These are significant dates, folks.

The first, my niece goes to senior prom. The second, Benji graduates. The third, Whitney does the same (she did it!). And last, but hell no -not least- I’m outta here. Vacationing. Boy, do I ever need it, too.

I’ve been out again. On the road again. Squared away the Vero again. I’m home momentarily just to do the laundry. Rather unsuccesfully at that. Leaving for Savannah first, then Hilton Head and finally, Darien.

I’m going to be missing Eh-net’s annual grand soiree for Memorial Day. Bummer. I really wanted to see everyone and the new baby Gabs provided. Well, I know I won’t be eating anything half as good as their feast, I’ll have to settle for whatever roadside neon catches my eye.

Gotta get done, gotta get back. These are some important times, folks. Times I don’t wanna miss. The clock hands show no mercy now. But geez, I can’t wait ’til they hurry the Hell up with this shit, even though time’s a flyin’ already.

Except in the case of the first three dates. No kids should ever grow up.

Kids should ALWAYS stay little until their Carter’s wear out. Remember that old commercial?

Back in a flash, y’all. Peace out.

…So there was no final table. Paula was pissed. Angry that the Viking mixer signed by all the Food Network folks auctioned off for less than 3 grand. Bummer, girl. My sister salted away our chips with the determination of a lion to get to that “final table.” Uh-oh. No final table was to be had. Paula, Deer, was pissy. So she opted for the fine print on our tickets that read, “Talent subject to change without fucking notice, bitches!” CRAP! I just fuckin’ sat thru four g-damned hours of poker and shitty food for this?
Screw Paula. AND her whitening strips. At least her husband shook my hand and recognized our joined boredom.

Fast forward to the brunch honoring Jamie Oliver. It was happening at the Loew’s Hotel. I ran into Emeril. No really. I RAN into Emeril. I was out for a smoke when Ffej texted me that the show was starting. I dashed for the escalator when I smacked into a hefty dude. We simultaneously apologized. I never recognize folks on tv without their chef coats…bam THAT.
We had a blast, me and Ffej. Blast in the moments between here and there. We rode busses and drove my car and sped along the ocean blue, walked and stalked and mocked the natives. We tanned and swam and dreamed of netherlands. We read and ate and laid about. I like food. I like attending the the Wine and Food Fest. I missed Alton though. I loved my sister. I drank her up-all her glory. That’s what Miami Beach is for, right? Honoring the glorious? I love that Ffej had a reprieve. It makes 80 degree winters so hard to leave. Thanks for coming, sis. I love you the most.

I was gonna let Paula off the hook. Was. Not any more. It went down like this…

…Me and Ffej arrived early to the Paris Theater. We took the transit near our hotel. We smelled good. We showered and put on our clean and shiny duds. Hopped off the bus with 1.5 hours to spare. Strolling past the Paris I noticed two women-one smoking a smoke. I commented quietly to Ffej: “I can’t believe that woman is copying Paula Deen. I mean geez! Look at her hair!” Ffej looks. The Paula emulater smiles at her. Crap. I’m an idiot. It is Paula Deen. Smokin’. We are number two in line behind radical Deen fans. They’re frustrated because they feel another is about to budge in line. The gal with the walker begins to take the other to task. “You didn’t wait in line, miss! We’re not gonna allow you to butt in.”

Geez. People get fucked in the head when it comes to pseudo-celebs, eh?

Nevertheless, me and Ffej are second.

Let me explain two pertinent factoids.

1) I didn’t drink the happy juice, just here for the food.

2) I loathe and despise cards, poker, slots, gambling in general.

The jist of the evening is to acquire a seat at the “final table” with Ms. Deen on stage.

I am uncomfortable in crowds unless it involves dancing or jello wrestling-neither of which were on the night’s menu. But Ffej is a shark when it comes to card games.

So she commenced to park herself at one of two poker tables. She was kicking ass and taking chips. I was the food/drink getter for the night. Oh and crowd avoider, too.

I parked my rather large posterior on the stage. Nice. Quiet. Away. Nobody near me. Until…

The food network shmoozers arrive. I can see Ffej in front of me taking the smarty-ass boys to task. Then here comes Paula. She tells a dirty joke but flubs the ending. No one is really interested. Enter an older gent with a British accent near to where I’m parked. He whoops it up. He says; “Hey Paula!” She looks over and introduces Gordon Elliot as her savior. At this point people have taken notice. They bum-rush the stage. I’m frantically waving at Ffej to whip out her camera. She is oblivious to me and the goings-on above her head.

I see Paula and her “handler.” I see Bobby, Guy, Giada and Todd, Cat Cora and Katie Joel. They’re kissing each other’s cheeks and acting as though there’s no one else in the room.

My legs are dangling from the stage and I feel a man between them. I have no idea who it is until I hear Bobby Deen ask where Gina is. The man between my legs is Pat Neely and it’s making me uncomfortable. He returns the question by asking where Jamie is. By this point Bobby is crouched by my shoulder and is fully engaged in a conversation with the latest addition the Food Network family. I’m appalled, yet feel strangely lucky. I mean, there are all these women around vying for the right position to snap a photo. Asking me this question about who was that and who that was and so on. I revelled a bit in the moment. Until…

Mr. Neely goes off on his tear telling Bobby Deen how he told the head of Food network that he, “already had a fuckin’ Lexus and already had sent his fuckin’ daughter to college…” I was mesmerized. Only because I find it rude when total strangers think it’s ok to swear like that. I mean, I wouldn’t swear in front of total strangers, I wouldn’t dream of it. Get to know you though, and look out!

So there I am, sitting on the stage hearing a weird conversation between Pat Neely and Bobby Deen. I notice four things just then. 1) Bobby smells yummy. Whatever cologne he has on is working. 2) He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. 3) He does not use even one curse word. 4) He knocked me over accidentally at one point but instantly apologized by placing his hand on my shoulder and acting as though I was his sister.

I was impressed by him. Even though he’s a boy and I’m generally anti-boy.

But his Mum? Here’s where the wheel began to take leave of the cart…

Ok so here’s the 411 on the Times-Union fakery…

So a couple years ago, during a convention that required our full names to be submitted for admission to said convention…Vern goes ahead and writes our names on the form and mails it in. All is good until the admissions lady can’t find Dee Fortin anywhere in the registrar. What? It’s there. I know it’s there. My (completely whacko) parental unit mailed it in for me.

No ma’am. But we DO have a Doe Fostin. Doe Fostin. Great. I shoulda remembered and hence prohibited Vern from attempting anything like perfect adherance to the principles of our written english language. You know the folks who deciphered the Rossetta Stone? Not brilliant enough to decipher Vern Weiss’s handwriting. I use the term; “handwriting,” loosely.

Hardy har har. A good laugh was had by all except me who had to walk around with some freakish scroll on her nametag and folks glancing from namebadge to face and face to namebadge, muttering ; “What an odd name, Harriet.”  “Yes, I agree Hortence, kids these days…”

There went the tale of Doe Fostin. Thanks Vern, for never forgetting and for beating THAT horse waaaay past dead.

 On to the A. Bourbon hilarity…Not her real name, by the way.

So about 6 or 7 years ago I had this thing called a girlfriend. I know, I KNOW! Hard to believe. On my birthday, Sept.4th, (for anyone who hasn’t written this in magic marker on calendars from here to eternity) I called her up to ask why she was so late for my birthday party at Lu and Vern’s.

Cue the heavy Cuban accent;

“Hey Babe…. Que? Today? Oh no Babe, today ees not your birthday. Eet’s tomorrow.”

{Groan}

Vern and Lu never liked that one. She remains my friend, but golly, she can be OUT THERE to this day. Not my freakin’ birthday? WHAT?

Girlfriends are long gone from my plans. (Any girl would be DOOMED to suffer thru Vern’s antics and I haven’t enough money to pay for the hazards of the job.)

Oh well. It’s all good and all lighthearted.

And it’s so good to laugh in this here life. It’s the best thing ever.

So thanks, clown feet, for making my day.

(editors note* see below. )

*Clown feet, clown feet. You haaaaaave clown feet.

(more…)

Gracie brought me down.
Yup. She brought down this one hundred sixty pound woman.
Brought the smackdown to this five foot eight, girl unexpecting…

(more…)

How do you go from allies to enemies in 4.5 minutes?

Here’s how…

(more…)

Wouldn’t life be grand if this word were true, if this word actually showed up every single time?

I guess.

My astute cognitive skills show up about as often as the teeter-totter of the middle ground does.

Almost never.

Except for yesterday.

I recognized the balance of nature.

Between the gray lines of reason.

Having a great day? Super! This too, shall pass.
Having a gruesomely excrutiating day? Awesome! This too, shall pass.

Got that ticket and I got that pink slip.

No, I didn’t get fired. Feels like it, though.

Had to let the Hope go.

Remember my: “Hope of hope entry?”

Well there’s now that empty feeling the size of a Whitney.

She had to go. I had to take up for the stayers.

It’s only fair.

I like it when I see the balance.

I hate it when it has to happen to me.

I hate the human sized blanks that follow the cycle of life.

Can’t everyone just stay?

What’s so fucking hard about THAT?

I’m gonna write Charlie Crist and ask him to emphasize the property taxes of those who take up residence in my heart.

I deserve a tax cut, y’all.

Whether it’s for the property of my soul or not.

Enjoy your roast beast. Enjoy your trinkets and plinkets and places and plans.
Just don’t get too damned commercial and think it’s all about the mall.
Hey, I wanna make a million this year, but not at the expense of humanity.
So remember the Whos.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good night.

I never, in my years on the planet, would have thought this to be true.

Until now.

There is a race of people that I despise, loathe and hate.

It is the Nazi party of 1928-to present. Adolf Hitler and his sycophant bastards. Women too, not exempt from my fury. I bubble up with anger and resentment each moment that my minds eye recollects the holocaust. Like now. I’m viewing some WW2 dvds. They’re talking about Auschwitz. A man is regaling the interviewer with his nefarious reasoning for offing the Jews. “They cheated my family.”
“They”, being anonymous of course.

Goddammit, I’m so mad. I wish I could go to his house and punch him in the nose. Push his face into the mass graves of those he’s claimed were cheaters. He’s speaking of his hatred of the Jews in the present tense, too. I hate him. I hate Germany. Its soil is poisoned with innocent blood. How could anyone go there? Be a tourist?

Despite the fact that there are stunning places to see, sausages and struedel and weiner schnitzel to eat, I’d puke my guts out the moment I thought I’d have to visit that friggin’ final solution Hell on earth. My head shakes involuntarily and my rage boils up spontaneously when I try to place myself in the shoes of Jews.

The shoes of Jews. A post from “Nobody hugged them goodbye.” What can I do to feel less hate? Can anyone tell me?

I’m simply mortified and oh so morose.