM
(I'm not touching this one)

(Ok, so sue me....I'm a comedian)

to Albuquerque

to see Connie, only to find out that
Connie has left strict orders
that if her daughter Trudy
shows up to see her,
she’s not being seen.

Trudy’s daughter had
both legs in casts, at the time.

On the day of the visit,
the casts are being changed &
she has no choice but to
take her MUMMY with her.

They get to the facility to visit
Grandma Hypo,
but she can’t get the wheelchair
for her daughter opened.

Having no choice & running out of daylight,

she carries this kid on her back,

with two fresh, wet plaster casts

smacking into her ass

as she’s walking down the hall.

When she gets word from

the nurse that her presence is not welcomed,

she has no choice but to turn around &

go back down the hall, with her

Mummy in tow.

She’s so pissed off,

that she waits two weeks to call her Mother.

When she calls, she’s not there.
When she inquires where she is,
she’s told she is
"not allowed to be told."

Trudy calls her brother & asks,
“Is Mom with you in NY??”

“Um,

NO!

You took her to NM, remember???”
he frantically reminds her.

"Well, I apparently
don’t have her anymore,”
she informs him.

As she fills him in,
they both get the same light bulb,
at the same second:

JOANNIE.

They call Joannie in NH.

“Hey, have you spoken with Mom lately?”
they inquired.

“Uhm, about 10 seconds ago,”
she sarcastically responded.

“Kieran hasn’t called Mom in three weeks &
YOU haven’t called her in two…
so Mom called the only child (who’s 61)
who truly loves her.

Now she’s with me, in my loving home.”

As it turned out,
Connie never set foot in Joannie’s home,
because when she got off the plane from
NM TO NH,
the taxi took her directly to her new home,
in Keene, NH:

Whilst Connie was in transit,
Joannie went to NC &
sucked up every asset
from her Mother’s house,
that she could fit into the vacuum.

She then executed the
P.owerO.fA.ttorney

for her Mother,
stipulating all kinds of stupid ass rules &
regulations about ANYONE
interacting with Connie.

So, she next sells Connie’s house,
to allegedly pay for her Mother’s
costly care in Keene.

Then, just as Connie is
making new friends &

it’s her turn to call BINGO!,

Joannie unceremoniously
yanks her out of there,
saying that she’s rethought the
assisted living facility route &
that she should be in
her daughter's loving home,

...where she belongs...

Thanksgiving rolls around &
Joannie calls her brother in NY,
to tell him that she has
serious turkey plans &
how he needs to get on a plane
tomorrow,

to come & be with his mother

for Thanksgiving Day.

When he tells her that he’ll get there
as soon as he can, but Thanksgiving,
which is
tomorrow
has already been set for him in NY,

she informs him:

“You need to see her NOW,

because it might be

THE LAST TIME YOU EVER SEE HER.”

Kieran is incredulous &

tells his reality-challenged sister

that their Mother is
barely 80 years old &
a cannon couldn’t kill her…

She doesn’t have a single ailment!

“Oh, no brother..you are wrong.

Mom has CANCER &

her respiratory system
is terribly weak."

Joannie had attended
THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS
MEDICAL SCHOOL IN THE U.S.A.,

(But Graduated From The Barbizon School of Modeling)

Therefore, Kieran figured
she had to know
what she was talking about....

"Hospice is here.”

Kieran calls Trudy,

all upset that she never
informed him that
his beloved beotch of a
Mother was dying.

“WTF are you talking about???”

Trudy screams into the phone

to NY from NM.

“Mom doesn’t have cancer!!

I took her to the doctor, to have

blood work done a month ago.

...She’s healthier than you are.”

“Well, Joannie just told me

that she’s dying &

Hospice has been called in.”

“That’s impossible, Kieran…

to have Hospice,

you have to have a prescri…”

“HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!,”

they both hysterically

screamed into each other’s receivers.

Apparently, Joannie ain’t
missing sandwiches from
her picnic basket, for nothin’.

All of her life, she has had a

raging drug problem,

resulting in some reflective time

in the big house,

for stealing prescription pads

from each brand-new doctor she would visit.

They quickly surmised that
Joannie had a brand-new
Dr. Boy-Toy,

the prolific author of multiple scripts
for respiratory inhibitors &
most importantly:

...A prescription for Hospice.

Due to the fact that his new,

UNnaturally blonde babe’s Mother

was getting in the way of their budding love…

he had to help her, to help her,

TO GO.

Kieran & Trudy backtracked the plot,

as they SURMISED how it went down:

(I Plead the 5th & ALL liability goes to Trudy, the cracker-jack attorney.)

Connie calls Joannie…

Tells her,
"You’re the only child of mine

that loves me &

I’M GIVING YOU

EVERYTHING..."

(EVERYTHING must be pooped by now,
from all of the traveling it has done...)

In a NY minute,
Joannie packs her up & out of NM,
for a pastural existence in NH.

She goes to NC to clean her out,

literally & figuratively.

Joannie moves her into Keene &
immediately leaves for NC
to sell her home.

When that’s all wrapped up,
she takes her newly acquired assets &
signs her OUT of Keene…

…into the currently unfinished,
uninsulated basement of her house.

Joannie then set out for the
wild bar-scene of bucolic NH,
to score herself a piece of
gullible medical tail
(blonde, no doubt)

to get what she needs,
in the form of a brand-new
prescription-pad-wielding-physician,
for Connie’s brand-new medical needs.

She takes very good care of her Mother,
bringing her three meals a day,
plus snacks, drinks, crossword puzzles

&

round-the-clock cocktails of

Triazolam

&

Diazepam.

That’s Valium & Halcion,

to you and I.

“You need to see her now, because it might be

THE LAST TIME YOU EVER SEE HER.”

As these words were repeating
on a loop in Kieran’s head,
he & his oldest sister
decided that this was all
horse-shit histrionics
from Joannie's past.

When Trudy’s phone rang
on Thanksgiving Day, she answered it
to find her brother on the other end.

“Hi, Kieran.
Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,
Trudy.

Mom’s Dead.”

“What did you
just say?????????????????”

Kieran was hyper-ventilating
into an apparent paper bag,
on the other end,

as Trudy was trying
to understand
what he was telling her.

“Joannie just called me &
told me that when she
brought Mom breakfast this morning,
she discovered that
she had 'slipped away.'

“Then she said she had to go,
because if she didn’t get
the bird in the oven NOW,
they’d be eating at midnight!!”

When the installation of

Hospice takes place,

there is something that doesn’t:

AN AUTOPSY…

Two cracker-jack attorneys

in the family & the Lunatic takes

EVERYTHING...

Bravo, Joannie...Bravo.

~SusiTheJ ~

IF THE KEEBLER COOKIE COMMERCIAL WAS FILMED IN 1974 ON HEATH AVENUE

2011-10-17T19:08:00.003-04:00

I felt an urgent compulsion

to post some important commentary

about the recent commercial that

the Keebler Elves have put out:

Here's the drill....

Two sisters come

through the door, from school.

They’re greeted by their Mother,

asking how their day was.

They quickly blow her off

with a perfunctory "good" &

head for the cupboard,

to get the bag of

Keebler Fudge-Stripes cookies.

The older,

taller sister

takes the package down,

only to discover that

there’s ONE cookie

left in the package.
Now what moron eats all but one cookie???

Her younger, impish sister

(not because she's cute, but because of her enormous elf ears)

Now you think I'm nuts, since there's not a Dumbo-ear, in sight.....

But Hang on.....

...STARES HER DOWN,

as she holds the solo cookie and

mulls her moral duty, as the first-born.

Instead of breaking the cookie

into two pieces,

she hands

THE WHOLE F’ING THING

to her beloved, younger sibling.

The little brat actually

TAKES IT!!!,

and says,

“Thank You,”

in a tone that implies

her sister's altruistic decision

was a no-brainer from the start &

she really had no right to even hesitate,

in making it.

Bratty walks away to gobble it down

before her sister can change her mind,

just as the magical baking elves manage

to get another single cookie back in place.

The older one is a little taken aback,

by this mysterious occurrence,

but shrugs her shoulders &

happily eats her mystical cookie.

BIG SPOILER ALERT!!!

(TOO LATE)

Okay, so if you haven't seen it,

I've ruined it for you...

but click once on the link below & go

check it out, before you read any further:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbO7fR7eLEc

Holy Crap!

Did you see those ears, come & go,

from frame to frame? WTF is that??

This little girl is OBVIOUSLY

the secret love child of Prince Charles...

NOW, let's examine reality in my world:

In 1974, In A House On Heath Avenue:

If my older brother

had actually been so generous to me,

apart from getting him an

MRI of the brain, toot sweet….

he would have beaten

the holy crap out of me,

for not giving him half

of the f’ng cookie,

for his selfless gift,
which he now proved

I was not worthy of,
in the first place.

In 1974, In A House On Heath Avenue:

....he STILL would have beaten

the holy crap out of me,

for not giving him ~~half of~~
the entire f’ng cookie,

for his selfless gift,
which he now proved

I was not worthy of,
in the first place.

In 1974, In A House On Heath Avenue:

My brother would have

laughed his ass off at me, that:

1. HE “found” the cookie,

2. I was seriously S.O.L.

&

3. that would have been,

the end of that.

Or he would have licked it, first.

Dear Mike,

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

Ha, Ha, Ha,

I’m two years younger than you….

(So I should naturally live longer…)

With Love,

Your Incredible, Wonderful Baby Sister....

~SusiTheJ~

Ickthyology & Duct Tape

2011-10-11T14:03:00.008-04:00

Much to my Mother's chagrin,

I managed to marry a

card-carrying Republican,

Presbyterian Golf Pro,

with a burning passion

for Gettysburg

designing golf courses,

playing golf,

Golf Quest...Brookfield, CT.

...The Kennedy
Assassination

Conspiracy

&

Ichthyology.

(ICK-THEE-OLOGY)

Ichthyology (from Greek: ἰχθύς, ikhthus, "fish"; and λόγος, logos, "study") is the branch of zoology devoted to the study of fish. This includes skeletal fish (Osteichthyes), cartilaginous fish (Chondrichthyes), and jawless fish (Agnatha). While a majority of species have probably been discovered and described, approximately 250 new species are officially described by science each year. According to FishBase, 31,500 species of fish had been described by January 2010.^[1] There are more fish species than the combined total of all other vertebrates: mammals, amphibians, reptiles and birds.

The practice of ichthyology is associated with marine biology, limnology and fisheries science.

You're welcome....

Throughout the years,

I have heard him throw out references

about his love and knowledge

of the deep blue sea.

As a matter of fact,

when he took me to see

The Deep Blue Sea,

a week before our wedding in 1999

(I chose Runaway Bride, but lost on a dime toss),

I fervently informed him that if ANYONE in this cockamamie movie got his head bitten off by whatever was the star of the D.B. Sea,

that I would take HIS head off...

I was a little stressed from

wedding-prep difficulties &

needed an easy-breezy kinda flick.

I think I heard Doug
wimpering in the dark...

when Samuel L. Jackson
got his head ripped clean off

In 1,800 years together,

he has taken me

through 3,000 viewings of Jaws.

I think he's aware

that there were a

whole slew of them made,

but I have
never once seen anything

but the original with him.

We watched Old Faithful

again last night.

I was being a smart-ass,

cutting up & telling him that

I had just recently reviewed

some pictures from the movie,

in research for this blog of mine.

I found a picture a few weeks ago,

that perfectly described the mood

I was in and how life was treating me.

Along with all of those showings of Jaws,

I also got the great tour of every

'Air Jaws',

'Rogue Shark'

&

'Shark Girls Gone Wild'...

Most loving men
entice their women
with the promise of
a week in Paris...

or a week in Aruba....

I get a week in front
of the boob tube,

with Great Whites
infiltrating my dreams

for the next seven days...

The big Magilla of them all.....

Shark Week.

After all of these years,

I've actually become

relatively knowledgable on the facts

of this predator and his cousins.

Like the fact that the

Great White Shark

lives for about 25 years.

A Great White Shark

can roll its eyeballs back,

which protects the

vital front part of the eye

from being scratched.

In one year,

a single Great White

consumes about 11 tons of food.

That comes out to roughly

840 cute little seals.

During one of the
multitudes of viewings,

Doug decided to spring the

"Ampullae of Lorenzini"

on me,

just to prove once & for all if I listen
to a single word he says.

Well, of course I do.

I said,

"Lauren Who?"

After he gave me a snarky look,

he went on to explain.

This ampullae is basically

the command center for Jabber Jaw...

it's a little bit radar, it's a little bit sonar &

a good dose of instinct for a meal,

all rolled into one little set of

impulses in the shark.

Since I had a good idea of how Jaws

was going to turn out last night,

I couldn't help but to go for the giggle.

I told him that I had single-handedly

come up with the solution

on how these

"Beasts of the Deep"

the "Beasts of Bayonne"

could all manage
to share the ocean & not end up
like the stupid Kintner kid.

And while we're at it....
what the hell ever happened to

PIPPET???

His doofy owner
throws the damned stick into
shark infested waters &
the picture below is the last we see of the

poor little fella....

Pisses me off...
every single time we watch it.

I didn't care about
the Kintner kid...

He was splashing around,

like an out-of-control little moron &

brought it on himself.

Jus' sayin...

Next thing you know,

no Pippet...

no doofy owner....

Pippet bought the farm before

Alex Kintner did,

yet no one even noticed.

I can't help but picture
his little Labby face,
knowing Doofy had
just turned him into

lunch at the beach...

This was the bounty poster

at the town meeting in the movie:

"A $3,000.00 Bounty To The Man Or Men

Who Catch And Kill The Shark

That Killed Alex M. Kintner

On Sunday Jun 29th on the

Amity Town Beach."

Since I personally feel
that little Alex

brought this on himself,

with all of that stupid splashing,

I reworked the poster:

"A $13,000.00 Bounty
To The Man Or Men

Who Catch & Kill
The Shark That Killed

Pippet

On Sunday Jun 29th on the

Amity Town Beach."

When I was little &

my parents took us to a nice,

wholesome R-Rated Movie,

1967

Bonnie & Clyde

1971

1972

The Godfather, Part I

Guess What? NO ONE took me to see The Godfather, Part II.

What's Up With That??

I WAS BORN IN 1964...

Uh, huh.

I only cried when the

horses or dogs were killed…

never batted an eyelash when

the humans bit the big one.

Hhmmmm…..

Sorry, I totally wigged out
for a minute there...

Back to my solution about shark attacks:

I propose that a cover or a cap of sorts

be developed that can be

attached to Big Whitey,

to block out his command center.

That way, any little morons

splashing in the ocean

will not ring the dinner bell,

sending the shark swimming

from six miles away,

just to get a taste of a scrawny little kid &
get my fat ass, instead.

Doug looked at me like
I was mentally ill &
inquired how I proposed

to attach the cover to the shark.

"Duct tape," I proudly proclaimed.

He stared blankly at me,

like I had really scared him &

said there were a few problems

with my genius idea.

With a hand in mid-air,
I cut him off mid-sentence:

"I know, I know...

I have to find

water-proof duct tape."

3M 051131980044 Duct Tape - Multi-Use - 2 Inch x 30 Yard

$3 online, $7 nearby

An economical tape made with a tough polyethylene film bonded to strong polycotton blend cloth.

Good weather and moisture resistance. That should hold it...no?

No. 1110-A: 48mm x 10 yd. No. 11

30-A: 48mm x 30 yd. No. 1160-A: 48mm x 60 yd.

"Well.

I didn't even think of that,"

he very generously offered.

"I was thinking you'd run into

a bit of a struggle, trying to get

the shark to cooperate,

while you attach your little cover to

the underside of his FACE."

“Oh.”

I guess it’s a work in progress…

Hey, Honey…

Thanx for all of the stuff you give me,

that makes me smarter.

~SusiTheJ~

Shark Girl, Extraordinaire

Doug’s Gift of Immortality….

2011-09-29T23:07:00.006-04:00

For one of my husband’s numerous past birthdays, I stupidly decided to get him a one-of-a-kind gift, that only his stupid wife could dream up.

Since Sardi’s Restaurant

is our favorite place on Earth

to eat,

drink &

be merry in,

I placed a phone call

to one of his dearest friends:

Max Klimavicius,

the owner of Sardi’s.

Max and Doug have this thing going on…

...it’s a golf thing, but they truly love each other.

Max was a student of Doug’s and I figure he must have really been fond of him, since he drove from Manhattan to Armonk, to take lessons & play golf with him.

“Max…It’s Susan,” I regretfully began.

After a few minutes of catching up, I unloaded my stupid idea on him. “I want to have my husband immortalized.

No, I don’t want him to live forever…

I just want his mug on the wall at Sardi’s,

for ten minutes.”

I think I stunned him a little,

but he bounced right back.

In the history of Sardi’s, Doug is the only person who:

1. Is NOT a member of Actors' Equity

2. Will never be a member of Actors' Equity.

3. Never sat for the artist, Richard Baratz, for the
actual creation of the caricature.

Max and I worked feverishly to provide all of the photos that I could dig up, that Mr. Baratz could compile into some semblance of Doug’s actual likeness.

He would fax me drafts,

I’d scream in horror & we'd go back to the

literal drawing board, from there.

Mr. Baratz took our wedding picture,

cropped me out

& put a Ben Hogan visor on his head.

His beautiful tuxedo became a white

Fairway & Greene golf shirt

and history was complete.

As June 3 was approaching,

the birthday boy’s big day,

we HE had a plan in place:

His parents would journey up from

Shelter Island

to be with their second-born male, on the day he was produced. We would have dinner at the restaurant and then go see a Broadway show.

I made all of the plans for the evening, but could not secure the tickets to the show we wanted to see. Max was kind enough to make a call and took care of the arrangements.

The morning of his birthday, as he’s

leaving for work, my beloved reviews the plan that we HE decided on:

“My folks will arrive around 1:00 p.m.

I’ll be home by 3:30 p.m.

We leave at 3:31 p.m. Got it?”

Check.

Yes, Sir!

Whatever you say, M’Lord…

Well, his folks arrived ON THE DOT.

We walked out of our front door,

at precisely 3:31 p.m. & 7 seconds.

The minute we slammed
all four car doors,

all Hell broke loose.

You have to know & love Doug, to appreciate his good points, as well as his idiosyncrasies…

...which are sure to get him killed by me,

one of these days.

He has the patience of a…a.uh....

Nope. There’s just no word that exists, that’s appropriate to insert.

He is the most impatient person in the world.

If traffic should arise on his path to a final destination, you should just politely
ask to be let out of the car &
figure out another way to get there.

Or you’re going to jail.

Jus’ Sayin…..

He is the kindest, most wonderful man in the world...but, when he loses his cool...

I want to stick a fork in his forehead.

I’ll still love him forever…

that has nothing to do with it.

Doug’s succinct plan of leaving at 3:31 p.m.
was to get us down to Sardi’s, sipping martinis

by 5:00 p.m., the very latest.

Relax with a cocktail or two,
in the Club Bar, on the second floor...

(it's simply sublime....)

When Monty Python's SPAMALOT was on Broadway, it was directly across from Sardi's,
at the Schubert Theatre.
There was NOTHING like the experience of having a cocktail in hand, staring at a
large, white Killer Rabbit,
from that perspective.

...then on to a nice,
leisurely "pre-theatre"dinner,

downstairs in the main dining room…

...grab a taxi to the theatre for

an 8:00 p.m. curtain...

Piece of cake.

Yeah, right.

At 5:00 p.m.,

my husband is ripping his hair out,

because at approximately 3:32 p.m., the sky opened wide while we were on the

Taconic State Parkway,

rendering any of the somewhat decent drivers

on the road, into blithering morons.

Hell, we haven’t even entered Manhattan
‘proper’ yet….

We’re sitting behind some Schmoe whose EZ Pass is not functioning properly, at the Henry Hudson toll booth.

It didn’t’ really matter much, as the car in front of the Schmoe wasn’t making much progress, anyway.

Doug’s father is sitting in

my normal co-pilot’s seat,

trying to gently coax his son

off the interior roof of the Chrysler.

“Dougie…relax. There’s nothing you can do about the traffic…we’ll get there.”

Nope. Useless. My father-in-law had possession of his son in a house in Mineola,

long enough to know

when to call a subject quits.

After three thousand years

in the car with Doug...

...we finally pull up in front of Sardi’s.

He let his parents and me out,
to go occupy our lonely, unoccupied table

while he parked the car, across the street.

He comes in, fifteen minutes later,

all beaten up by the rain

& the congestion from the sea of umbrellas on the streets of Manhattan.

He’s ~~a happy camper~~.

Then Max reminds me of something that

I never heard him say in the first place:

We have to physically pick

the tickets up at

‘Will-Call’.

The kicker to this stupid story is that they have to be gotten from Will-Call by a certain time or they go to ‘Will-Sell’….Oh no…

Doug drags himself up from the table,

goes to the coat-check to retrieve his

Titleist, thirty-five-person-capacity golf umbrella

& heads back out onto the angry,

wet streets of Manhattan.

At the Will-Call window of the theatre, he produces himself, along with proof that he is, indeed, the psycho that appears in the picture

of his I.D.

(don’t know if they even checked it.)

They say, “That will be $450.”

“Whhhhhhhaaaaa,” he later told me, was all he could manage to get out of his mouth.

Apparently, his time-constrained stupid wife, failed to mention to him that the tickets had to be paid for, prior to leaving the theatre with them in hand.

He said that as he went for his wallet,

he truly didn’t think that he had his

credit card with him.

Oh, God. This is going to be ugly for me.

Luckily for my continued survival,

he found his AMEX...

secured the tickets...

& ran all the way back to Sardi’s,

in the pouring rain.

He comes back and finds us with damn-near empty drinks in our hands, sitting at our table:

Dead-Center...Front of the House,

with Susan Lucci &
her husband, Helmut Huber,

sitting to our immediate right.

On the main wall, staring back at the precise location of where Doug has been specifically seated, is his framed caricature, awaiting his eye.

Well, Helen F'ing Keller

would have found it faster.

He looked EVERYWHERE,

except where he should have.

The poor birthday boy was so agitated, from

The Plan

bursting into flames

on the West Side Highway,

that we made certainly certain that the perfect martini, perfectly chilled, would be awaiting his annoyed lips.

We just couldn’t say anything…

he had to find the drawing himself.

But what a pain in the ass he was.

His parents agreed.

He’s bitching up a storm, about the disaster of getting here...

in the monsoon,

to go get the tickets.

His father is giving it his all,

looking the walls up & down.

“Boy, can you believe how many caricatures
there are in Sardi’s?”

THERE'S NO reaction from Doug, except

for the steam coming out of his head.

Dad takes a bigger gulp of his cocktail &

gives it another go. God Bless his tenacious soul...

“Wow...I've never noticed

Christopher Walken's picture, before tonight!

(Our 'acting-major' Son does a major kick-ass

take on Walken, so this was big...)

Poor Christopher Walken
happened to be...unfortunately for him,

temporarily located

next to the aggravated,

only non-Equity member, ever on the wall.

STILL, NOTHING.

Doug is not even lifting his eyes off of

his martini glass,

when his father finally, desperately throws out:

“DOUG, who the hell is that on the wall????”

Doug looks up, completely annoyed that he has to deal with one more iota of data input on this magical birthday of his &

suddenly bursts out laughing.

After a good 15 seconds, Max removed my beloved husband from the Wall of Fame,

placed Doug, in Doug’s hands &

kissed him on the cheek.

I drank the rest of my dinner.

His next birthday?

He got an f’ing tie.

Be Sure To Tell Max & Sean...

....Susan & Doug sent you…..

In the heart of New York's Theater District, Sardi's has been the toast of

Broadway for 90 years. Located at 234 West 44th Street,

the restaurant is open Tuesday through Sunday for lunch and dinner. Late supper is served from Tuesday through Saturday.

telephone 212.221.8440

212.302.0865 fax

I Will Always

Love My Lucy!

When I Was A Naughty Little Girl,

"Losing Lucy"

Was My Punishment….

& That Was 20 Years, After Her Debut!

~SusiTheJ~

MY LIFE IS A FREAKING CABARET, 'OL CHUM...

2011-09-27T15:35:00.013-04:00

...Une Part...

When the commercials for the revival of Cabaret were aired on TV, the show starred

Natasha Richardson, as Sally Bowles :(

& Alan Cumming, as the Emcee,

I wanted to see this show, badly...

Doug got tickets for my birthday, but by the time he got them, Cumming and Richardson left the show and I was left with Gina Gerson & Craig Bierko.

I was terribly disappointed. Gershon was a 'blip' to me....I couldn't think of a single thing she had done.

And Bierko? Well, he had single-handly ruined one of my favorite movies, "The Long Kiss Goodnight,"

with Geena Davis & Samuel L. Jackson.

He played an evil villain,

impersonating a moron,

who should have first slit the throat of the dolt who wrote his dialogue for this movie.

It was akin to Mickey Rourke's
Cheeto-faced performance

in Wild Orchid...

Every time Mickey opened his mouth, I was screaming with laughter and rolling on the floor in a movie theatre in Flushing, Queens..even though it most certainly wasn't a comedy.

(Come to think of it...who in the Hell was permitted to name this town???),

I just couldn't help but add witty dialogue whenever Mickey paused

and I got Wild Applause
from the disgusted audience,

who were starting to form a big, fat queue
on the refund line.

Anyway. I am digressing here.
Back to Cabaret.

The seats were phenomenal…we were sitting practically ‘in the set’.

A giant spotlight suddenly shines DIRECTLY on to 'Yours Very Truly' and remains there.

As I suddenly and stupidly think that this was some surprise-thingy for my birthday, I’m all blushy and aw, shucks…ready to wave to the audience or, cringing now in memory...stand up.

I look up and standing directly behind me is
Mr. Evil Villain…

The spotlight was for him and HIM only.
I conceded my moment 'in the light’ to him…
Frankly I thought he needed it more than I did.

I never bought him, as a good actor, although moron thoughts like that never got ME my acting career, but Craig sure got his.

Somehow, I STILL don’t care for him…

CABARET, PART DEUX

Meanwhile, back at Studio 54....

We took Doug’s parents, since his Father said to me, "I want to see that show with YOU."

Wow. I felt so honored...so, so special.

We didn't have the heart to tell him that we had suffered through the Bierko-Gershon version already, so we said, "Great. Love to."

This time around,

I got Molly Ringworm &

Raul Esparza...

As we're sitting at a café table, with a little votive candle burning for ambiance (and apparently, the only light you can get, when the house-lights are off), a waitress appears to take our drink order –

Yes! Alcohol on Broadway. Now we're talking.

And this was long before the Broadway show,

Rock of Ages

highjacked the idea and made a killing.

So. Like seventy-five bucks later, for four crappy Chardonnays, thank you very much….

the space is very tight and it’s obviously,
very dimly lit.

As the show is in full-mode, I’m sipping on the

pricey dog-water

& really getting into the show...

I put my left hand on my husband’s thigh and I’m rubbing it to the tempo of the music.

This goes on for a good three minutes, when out of the extremely pitch black theatre I hear,

“Wrong Leg.”

The subtitle of this story is now,

“How I Felt Up My Father-in-Law &

Lived To Tell About It”

I felt my five fingers recoil in horror, as they backtracked off of his thigh and I could hear him choking back laughter, so as not to alarm the neighboring theatre-goers that he had been touched inappropriately in public, by his
daughter-in-law.

Two minutes later, my Mother-in-Law is asking what's so funny and what did she miss?

Having recently watched

The Piano

with my husband,

I asked Doug to pull out an ax &

chop off all of the fingers on my left hand,

as soon as we got home.

That would fix my wagon...

~SusiTheJ~

I’ll take Halloween for $500, Alex….

2011-09-23T17:48:00.008-04:00

As I’m very mentally infantile, at being forced at gunpoint to let Summer ’11 out of my grasp,

my mind is wandering to Autumn, which is my favorite season.

Having a Step-son who happens to be born on Halloween, has always been a big help in getting the brain reprogrammed from pools

& bbq’s,

to pumpkins

hot apple cider,

enthusiastically sprinkled with the essence of

The Captain.

Yum. Uhm, I’ll be right back….

Ok. All better. Now I can concentrate on what I’m getting at, here. Since Halloween in our house, and our deranged minds was just the neighborhood’s way of coming out and saying:

“Happy Birthday, Dougie!,”

we always took things a bit too far. We went banana-wacko, with the coolest spooky décor you could find.

We had a witch’s cauldron,

that we stowed all of the Treats for the Trickers, who came to call. We’d dress up in costumes, even though we were the resident adults.

If we got droopy, tired-looking children

at the door,

who had the enthusiasm of road kill, we just didn't understand it. We’d put them through their paces, before doling out any loot to them.

They’d roll their eyes in utter disgust, when we’d throw them a pop quiz.

“Sooo. Happy Halloween. (Insert blank stare from children, here..)
And what are you supposed to be??”
“I’m a pirate,” one boy muttered through his teeth to me, as if he was sure I was a big moron who couldn't figure his get-up out.
He answered me like he was speaking to the dentist that was about to hurt him, badly. I stood staring back at him, with my jaw agape.

“A pirate? A pirate? Are you kidding me?

You sure look like a pirate,

but you sound like a couch potato!!

Where’s the, “Arh, Matey, I be Trick O’ Treatin’ and I’m not leaving without all of the loot on your ship!!”???

“Hey Lady, I have a headache.
Can I have some candy or not?”

As I felt a little bad for harassing the kid, after he dressed up on a school night and was feeling crappy and all, I gently tried to help him along by telling him I’d give him FIVE!! goody bags, if he’d just say, “Ahr, Shiver me timbers, wench!”

Captain Jack Sparrow turned me down cold,

took his one bag & slogged back across our

Great Lawn,

& disappeared into the night.

I just can’t stand such a celebratory occasion,
and no ‘Umph’…it just kills me.

As each September whipped past our eyes,

we’d start preparing and setting the house for Halloween night and for the birthday party that was on its tail, usually that weekend.

I’d be knee-deep, prepping homemade trays of eggplant parm

& four other off-shoots of some animal, vegetable or mineral, parmed to death…in huge aluminum trays.

By the time I put the wraps on cooking,

cleaning, decorating

& thinking up my new means of torturing neighborhood children with quizzes and lessons on holiday enthusiasm, I was out of steam, out of cash & I was done.

After reviewing our inane Halloween spending spree, I felt a tight pinch when I went to purchase the actual give-away’s for Halloween night.

I heard myself gasping out loud and shaming the great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company,

for the unreasonable price of a decent amount of candy to dole out. Knowing the girth of our witch’s cauldron by the front door, I quickly realized that I’d have to shell out ANOTHER fifty bucks, just to be fully stocked. No way.

I was drawing the line.

I’d buy what I thought was appropriate and that, would be that.

When I arrived home, I left my candy purchases by the door, as I put away my precious perishables.

When I finished, I ripped open the candy bags and unceremoniously dumped them into the witch’s belly. This was daylight and I had to get a flashlight AND a magnifying glass, to be able to see the candy in this black barrel.

I was stunned to see that it barely filled the entire bottom of the cauldron. Tough darts. I did my best, I was broke and this was it.

When Doug arrived home, an hour after me, he poured through the door, all pumped up for the evening’s frivolity.

As we ate dinner, he talked wildly about the excitement of the night and Dougie's birthday, along with the unseasonable temperature for October 31….It was warm out!

Something about a muggy night in New York, does not go hand in hand with the proper spirit of the season. Jus’ sayin….

Or, does it???

After we finished eating, he went over to investigate the offerings of the witch.

“Whaaaatttttttthhhhhelllll!!!!!”
he roared through the house.

“What’s wrong?” I volley’d back to the hallway, thinking that our house had just been hit with eggs or something.

“What happened to ALL of the candy

you bought?

Did YOU eat it, Susan?”

“Of course not! What do you mean?

It’s in there!”

(Oh God, did I leave empty M&M's bags lying around???)

“Susan, I can physically COUNT

how many pieces are in there…

Where’s the rest?” he indignantly inquired.

“You’re insane," I informed him.

...There’s an EXORBITANT amount of money in candy, down there. I broke the Halloween birthday budget.

Stick a fork in us...

we’re done,” I replied in a very matter-of-fact, tone of voice.

“And what happens when all
the little children in the neighborhood

ring our doorbell tonight

& we’re scratching the bottom of the cauldron? Do we say, “Sorry, kids...we’re done? See ya next year??”

His face was all contorted, as he waited for my reply.

“I’m sorry, Doug…I did the best I could...

...Would you like me to write them

personal checks,

as they’re explaining their get-ups to us??

Would that do it for ya?

...Really nail the spirit of the season????”

“No,” he only replied, in a very cool tone, as he walked to the piggy key-rack on the wall

& removed his car keys.

“That won’t be necessary,” he sniffed at me,

as he drove away in a big huff.

I thought he went for a quick ride,

to blow off a little steam,

at me,

at the situation
and at the lack of unlimited party funds.

When he came back, an hour and a half later, he had a ginormous Tyson chicken wing carton in his arms.

This really threw me for a loop, as I emphatically informed him that I was not about to deep fry hundreds of Buffalo wings for our neighbor’s children’s snack needs.

He gave me a snotty look, as he dumped the contents of the chicken-wing box into the witch. Her belly was now overflowing with every kind of candy imaginable.

Apparently,
Willie Wonka

spent all that time in line at

B.J.’s Wholesale Club,

beating up old ladies
to get the last available

10-pound bags of candy

that he could lay his hands on.

As he attempted to tidy up the offerings by the door, he continued mocking me and my chocolate-buying-decision-making abilities.

“Like, ten pieces of freaking candy for the whole neighborhood….

Jesus, Susan…where’s your head??
Woo Hoo, kids! Come to our house!!!”

I thought his sarcasm level was a bit pissy, as well as a tad bit over-blown, but I remained unwilling to participate in his Susi bitch-fest.
I was mad, but I just made note of his snarky little comments
& went about my night.

Due to the fact that we have a stupid driveway that runs the length of

LaGuardia’s take-off ramp,

most of the walking visitors to our house are frankly, pooped by the time they ring the bell.

NOW I get it, why these children sound so uninterested in explaining themselves & participating in our Halloween games! I get it.

The houses to the direct left and direct right of us are so much closer to the road, that

FedEx

UPS

can ring their front doorbell from the truck and hand them their package.

That’s where Trick O’ Treaters like to go.

Our house, sandwiched in-between,

feels like the house is located in

Amityville

& no one wants to touch it,

with a ten foot pole.

So. The wrap up to this story?

After losing his mind at his wife,

driving to B.J.’s on Halloween night...the very night his youngest boy came into this world..

my husband is standing in line in a warehouse,

to spend fifty-six f’ing bucks on chocolate &

Wait For It....Wait For It....

TWO CHILDREN

RANG OUR BELL,
that hot, humid,

Halloween night.

He wouldn’t speak to me for a week.

Win…ning.

Happy Autumn Dreams, to you and yours...

~SusiTheJ~

Cat-Sitting The Meanest Cat In Creation

2011-09-12T15:17:00.015-04:00

As you might have garnered

from my earlier blog

about pigs and cats and fish,

I never had the experience of

growing up with a cat.

If I went to a friend’s house

to play and they owned one,

I viewed it with a healthy balance

of fear and ambivalence...

pretty much code for ignoring it

It wasn’t part of my world and

the fact that they

took care of their business,

in the same place that I took care of mine, frankly freaked me out.

Even though I never owned one,

to this second,

I can clearly recall the smell of them.

I give you this

bit of information,

as a precursor to the

stupidity of a friend

that decided I was the

best choice to nab,

when she and her boyfriend

went to Greece for three weeks,

to visit his family.

She owned two cats:

Elvis and Ebony.

Elvis was a mush-head.

You could pet him...

You could hug him...

You could dress him up

in stupid costumes,

if the urge so moved you.

He was the most mellow pussycat

I had ever laid eyes on.

Probably so mellowed out

from the years of living

in a cloud of Marijuana smoke.

Has there ever been any research
on the effects of
second-hand pot smoke,
on the pets that live
in that perpetual cloud? Hey….

Ebony.

What can I say about Ebony?

This is tough.

Ebony was the anti-Elvis.

He was also the anti-Christ.

If you entered the apartment

and looked over at Ebony,

you could pretty much

expect a cat splayed across your face,

as he could go 0 to 60,

in three split seconds.

He made this evil hissing sound,

on an almost constant basis.

He looked like the fattest

freaking reptile,

except he climbed into a box

in the bathroom to poop.

I grew up somewhat fearless.

I was a street kid.

I was a tomboy.

I do have a few deathly fears,

which those close enough

to me are fully aware of, and,

prohibited

from ever discussing in my presence.

If you break the rule and

discuss them in my face,

well then you get a

call from me at 3:45a.m.,

when I’m freaked out

that something is in my bed.

I don’t F-around with this….

It’s my hang-up and

that’s how I deal.

So on my short-list of fears,

Ebony...the evil, devil cat,

made the grade.

My forehead was all wrinkled up,

as my friend was laying
out her vision of me
visiting the boys every other day,
for 21 days.
I had a hard time imagining
how I was going to swing this.
Hell, I could take Elvis with me
on the roller coaster at Great Adventure

and not have a problem with him.

But Ebony,

was a horse of a different color.

To be precise, a jet black horse.

I reviewed the list of items

involved with cat care.

As this was back in the ‘80’s,

there was no modern-day

fix to dealing with a kitty litter box.

They left it there,

but it was up to me to remove it.

Although I desperately

tried to dream up

some genius mechanical alternative

to being this close to

someone else’s business,

I realized there was

no way around it.

Why I agreed to this,

I’ll never know.

Stupidity seemed to be

my guiding force,

for many a year.

We next went into the kitchen,

where she had basically built

a pyramid out of cat food cans,

forcing me to take from the top

and work my way down.

I guess she had laid out a

balance of meat, fish and God-only-knows

what the other food group was

to make sure the boys

weren’t bored with their vittles,

while she was off

ruin-schlepping in Mykonos.

Lying on the table,

next to the Great Pyramid of Egypt

is a hand-held can opener.

Holy Shit!

NOW I know

how my carpal tunnel actually happened.

The worst part of this gig

was actually not dealing

with the poop –

it was the parking.

This was a street where

‘alternate side of the street parking’

existed,

like living with a

chronic infected tooth,

in need of a good root canal,

but being forced to see

a different dentist,

depending on the day of the week.

They were forced to

live their lives around this

archaic parking system,

all in the name of

The New York City

Department of Sanitation

coming through with the

street sweeping machines…

It’s the Bronx, for Christ's sake..

it’s supposed to be dirty.

There were hundreds of

examples of being

in the middle of something,

when one of them

went screeching out of the apartment,

flying down the stairs

to get to the car in time, before the

NYC Parking Authority

plastered the car with tickets.

I’ve also encountered

death rides from Manhattan,

back to their apartment,

as the parking situation was,

“you snooze, you lose.”

Her boyfriend, driving

90 mph

up the

Major Deegan Highway

at 4:00am to secure a parking spot,

was not a good thing.

As I’m regretting

the acceptance of this

favor for a friend,

I’m weighing my options of:

1. Driving around in circles, to park my car,

to go and scoop cat poop...or,

2. Moving in for three weeks and

risking being clawed to death

in my sleep by a

cat with anger management issues.

So, I sucked up my poor decision making, coupled with a raging inability to say NO!, and did my kitty duty.

I’d go into the apartment and

try to be gentle, yet jovial,

like I was really happy to be there.

I’d pet Elvis &

mush his ears together like Yoda…

mostly because he let me.

And I’d make a

sincere attempt to get

within hissing distance

of the evil, devil cat.

As I’d look in his direction and

hold up a crucifix,

I felt cat saliva flying

through the air, across the room.

I’d try talking to him,

from a safe distance:

“Hello, Ebony…

How are you, boy?

How are you doing?

Did you like your meal yesterday?

Have a nice poop?

The power of Christ compels you.”

I mean, what the hell else

am I supposed to say?

I’m making one-way,

stupid ass talk

with the meanest cat in creation.

From ten feet away,

he’s swinging his paws and

claws at me..

Well, no more

sweet talk for you, Mister!

I’m done.

I’ll feed your ass and

clean up after you,

but you can talk to yourself.

Elvis is taking all of this in and

like a bratty sibling,

climbs in my lap and

nuzzles up against me.

I swear I saw him

stick his tongue out at Ebony.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

I truly felt bad that

Angry-Cat had no physical affection or

real company for three weeks.

I rigged cat toys,

to verrrrryyy long pieces of yarn,

so I could participate in

Ebony’s playtime,

without risking

plastic surgery reconstruction to my face.

I’d throw the toy,

over to where I could make him

out on the other side of the room….

he’d look at it for awhile and

then make a small move toward it.

I’d tug on the yarn a bit,

just to engage him.

Well, after 30 seconds

of playfulness,

he clawed the cloth ball to ribbons.

I dragged the

very dead toy

by the attached yarn

back to me and

examined it,

in shock & awe.

Yikes.

That could have been my face.

That’s enough frivolity

for one day, or better yet…

three weeks.

On day one,

I opened two cans of

some fishy kind of food

and placed them on the floor.

Elvis comes barreling in and

devours his dinner,

before I even rinsed off the can opener.

He rubs up against my leg,

just to let me know how

much he loves me, and then leaves.

As I’m rinsing out the empty cans,

I suddenly feel as though

I’m no longer alone in the kitchen.

I swallowed hard and

quickly assessed

the teensy window

next to the stove and

sadly determined

that I was just born too

big of a girl to fit through it,

to get to the fire escape,

if need be.

I slowly turn toward the

kitchen entrance and

there he is.

I felt like Wyatt Earp,

about to go head to head with Curly Bill.

My heart was pounding and

I was certain that Ebony

could smell my fear.

His eyes looked a little more

squinty than they usually were,

as he sized me up.

I slid his food dish across

the linoleum with my foot,

trying to put as much

safe distance between us

as I could manage,

in a two-foot long Bronx kitchen.

Surprisingly,

he also gobbled down my offering.

He then looked up at me,

as if he was suddenly willing

to tolerate my presence and

proceeded to

GAG.

Or choke.

My first thought was,

“Oh, No.

You puke, I puke.”

I didn’t know if this was one

of those hair-ball thingy situations

that I had heard about,

but since he had just finished eating,

I thought perhaps a little fishbone

had remained from the can.

I’m trying to

mentally conjure up

an image of how to do a

Heimlich Maneuver on a

pissy, pussycat,

without crushing his

skeletal system or,

more importantly,

me coming out of this looking

like I’d met up with Freddy Krueger.

I’m trying to talk him through it.

“Ok, Ebony…Susi’s here…it’s ok,

just be a good boy and

yak it up.”

What else could I say?

I didn’t want to seem

insensitive or worse,

uninterested.

I strongly disliked and

feared him,

but I wasn’t a monster and

the prevailing thought was,

“Oh, crap…if he dies,

on DAY ONE,

they’re gonna pin it on me!”

I had all kinds of solutions, running through my head.

I’d simply buy a replacement cat!

I Sure couldn’t pick one any worse,

but for some God-forsaken reason,

they loved this little bastard

and would surely notice

if he suddenly seemed

like he’d undergone

intensive therapy while they were gone.

Or I could get him stuffed and

put him on a little dolly and

pull him around.

Nah…that’s stupid...

They had carpeting

in the living room &

the wheels wouldn’t

have moved very well....

The last option ...

was my last option.

I’d simply put the cat in the freezer

and meet them with a bottle of Stoli &

a sympathy bouquet at JFK.

I did the only logical thing

I could come up with.

I ran through the apartment,

their bedroom closet,

whipping open every drawer,

looking for props.

I did the same thing

in the kitchen and

when I reappeared:

I had John’s catcher’s mask

on my face,

over a ski mask

you'd wear to rob a bank,

with a pair of

giant sunglasses

on top of that.

Around my neck,

I wrapped every scarf

I could find, until I looked like

I had a goiter the size of China.

I put on her long winter Down coat,

but I worried if I got swung at,

that it would be a bitch to

vacuum up all of those

expensive feathers.

On my hands,

I had her oven mitts,

with a long pair of

rubber-tipped tongs

in each hand.

I had no f’ing idea of what

I was supposed to do

with this protective get-up and weaponry,

but damn it,

I was prepared.

If I was forced by God

to squeeze this stupid cat,

to make him puke,

well I sure as hell

wasn’t using my bare,

exposed hands.

I think I scared the shit

out of evil, devil cat,

as his gagging problem

instantly stopped

at the sight of me and

he ran under the bed and

remained there.

Every time I opened

that front door and

gave my jolly greeting of the day,

I heard claws hitting

the hardwood floor

of their bedroom,

sliding into his new hiding spot.

Problem solved.

Oh, gosh…

I think I’m The Cat Whisperer.

~SusiTheJ~