Foolery

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My Mother's Day card from my wonderful husband.

The One in Which I Rabbit On (Again)

I hate it when Chas is funnier than me.

This morning my Twitter feed led me to a horribly sad and darkly funny story about a photo shoot gone wrong. Seems a videographer stepped on his subject, a tiny and rare earless rabbit.

Original photo stolen from NPR

Read the article; I'll wait.

Set aside your horror and outrage and pity for all involved, and just notice how damned funny this is. So much is wrong here I can't even begin, and it's all pointed out by well-meaning but humorless commenters at NPR's blog site. I was moved to make a comment (rare for me on a national forum), in which I was a smartass (not at all rare for me).

I cracked myself up, so of course I had to share it with my funnier-than-me husband. "Chas," I said, giggling. "Earless rabbit," "direct hit," blah blah blah. "Poor little guy probably never heard him coming."

"Ha ha," chuckled Chas. "I guess a human foot wasn't lucky for that rabbit."

Silence. Gahhhhhh. Way funnier. "I'm posting that, you know," I said.

I'd feel better if he had to try to be funny, even a little bit.

Date Night in Fooleryland, WOO-HOO!

I had a date tonight.


With my husband. Some call him Chas. Others call him Imaginary Husband. Daryl calls him Billy-Bob. I call him Zig-Zag or Zip-Loc, or whatever that was, I forget. But it's been so long since I called him for a date, I almost forgot how.

The kids are out of town for a few days with their grandparents, so we are empty-nesters. This calls for lots of alcohol, public nudity and loud funk. Sadly, all we were able to muster on short notice was the alcohol. But it was imperative that we pay lots of money for it and make unsuspecting people serve it to us, so we went to the finest dining establishment in Orland: Farwood.

We really like it there. We go about once every two years, without fail.

But I have to share this bit of snark with you. Please note the description of the potato skins (which were delicious).



You may need to click on the photo to read it. Farwood, I couldn't bring myself to point it out to you, or your completely wonderful server Meagan, but I think you need to change up your description just a bit here. Hey, I'll even write it for you. I use words a lot -- too much, even. You could ask anybody.

I had TWO -- count 'em, TWO -- martinis. Hey, don't count my drinks. This one was a Sapphire up with three olives, which was tasty, but the next one was my new favorite thing: a cherry martini made with Lucero Olive Oil's Wild Cherry Balsamic Vinegar.



(Photo blatantly stolen from Farwood's Facebook page)

Ho. Lee. COW. It's my new favorite thing. I may have said that already.

Date Weekend has just begun. Stay tuned for more news of middle-aged antics in 105F weather.

Zoltar? Zamboni?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Our cousins came for a visit this weekend, including darling, confident little 4-year-old Ivy. She's a ball of energy and delight, and the girls had a great time with her. But she had a hard time with names, often calling both girls by the same name, and calling me "Sparky and Smedley's Mother." My mom was simply "Grandma," although she really isn't. And Ivy couldn't remember Chas's name at all.

So he lied to her.

"Hey, watch me jump in the pool -- hey, what's your name again?" she asked him.

"Chas." The first time. The next time Ivy asked, Chas answered

"Zontar."

"Oh, okay, watch me jump in the pool, Zontar."

So guess what Chas's new nickname is? Except that I'm as bad as Ivy, and I keep called him Zamfir, Zigzag and Zip-Loc. That'll teach him.

C'est Moi Qui Vous Remercie

Chas: I don't know the way to say "you're welcome" in French. I don't think it exists.

A Blasphemous Little Conversation With Chas

Chas: "Did I ever tell you about a guy from my town named Lance? The art major?"

Foolery: "I don't remember."

Chas: "He was a pretty serious artist . . . he majored in art at Cal."

Foolery: "Wow."

Chas: "Anyway, he had an art project due and he was behind, so he just threw something together at the last minute, turned it in, and got really high marks for it."

Foolery: "Figures. What did he make?"

Chas, chuckling: "He made three pieces of toast and spray-painted them green . . .

 

. . . and then he mounted them to a board or something -- I think it was painted red."




Foolery: "What a great concept. Completely ludicrous."

Chas: "Yeah, we all thought it was funny when he told us about it. Probably would've failed if he'd used only TWO pieces of toast."

Foolery: "Yeah, with three it's like a triptych. Oh, snap -- you know what he should have called it, don't you?"

Chas: "What?"

Foolery, in her mind's eye already decorating her special little corner in Hell: "In The Name Of The Father, The Son And The Whole Wheat Toast."

Chatting With Chas: College Graduation Memories

 

(Original photo stolen from Francisco Jose)

It's almost graduation time. I didn't walk in my own college graduation ceremonies, because I finished in December and JUST DIDN'T CARE. I wanted out, period. But Chas did walk in his ceremony. Chas graduated with a lot of his friends and made a party of it.

Laurie:  So tell me about your graduation from Chico State.

 
(Photo stolen from these guys)

Chas: Well, at 6:30 a.m., we repaired to some girl's house that I didn't know, to drink margaritas. About ten of us, maybe.

Laurie: What was the weather like? I know it can be over 100F for a CSUC graduation.

Chas: Hot and clear, a little bit sticky.

Laurie: And after the margaritas?

Chas: I have no memory until being seated for the ceremony a couple of hours later.

Laurie: Must have been AWESOME margaritas.

Chas: Well, I was probably at a .05 blood alcohol level when I woke up that morning. It didn't take much.

 

(Photos stolen from these guys and these guys)

Laurie: How did you get to the stadium?

Chas: Hmmmm. Good question.

Laurie: What were you carrying into the ceremony? I'm just trying to determine how much booze you were carrying with you.

Chas: I was not packing alcohol that I can recall.

Laurie: Oh, and your memory of this day is SO trustworthy. So certainly something memorable happened during the ceremony. Spill it.

Chas: Yes, my good friend from the volleyball team, Jim -- not the Jim you know, SPAM, but another Jim -- had to relieve himself during the ceremony.

Laurie: Oh GAHHH.

Chas: During a particularly boring commencement speech.

Laurie:  And?

Chas: He rose from his folding chair and in a controlled sprint on his stubby legs --

Laurie: Nice dig there, Chazzer; he's probably not reading this, you know.

Chas -- being the only thing moving in the entire stadium, he made his way to the shrubbery alongside the tennis courts, where he relieved himself. And no, he did not shout out in a Homeresque way, "Oh yeah, that's the stuff!"

Laurie: But you did.

Chas: I wished I were he.

Laurie: Sounding a little too Shakespeare on us there, Chasmo.

 
(Original photo stolen from this site)

Chas: "To pee or not to pee. That was the question."

Laurie:  Crap. Set up a lob for you. Also, you're cut off.

These Two Have the Life of Riley

 

 

How Chas Cured His Acid Reflux, Part II

(You can read Part I by clicking here)

So where were we?

When last we met I was in the middle of an interview with my husband Chas, and he was just about to tell all y'all about how he cured his own acid reflux. The first part was  funny  really funny  funny, but this part is pretty straight:

FOOLERY:  Tell us how you did it -- how you cured yourself.

CHAS:  First thing in the morning, I woke up --

FOOLERY:  Genius!

CHAS:  -- and headed for the kitchen, where I poured myself about a pint of warmish water.

FOOLERY:  So not out of the door in the fridge -- GASP! -- YOU? Drank TAP WATER?! On purpose?

 

(Original photo stolen from this site)

CHAS, IGNORING ME:  The theory is that the water can't be cold, or it'll shock your stomach into constricting, and you want to expand, not constrict. So after I drank the water I was supposed to rise up on my toes, with my elbows extended, and slam my heels to the floor.

FOOLERY:  "There's no place like home, there's no place like home . . ."

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

CHAS:  But I --

FOOLERY:  Hey, the Dorothy joke should have been good for a chuckle, at least.

CHAS:  -- took it one better and jumped off of the ottoman instead.

FOOLERY:  Why on earth?

CHAS:  I didn't think the heel-slamming was quite enough; the ottoman was higher, of course, and I think it worked better. When the stomach is full of water it's heavy, and when you jump suddenly the weight of the full stomach pulls the hernia back into place.

FOOLERY:  Whoa. Sort of like a heavy water balloon, I get it.

CHAS:  Yeah, and it worked. Also, I think you're supposed to exhale as you slam your heels to the floor.

FOOLERY:  Have you had to repeat the process?

CHAS:  No, not so far. The articles didn't specify how long the cure would last, but I suppose I'll just do it again as needed.

FOOLERY:  Any negative side effects?

CHAS:  No, although I suppose the jumping part wasn't great for my OTHER hernia.

FOOLERY:  T.M.I.

CHAS:  You asked.


I have asked Chas to get checked out by his doctor to make sure he isn't missing a bigger problem, and he promised me he would. HEAR THAT, HONEY? YOU PROMISED. Chas is not a doctor or medical specialist of any kind, and I'm definitely not, so we don't know anything and

PLEASE DON'T TAKE

MY WORD FOR THIS --

ASK A DOCTOR FIRST.

But it makes you think, and it has really helped Chas. I wish I could provide a link but I couldn't find one. Good luck, and don't break your ankles jumping off the ottoman.

 

(Photo stolen from these guys) 

How Chas Cured His Acid Reflux, Part I

 
 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Chas seems to have cured his acid reflux.

Silly me, I hadn't noticed, even though it's been about a month, and I have seen him pour a glass of wine with dinner a couple of times . . . still, I was NOT PAYING ATTENTION. As usual.

So I interviewed him about it last week, a process made tedious by hand-writing the questions and answers in my doctor scrawl. You'll be happy to know I have transcribed it for all of our benefit.

CHAS:  Remember that cure for acid reflux I told you about?

FOOLERY:  Ummmmm . . . sorta?

CHAS:  Well, it worked.

FOOLERY:  You tried it?
Already?
When?
How long did it take?
Did you have to -- oh, um . . . let's start with . . . "How?"

CHAS, PATIENTLY, ALWAYS PATIENTLY:  I read about it in one of those alternative medicine newsletters, and then I read it again in a separate newsletter, so I thought I'd try it.

FOOLERY:  Well, can I ask you a question?

CHAS:  Just one?

FOOLERY:  Very funny. I know you talked with your doctor about your acid reflux, and I know he gave you some Prilosec samples, but I never heard what your diagnosis was?

CHAS:  Not diagnosed. I think I have a hiatal hernia, but it wasn't officially diagnosed.

 


(Original graphic stolen from these guys)

FOOLERY:  Okay, I just wanted to make that point to readers: CHAS IS JUST TOTALLY FISHING HERE, FOLKS.

CHAS:  Not true.

FOOLERY:  Just kidding. Anyway. How long have you had reflux?

CHAS:  Better part of a year.

FOOLERY:  What were your symptoms?

CHAS:  After going to bed I was fine lying on my back, but when I turned on my side, things would "come up."

FOOLERY:  "Things" meaning food -- which foods bothered you?

CHAS:  Red wine, ice cream, dark chocolate --

FOOLERY:  All the things that make life worth living.

CHAS:  Yeah.

 


(Original photo stolen from these guys)

FOOLERY:  How about spicy foods, like pizza?

CHAS:  No problem, surprisingly. The issue was eating after 7:00 p.m., assuming I went to bed at 11:00.   A four-hour cushion of time between eating and sleeping was something I tried pretty hard to maintain.

FOOLERY: Well, spicy foods probably would have bothered you, too, but you don't snack on spicy foods at 8:30, whereas you might have wine, ice cream or chocolate that late. Well, I would, anyway.

[Here's where the interview deteriorated and started to get silly; it was bound to happen, and No, you really don't want me to explain it]

FOOLERY:  "Don't forget the grease mark!"

CHAS: "I think that's your best bet."

FOOLERY: "It's greater than keen -- it's CUGAT."

[Ahem. But seriously . . .]

FOOLERY:  Were there any sexual side effects? [oh yes I did]

CHAS:  No, only --

FOOLERY:  DUDE! I am totally messing with you!

CHAS:  You didn't let me finish: only vomiting on my partner. French kissing was problematic.

FOOLERY:  Who is this partner of whom you speak?

 



Come back tomorrow for "How Chas Cured His Acid Reflux, Part II." No, really -- please? Come back?

The Pink Tassel Was Too Much For Him

Chas got home last night about 11:00, and I was watching men's Olympic ice skating. He walked in on me watching Johnny Weir.

 
(Original photo stolen from Yuri Kadobnov/AFP/Getty Images and nbcolympics.com)

Chas stood there for about five seconds, then headed for the office where we have a little TV.

"Too much for you, huh?" I called after him.

"I just need to watch some ESPN for a minute. Sports, anything."

He came back after his masculinity was sufficiently fueled. We watched the Kiss & Cry together.

 
(Original photo used with permission of Dave W. Carmichael at Wikimedia Commmons) 

Fever When You Hold Me Tight

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

In keeping with the Fooleryland tradition of discussing inappropriate bodily functions at the family dinner table, I give you last night's dinner conversation. Apologies beforehand to Cal State Fullerton alumni, who were singled out for no reason I can name. Could just as well have been USC and probably should've been Chico State.

FOOLERY, EXPLAINING THE BODY'S FEVER REACTION TO RAMPAGING ILLNESSES: "So you see, girls, your body heats up to try to kill the germs."

SPARKY, PROBABLY WITH A MOUTHFUL OF PEAS: "Does it work?"

FOOLERY: "Yes, except in rare diseases -- NOT ONES WE HAVE HERE, but in, like, Africa or something -- when the body heats up really hot but it still doesn't kill the bugs."

SMEDLEY, SUDDENLY FEELING WARM: "Well, what happens then?"

CHAS: "Then your body gets too hot for itself and it cooks your brain and you can only go to Cal State Fullerton."

 


(Logo stolen from these guys)

This is why we are never invited anywhere twice.

My Name Is Chas

Chas went to a surprise 40th birthday party of a good friend of ours this weekend (I couldn't make it). The theme of the party was Rager The 1980s, and all guests were to come ready to drink dressed in '80s garb. I asked Chas what he was going to wear, and he replied, "Oh, pretty much anything I own will work."

True.





Then he walked out of the bathroom with his goatee missing, but his 'stache firmly in place above his lip and wrapping around his mouth. I think he was going for the Magnum P.I. look, but I was thinking more of this guy . . .


 

. . . or maybe this one . . .




. . . or even this one.





I'm not sure who I was sleeping with this weekend.

So, just when I was getting used to it, he trimmed the heck out of it today.  "You pruned it," I said.

"Yeah," said Chas. "A guy I know saw me yesterday and said, 'I've never seen your mustache so big and your hair so small.'"

Who will I wake up with tomorrow?

Dinosaurs of the Eisenhower Epoch: Chasmosaurus

(Illustration stolen from ArthurWeasley)

Today we're going to learn about the Chasmosaurus, a particularly ancient dinosaur of North America.

Chasmosaurus is the oldest long-frilled dinosaur to be found. That's funny enough all by itself . . . What is a frill, you ask? Funny you should ask; I'll bet you, like I, thought the Chasmosaurus was a no-frills dinosaur.

The frill is long with large fontanelles. This is getting rather personal so we'll leave it at that.

 

It may have been used to protect itself; however, it is more likely that it was used to balance out his golf swing.

 

Chasmosaurus also had two medium sized horns above the eye sockets, and a small horn above the snout. There's a joke about being overly horny in there somewhere, but you know I would never stoop to such shenanigans. Here.

Paleontologists speculate that its giant awning of bone and skin may have taken on bright colors during mating season--kind of like a movie screen for the opposite sex! Paleontologists obviously have warped and unrealistic fantasy lives.

This plant-eater grew to be seventeen feet long and weighed four tons. He's working on it. Chasmosaurus is an equal opportunity diner, however, whose diet includes fruits, vegetables, meat, burritos as big as his head, glop, various failings from the Foolery kitchen, Papa Murphy's pizza and a wide selection of beers.

Chasmosaurus lived during the end of the Cretaceous time period and was found in Alberta, Canada and New Mexico, United States. This is a lie. He's never been to Canada OR New Mexico. He has been to Mexico, however, but he doesn't remember it too well.

Here is Chasmosaurus in his natural habitat -- California. For complete accuracy you must picture Chasmosaurus with either a beer or a golf club in hand . . . or, more likely, BOTH.

For more information about Chasmosaurus, please visit this website, or this one. Or, just catch me when I'm in a crabby mood.

From Miss to Mrs. in Four Short Words

I tried and I tried but I just couldn't find the stories I KNOW I have already written about how Chas and I got engaged and our first dates. So please bear with me if you're rolling your eyes saying "Not this AGAIN" and "She wrote about this LAST week!" Hard as it is to believe, there are almost 700 posts to go through and I'm NOT doing it.

When I first met Chas I was dating his friend, Nick Asshat. I was 29, Chas was almost 35.  After three decades on this planet with no real luck in the dating world, I did NOT believe in love at first sight, and, while I still don't believe in it, I do believe in The Lightning Bolt Moment, also known as When You Know, You Know.

I walked in through the door of my roommate's house; my roommate was still up. "Out with Nick?" she asked.

"Yeah," I answered dreamily. "We went to Oktoberfest. I met the man I'm gonna marry."

"Nick ASSHAT?" she asked, incredulous (with good reason).

"No," I answered, still in reverie. "His best friend Chas."

Okay, so the word "best" may have been overstated, since Chas himself might have substituted the word "golfing." But the point -- did you catch THE POINT? I knew then, after only a couple of hours in his presence, that Chas was The One.

Chas? Not so much. Chas took another 3 1/2 years to know that I was The One.

Fast-forward to Joe's Bar, December 11, 1997. The Christmas season was in full swing for me, as a retail gift store owner, and I had worked another 12-hour day, with several more to come before I could rest. When smart people would be home putting their feet up and getting as much sleep as possible, I opted instead for a couple of hours in a tiny packed college bar with my favorite guy. My favorite guy didn't know it, but he had only about three weeks left with me before I pulled up stakes and moved on, because as much as I loved him, I wasn't gonna wait this one out any longer and had given him an unspoken deadline of January 1, 1998 to put up or shut up.

We were talking about my teeny tiny apartment and it's teeny tiny kitchen.  I loved the apartment but the kitchen was a nightmare, and I said something to that effect.

"Yeah, I think we should get a house -- one with a decent kitchen," Chas said.

Wait, what?  Chas knew I wouldn't move in with him -- not unless we were married. It had less to do with my sky-high morals than with my keen understanding of inertia as it pertains to the human male.

"What are you saying?" I asked him, aware that I was boring holes through his face with my eyes.

A very long and self-conscious pause.

"Are you asking me to MARRY you?" I asked, incredulous.

"Um . . . yeah," answered the normally articulate Chas.

Beat.

Beat.

"Well, I wanna hear the words," I said, as petulant as someone with nothing to lose.

Beat.

Beat.

"Will you . . . marry me?" asked Chas, just barely audible above the din of the college bar dice games.

"Yes," I answered, suddenly aware I was grinning like an ape.

Now what?

I reached for a cocktail napkin, then dug around in my purse for a pen.  "If this were MY table, I'd want to KNOW!" I said, then proceeded to leave a note for the cocktail waitress.

"He just asked me to marry him . . . and I said YES."

Brown-Noser

Last night I crawled into bed somewhat earlier than usual.  Chas was, as usual, already there, pinned to the mattress by a large cat.  But which cat, exactly, I didn't know.

"Who's on ya, Mr. Foolery?"

"Campos," he answered, sleepily.  I stuck out my hand to pet the big puffy cat.  The thing about Campos is that in the dark you have to feel around a bit to tell exactly which cat part you might be petting (unlike a short-haired cat, on which you can tell immediately its head from its hiney).



"G'night, Campy," I said said as I patted his . . . well, some part of him.

"Yeah, he's a good cat," Chas said, and lifted his head a bit to nuzzle the old cat.

And then, something went very wrong.  I could tell, even in the dark, that Chas froze.

"Oh," he said quietly.

"What?"  I asked.

"Well, Campos must have turned around on me.  I thought I had the other end . . . "

Beat.

Beat.

"Wait, did you just THINK you kissed him on the nose?!"

"No!  I just . . . nose-nose-nosed him, but on the . . ."

(A nose-nose-nose is our family's version of an Eskimo kiss -- rubbing noses together.)

"OH GAHHHH!" I shrieked.  Usually you hope and pray for a good reason to yell that in bed, and usually you don't expect it to have anything to do with a 90-year-old cat.

"No no!" protested Chas.  "It was only on his fur!  There was NO touching of skin!!"

But it was too late.  I was laughing so hard I was nearly choking.  The more he protested that he had not, in fact, goosed the cat with his sniffer, the harder I laughed.  We howled, we snorted, we cackled.  And Campos rode it out with great feline disdain.

Then, just as the laughs were petering out, Chas added, "Well, it could have been worse.  At least it's not as bad as when my dog Joshua sat on my thumb."

Oh GAHHHH.

The laughter started all over again.

Travels With Chas: Mexico

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

LAURIE:  Before I knew you, you took a couple of trips to Mexico in vans full of volleyball guys.  Tell me about that.

CHAS:  Well, in about June of 1992, we went down to Estero Beach in Mexico, about ten miles south of Ensenada or so.  It's on a huge spit of sand on the edge of a spectacular shallow bay.  Every year in the last week of June there's a big volleyball tournament there.

LAURIE:  Were all of you playing in this tournament?

CHAS:  No, just Doc.

LAURIE:  So how many of you went down for this?

CHAS:  Rob, Frank, me, Morty, Dave, Doc -- there were about nine of us.  We were in Doc's VW bus.  The fist incident of note was when we stopped somewhere near Stockton, maybe? And we stole a sign that read, "YOU ARE ENTERING THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE ON EARTH."  It was at some kind of government agricultural station.  The sign sat in front of our van at our campsite the entire week.

LAURIE:  The sign was right.  So it must have been one big party.

CHAS:  Yeah.  We were talking about how a bunch of men could live together in this van.  Someone referred to it as like living in the Biosphere.  With all of the Mexican food we'd been eating, I dubbed the van The Flatu-Sphere.

LAURIE:  So the sign became a necessary warning then.  How long did it take you to get to Estero Beach?

CHAS:  Our trip down took something like thirty hours.

LAURE:  Why on earth?

CHAS:  Well, we lost a fan belt, and then we had to replace the accelerator cable.

LAURIE:  This happened in California, I hope?

CHAS:  Yes.

LAURIE:  Did you drink the whole time?

CHAS:  On the way down, you mean?

LAURIE:  Yes.

CHAS:  Aw, I wouldn't say that.  We showed some discretion on the way down.

LAURIE:  And how about at the beach?

CHAS:  Every morning we started with Corona.  That was the breakfast beer.

We'd have about two of those apiece, and then we'd switch to Pacifico for the rest of the day.

LAURIE:  Were you drinking any water?  I know that in Mexico that's risky.

CHAS:  I was.  We did have bottled water.

LAURIE:  Did you actually play any volleyball?

CHAS:  Um . . .

LAURIE:  Well, what did you do there, since you weren't there to play in the tournament?

CHAS:  Sat around, drank beer, flew kites and played pick-up volleyball games.  At night there were dances, in bars with outdoor live music and dancing.

LAURIE:  Why was it you ever got married, again?

[APPRECIATIVE LAUGHTER]

LAURIE:  So what else did you do, you know -- when you could stand up?

CHAS:  The kite flying was pretty funny, because we had miles of string.  The string would sag across several courts and occasionally give people rope burns while they were attempting to spike the ball.

LAURIE:  DURING THE TOURNAMENT?!  How did you guys NOT get kicked out?

CHAS:  You can get kicked out of Mexico?  Oh, you mean for our kite-flying.  Like I said, it's an informal tournament.

LAURIE:  I know there are more stories.  How did Doc do in the tournament?

CHAS:  Uh, not so great.  I don't remember how he ever came up with a partner.  Maybe it was a blind draw?

LAURIE:  He sure wasn't picking from among his kite-flying buddies, that's for sure.

CHAS:  Oh, I remember -- a girl would walk by, and we'd tell her, "Hey Miss, you dropped something."  Mostly Frank would.  She'd bend over and we'd check out her bikini'd ass.  You'd try to keep the ruse going on as long as possible.  After a minute, as it would dawn on the woman what was going on, Frank -- who was the master at this game -- would say, "Thanks for playing!"

LAURIE:  What else aren't you telling your wife?

CHAS:  Oh, and then some guy walked up to us and informed us of the 7.4 earthquake that hit San Benardino County.  He was kind of grave, until he kind of brightened up, and said, "Coupla people died," almost in a cheery way.  That became a rallying cry for the rest of the trip.  "Coupla people died!"

LAURIE:  What did you eat when you were down there?

CHAS:  Fish tacos were four for a dollar, in the evenings.  Tamales two for a dollar sold out of buckets by old ladies on the beach; that was our frequent daytime fare.

LAURIE:  Any fruit of vegetables or anything remotely healthy?

CHAS:  Cilantro on the tacos.

LAURIE:  Did any of you almost die for any reason?

CHAS:  Did any of us . . . well . . . I almost got swept away by the incoming tide once when I was taking a leak.

LAURIE:  Nobody ticked off any big ugly boyfriends?  No Federales?

CHAS:  I don't think we had a brush with them.

LAURIE:  You just weren't trying hard enough.  What about your other trip down to Mexico?

CHAS:  That was for a 50-mile bicycle race, which I did participate in, from Rosarito to Ensenada.  About April of 1991.

LAURIE:  How'd that go?

CHAS:  Well, just as we were crossing the border, I felt explosive diarrhea coming on.  I don't think I'll go into that any more, except for that, of course, how dehydrated diarrhea can make you.

LAURIE:  So, did you win?

CHAS, IGNORING ME:  So the course was mostly inland, and very steep terrain, and my hamstrings began to cramp unmercifully.

LAURIE:  Were you at the starting line yet?

CHAS:  I was not even halfway done.  I had to walk my bike for quite a while.  Oh, and there was one huge mountain called El Tigre, which was probably about 1500 feet straight up.

LAURIE:  Was this before or after the diarrhea?

CHAS:  The diarrhea happened the night before.

LAURIE:  You know I have to ask.

CHAS:  I was using my friend Dugan's borrowed expensive mountain bike, and I was crestfallen to be passed by a guy on a cruiser bike.  Who did not have diarrhea, by the way.

LAURIE:  Was he pulling a vegetable cart?

CHAS:  Dugan did tell me later that those were the wrong tires for a road race, so I felt better.  And they were under-inflated, too.

LAURIE:  This is very sad.

CHAS:  And the seat was hard. I wasn't used to it at all.  My 'nads were numb and tingly for --

LAURIE:  Okay, let's move on.  Did The Flatu-Sphere make a second appearance?

CHAS:  That trip we used Evan's parents' dark green U.S. Forestry van, that burned a quart of oil every 30 miles or so.  It didn't so much burn the oil as it just shot out the side of the engine.  Oh, and it was a column shift -- three on a tree.

LAURIE:  Sounds like good choice of vehicle for a 1500-mile trip.  Did you have a death wish?  Did the van make it either direction?

CHAS:  Yes it did.  I'm trying to imagine what made that the logical choice of vehicle options . . . I can't remember.

LAURIE:  I don't even wanna know what cars you rejected.  Anything else you can tell the cameras?

CHAS:  My bottom lip got so swollen from sunburn . . .

LAURIE:  No arrests?

CHAS:  Um, no . . . ?  No.

LAURIE:  You don't sound so sure.

CHAS:  There's this -- at one of the dances some girl thought it would be a good idea to mount Dave's broad shoulders, and he just collapsed like a lawn chair.  She got up and said, "Well, he LOOKED strong."  One of us charitably offered, "Well, he's middle-heavy."  It was all just one big laugh.  Unfortunately I can't remember any of it.

That's what ALL the smart husbands tell their wives.  Wives with blogs.  And a keen sense of bullshit.

Chas's College Pet

(Photo stolen from these guys)

When my husband Chas was a senior at Chico State (spring of 1983) he lived in an old house, a popular form of off-campus student housing, at the corner of 3rd and Pine streets. "3rd and Pine" has become the name of the house and of the era, spoken about in reverent tones by any of the old Chico State volleyball team who once lived there. (The house is similar to the one in the photo above, which was across the street and down the block, although the house in the photo is not trashed.)  Chas lived on the top floor with three other guys. Two more guys -- one of which was Nick Asshat -- lived in the basement. The following is my interview with Chas, which was conducted with benefit of wine, but which is also faithful to his memory of his pet at 3rd and Pine.

ME:  Tell me about your mascot at 3rd and Pine.

CHAS:  It was a quart-sized jar of canned peaches, a gift from Dave's grandmother. She distributed them prolifically, and I don't think anyone ever actually ate them.

ME:  Uneaten free food in a house full of college guys? That's hard to believe.

CHAS:  It sat on top of the refrigerator for months -- maybe an entire semester. Maybe as much as six months. Somebody finally opened it up, but nobody ate any of it. It remained on top of the refrigerator, occasionally in direct sunlight.

ME:  Unrefrigerated.

CHAS:  Oh yeah. Occasionally someone would open it up and slip a cigar butt into it, then close it back up.

ME:  Was this done surreptitiously?

CHAS:  No, it wasn't a secret.

ME:  Just something to do, huh? What else did you put into the jar?

CHAS:  I remember cigar butts and orange peels. Not a lot else.

ME:  Was it forgotten about?

CHAS:  No, it was like a low-maintenance pet, like a parakeet.  It was there, we said hi to it once in a while, but . . . it was never really out of mind.

(Photo stolen from this site)

ME:  So what did you name this peach pet?

CHAS:  Jimmy. Jimmy the Mold. Dave probably named it; I think it's a derivation of "Jimmy the Mountain," which is a Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comic strip for adult potheads. Only a pothead from Humboldt would know much about it.

One day it was just sitting there, on the fridge, in the sun, and we were all in the kitchen, and Jimmy started boiling, loudly. There was some chemical reaction occurring. And then the contents of the jar completely flipped over inside. It was pretty frightening.

ME:  What became of Jimmy the Mold?

CHAS:  Well . . . it was the first nice spring day. Somebody said "let's take Jimmy outside."  There were half a dozen steps up to our front porch, and Jimmy was placed halfway down the steps. We stood in a circle and bumped the volleyball around while Jimmy sat in the sun.

ME:  And then what happened?

CHAS:  Somebody shanked one over to the steps and shattered Jimmy.

ME:  Saw that one coming.

CHAS:  People held their breaths as we could see that the target was inevitable. When it shattered we all ran, not knowing if we'd be killed by a wave of toxic fumes.



(Photo stolen from these guys)


EPILOGUE


ME:  What did it smell like?

CHAS:  It didn't have an overpowering odor . . . it was kind of earthy as I remember, like a compost heap.

ME:  So, not unlike Nick Asshat, who you lived with anyway.

CHAS:  But he was downstairs, remember.

ME:  Who cleaned the Jimmy mess up?

CHAS:  Somebody got the hose out and washed it, glass and all, into the bushes.

ME:  Nice. Did you have a funeral for your pet? I find it hard to believe that a pet you had kept, and named, and fed for so long, you could just wash into the bushes with no ceremony.

CHAS:  There was no formal ceremony. We did speak of him fondly for several months afterwards.

ME:  Is there a moral to your pet story? Any wisdom you'd like to impart about canned peaches, or pets in general?

CHAS, AFTER A LONG PAUSE:  Don't play volleyball around your food. Don't be afraid to tell your grandmother, "No, thank you."

ME:  How about, "Don't live with Nick Asshat."

CHAS:  We had other pets at that house -- like Bob the Turtle, who we think buried himself. He took his own life.

ME:  'Kay, I'm good --

CHAS:  And then we had a little manx cat named Amyl -- after amyl nitrate -- which is what Mike and another guy were snorting at that time.

ME:  That's enough, really. You should rest.

A Conversation With Superior Memory Man

One of the great things about reading other people's blogs, aside from the obvious opportunity to steal their ideas, is the cage-rattling that occurs.  Dusty old memories get knocked off of the uppermost shelves in my brain when I read other bloggers' reminiscences and complaints.  (This one is thanks to The Mom Bomb.)

"Well, lookie here!" I holler as a particularly old memory falls with a thud at my feet, raising a murky dust cloud and reminding me that, Oh Crap, I Forgot To Dust Last Year.  No matter; I must deal with the moldy oldie at my feet first.

And so, while others of you were no doubt at concerts with your sweethearts, or at trendy fine dining establishments marveling over the art on you plates, or even just curled into big old armchairs by roaring fires wearing nothing but your sweethearts and your smiles, um . . . lost my train of thought . . . darn, it's hot tonight . . . um, oh yeah -- so while all of you guys were out doing that stuff for Valentines Day (as evidenced by my paltry hit count Thursday), I sat here bathed in the light of my Mac, staring down at a dusty memory.

So I opened it.

(cough, cough -- whew!  This one's old)

In the fall of 1994 I owned my gift store, and work was most of my life.  I had just ended an idiotic relationship with the guy I call Nick Asshat; coincidentally, I had also just begun to date Nick's old roommate, friend, teammate and golf partner, Chas.

The following conversation between Chas and me, covering those early days of our relationship, actually took place, but, since I am the one with the blog, I get dibs on the finer points of dialog.

ME:  Remember when we first started going out, Chas?

CHAS:  Yeah.

ME:  Really?  You do?  Well, what do you remember?

CHAS:  I remember when you came into my work to ask me out.

ME:  Oh, I wish you'd forget that.

CHAS:  Why?  I thought it was funny.

ME:  That's why I wish you'd forget that.  Do you remember what happened the night before I asked you out?

CHAS:  Um . . . no.

ME:  I found out that Nick was cheating on me.

CHAS:  Oh yeah.

ME:  And I made sure I told you that you were NOT a rebound case, remember?

CHAS:  Yeah.

ME:  But you didn't believe me, did you?

CHAS:  Well, you looked . . . sort of . . .

ME:  Crazy?

CHAS:  I wouldn't say crazy . . .

ME:  That's okay; I know what I looked like.  I had cried myself to sleep that night after having gotten a fresh perm that day.  I woke up looking like Suicidal Buckwheat with raccoon makeup all around my eyes.  I washed my face, threatened my hair a bit, pulled on old jeans and my Mendocino sweatshirt --

CHAS:  You had sweatshirt THAT long ago?

ME:  -- and drove to your work to ask you out.  It was SO hard to do, you just can't imagine.  But I couldn't not do it, either.

CHAS:  You were pretty funny.

ME:  Funny?

CHAS:  Well . . . cute.  And funny.

ME:  So what else do you remember?

CHAS:  Well, our first date was at Panama's, and Nick showed up.

ME:  Oh wow, I'd forgotten that.

CHAS:  How could you forget THAT?!

ME:  Nick showed up on so many of my dates, I guess it seemed unremarkable in the scheme of things.  Anyway -- do you remember our second date?

CHAS:  Of course.  We went to [blah blah blah blah yeah he has the superior memory and I still can't remember blah blah blah]

ME:  But do you know how I knew we would go out for a while?

CHAS:  No.

ME:  Mom and Dad stopped by the store one afternoon while I had a sidewalk sale going on.  Mom went into the store to talk with Kristin, but Dad stayed outside by the tables and talked with me.  He was grilling me about the date I had gone on with "this new guy" -- and as I started to tell him about you, I looked up and saw you walking across the quad toward me -- remember?

CHAS:  Yeah, I guess.

ME:  Well, I had to shush Dad in a big fat hurry.  "Shhhhhh!  Dad!  Don't say anything, AND DON'T LOOK, but he's walking up RIGHT NOW!"

CHAS:  Ah, I bet that didn't work.

ME:  No it did NOT.  Dad didn't get it at all.  "What?!  Who?!"  I was ready to crawl under the sidewalk sale tables.  But you know what I remember most about that moment?

CHAS:  What?

ME:  Your legs.  You were wearing shorts, and I almost had a heart attack when I saw your legs.

CHAS:  These knobby things?

ME:  Those are the ones.  At that moment I thought, I have to have a second date.

CHAS:  Aww, shucks.

ME:  So do you remember our third date?

CHAS:  Was that at the Pageant Theater?  And I accidentally took you to the Sick and Twisted animation festival, instead of the regular animation festival?

ME:  No, that was our fourth date.  But that date was an eye-opener . . . No, on our third date we went to Reddengrey Pub to play darts.

CHAS:  Oh yeah, I remember that.  I even remember what you were wearing, too.

ME:  Show-off.  Okay, Smart Boy, I happen to remember what I was wearing that night, so knock me out.

[This is an approximation of the hideous outfit I wore that night, right down to the soft warm brown leather ugly boots*]


CHAS:  Well, you wore a kind of banana suit and --

[INTERRUPTED BY SHRIEKS OF UNCONTROLLABLE LAUGHTER, SPITTING COUGHING, AND GENERAL MERRIMENT AND DISBELIEF, ALL FROM YOURS TRULY]

ME:  A BANANA SUIT?!  Are you kidding me?

CHAS:  Well, it was like a yellow jump suit or something.

[MORE LAUGHTER]

CHAS:  You had white cowboy boots with glitter or spangles on them or something --

[AT THIS POINT I DO BELIEVE I WAS CLOSE TO DEATH BY PAROXYSMS OF LAUGHTER]

CHAS:  -- and a beehive hairdo.

[Here's how I picture this fashion don't -- with my face, of course; please, stay with me here.]



This story is AWFULLY long, so there must be a point to it -- maybe even three.  Ahem.

1.  Chas's superior memory has some glaring gaps.

2.  My fashion sense did not suffer too much in his memory.

3.  Our 10th wedding anniversary is next week, and, while I doubt we will actually be celebrating it, it has long been my sick little fantasy to show up to meet Chas for anniversary cocktails at the Reddengray Pub . . . wearing the above ensemble.  Only the Reddengrey burned down years ago, and I don't own a banana suit.  Or white cowboy boots.  Or a beehive wig.  REALLY, Chas.

I still feel I HAVE to pull this off, somehow.  More as the details unfold.

*First little fashion chick created at http://www.fashionfantasygame.com/, which is apparently a beta-version social networking fashion game for tweens.  Kinda cool anyway.  I'm sure they won't appreciate me using their site to make ugly clothes, but Smedley will have HOURS of fun there, I guarantee.

Valentine's Day Prep: Are You Ready?

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Dinner last night:  salmon burgers, brussels sprouts

 

Lunch today:  apple, protein bar, leftover brussels sprouts

 

Dinner tonight:  probably meat and some other stinky cruciform vegetable

 

Which all leads me to believe that, since tomorrow is ostensibly the day to celebrate romance, either Chas and I don't have any romance plans, or we're planning to Dutch Oven each other to death.

 

Hmmmmmmmm.  Both.