South of the Border

Yes, Change Has Come to America

2008-11-05T07:43:00.000-08:00

Socialism -noun

1. a theory or system of social organization that advocates the vesting of the ownership and control of the means of production and distribution, of capital, land, etc., in the community as a whole.

2. procedure or practice in accordance with this theory.

3. (in Marxist theory) the stage following capitalism in the transition of a society to communism, characterized by the implementation of collectivist principles.

If you understand what Socialism is, you should be terrified about the direction the U.S. is now headed. Unfortunately, too many American voters misunderstood the phrase "spread the wealth". See definition #1 above.

Southern Humor

2008-08-29T07:37:00.000-07:00

Following is a flash fiction piece that I wrote some time ago, from the prompt "write a story about a family reunion." If you don't live in the south, you may think all of the characters are highly exaggerated. I assure you they are not.

A Family Reunion,

Southern Style

The three sisters paused in the doorway, surveying the assorted aunts, uncles and cousins milling about the room. For the trio of Jersey girls, this southern assemblage was nothing less than a culture shock, and they looked at each other uneasily before stepping into the roomful of relatives.

A heavyset woman, her pink blouse straining across a generous bosom and doughy ankles spilling over the tops of her matching pink pumps, swooped in and engulfed the three in a smothering hug. "You must be Frank's girls," she said. "We're so glad y'all could come. And you got here just in time."

The sisters exchanged puzzled looks. Just in time for what?

The lady in pink, who turned out to be their Aunt Dot, led them around the room, making introductions over the loud wailing of Freebird blaring from speakers set up around the perimeter of the room. They met Uncle Roy, Aunt Dot's husband, and their son, Cousin Dean, who wore orange prison coveralls. The sisters stole a quick glance at each other. Was he wearing handcuffs? The twins, Cousin Dee and Cousin Darlene, in matching cutoffs and belly rings and sporting rose tattoos, nodded a sullen hello. Another aunt, her tall bleached hair a testament to the effectiveness of Aqua Net, pecked each sister on the cheek before returning to her compact and lipstick.

The introductions were interrupted when Granny, small and bird-like, wearing low slung jeans and teetering on high heels that glittered with rhinestones, shouted for everyone to come to the front of the room. "Girls, it's time," Aunt Dot said.

Everyone trooped to the front, where Granny arranged everyone around the open coffin. Cousin Sonny, who had once attended a photography class at the vocational school, stood ready with a disposable camera. The sisters, stifling giggles, didn't dare look at one another.

The Pleasure of Receiving

2008-08-18T12:51:00.000-07:00

Thank God the weekend is over! That's a funny thing to say, isn't it? I'm glad it's over because if I have to hear one more time, "It's my birthday weekend!" or "There's still time to shop!" I'll have to kill myself or run away from home, whichever seems easiest.

Saturday was my husband's birthday. For some reason he really got into it this year. And since his birthday fell on a Saturday, he took the opportunity to have a birthday "weekend". In other words, he still expected special treatment and attention on Sunday. Home-baked carrot cake cupcakes and a spaghetti dinner weren't enough. Nor was the 19" flat screen TV for his Gator football viewing pleasure out on the porch. Somehow he tricked me into going shopping for him again and purchasing seven new pairs of shorts. (I'll be a good girl and not mention the fact that I had to buy a size bigger.)

Since he's never gotten excited about his birthday before, I'm wondering what's up? Has Mister Pessimistic realized that not every day is "crappy" or that birthdays (even your 53rd!) can be fun and lighthearted? Has Mr. Generous (he's a great gift-giver) been enlightened about the pleasure of receiving? I don't know what happened this year, but the attitude adjustment was great, if a bit wearing by Sunday evening.

I hope he keeps it up because he's right about one thing. There is still time to shop. While out shorts shopping, I saw a cute pair of black sandals that had my name on them. And believe me, I have no problem in the gift receiving department, even if the gift is from myself!

Finally...A Presidential Candidate We Can All Get Behind!

2008-08-06T08:39:00.001-07:00

Ah...The Good Old Days

2008-08-04T07:11:00.000-07:00

I saw a headline this morning on ocala.com, the online version of our local newspaper. Summer Almost Over, it said. What? Maybe if you're a Canadian goose it's time to start thinking about the ol' commute, but here in Florida summer is most definitely not almost over.

I admit I didn't read the whole story. Maybe it was about "back to school." In that case, summer is almost over. Summer vacation gets shorter and shorter each year. I think it's down to about 3 days now. Good thing "staycations" are all the rage now because you sure don't have time any more to go on a real vacation with your kids.

When I was in school, summer started in mid-May and lasted until Labor Day. Three whole months of freedom. Up at the crack of dawn, a quick bowl of Cap'n Crunch, out of the house until lunch (a peanut butter sandwich, Fritos and a huge glass of sugar-laden Kool-Aid), back out until dinnertime (always a homemade meal), then time for one more foray into the neighborhood, only coming in after it was dark. Three months of this! When the end of August finally rolled around, my knees were skinned, my nose was sunburned..and I was ready to go shopping for new school clothes and excited about going back to school.

Summer vacation was literally that - a season of time off from school and homework and structure. If we didn't load up the station wagon and go somewhere for a week or two, it was still a vacation. And summer wasn't "almost over" until the end of August.

I'd better get back to work. I need to make some money because as soon as the "Back to School" sales are over, Christmas will be "just around the corner."

Rip Me Off. Please!

2008-07-31T07:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I experienced a few seconds of giddy excitement about getting ripped off. It was short lived, but I had a "whoo hoo" moment anyway.

I was out of coffee and needed to run to the grocery store. I started my car and *gasp* the gas gauge read empty. My blood pressure rose a point or two when I realized my husband was the last one to drive my car. I sat there a minute, hoping the needle would climb up a bit, just enough to get me to Publix and back. Didn't move. I turned the AC off to see if that would help (does that even work?). Nope. The tank was definitely empty. Crap.

I backed out and headed to a gas station just down the road. They usually have about the cheapest gas in town. As I pulled in I glanced up at their electronic sign and had heart palpitations. The marquee said $3.61 per gallon. Now Ocala is definitely not the big city, so the gas prices here have only gone over $4.00 a gallon a time or two, mostly hovering between $3.85 and $3.99 the last few months. So you can understand my excitement when I thought I was ONLY GOING TO PAY $3.61! Even though $3.61 per gallon is still a HUGE, TOTAL EFFING RIP-OFF, I had a moment. Alas, it didn't last. On closer inspection, I saw that the electronic marquee had a few LED lights not working and the real price was $3.81. Still a bit lower than the norm, but nothing to get giddy about.

After I quit sobbing and wiped my eyes and blew my nose, I had to laugh. We're all so addicted to driving that we'll pay, pay, pay whatever the price - and then get excited about finding a "deal" that saves us a few pennies. For God's sake, even if the price had been $3.61, I would only have saved about $2.40 filling up my small Toyota. And, it's still a RIP-OFF!

I guess it's my "shopper gene" that creates an adrenalin rush when I think I'm saving money. Whatever it is, it's addicting. Just look at my shoe collection and you'll understand. Now, if I could just once open my electric bill and find that they're holding a "Huge Clearance - 50% Off!" sale, that would be something to get excited about!

Lucky Girl

2008-07-30T06:58:00.000-07:00

I work from home and sometimes I hate it. I know, I know. Your thinking, "Lucky girl. You can set your own hours. There's no boss breathing down your neck." Blah, blah, blah. That's all well and good, but it's 10:30 a.m. and I'm still in my pajamas. I've got a killer caffeine buzz going. And please God don't let the FedX man show up this morning. My hair (which I am trying to grow out) looks like...well, it's scary.

Working at home can be a bit isolating. I find myself missing the interaction with co-workers and dealing with clients face to face (almost all my work is done via the internet). I'm seriously considering putting my phone number on a Please Call Me list just to have someone to talk to. E-mail is great, but there just aren't enough emoticons available to help me express myself. My goal is to one day send an e-mail made up entirely of all the different smiley faces...and have the recipient actually be able to understand it. At least I'm still setting goals for myself.

I also miss dressing up each morning. My closet is loaded with nice clothes and shoes, but unless I can rope my husband into taking me out to dinner, I have no reason to wear them. So now I make up reasons to dress up. Office Depot? No problem. That cute little black and white outfit and my new Nine West sandals should turn heads while I'm waiting for my color copies. Lunch at Taco Bell? Again, no problem. I'll look ravishing in my beaded red halter top, boot cut Levi's, and my new Anne Klein kitten-heeled sandals (red, of course). Bank run? Grocery store? Gas station? No problem. I'm prepared with a great outfit for any outing. With matching handbags, need you ask?

Although it is true I can set my own hours, it can be irritating when clients call at 7:00 at night (don't they realize the cork's been pulled on the Pinot by then and I can't be responsible for what I say?). Or they assume that working on Saturday is something I'm soooo happy to do. I have no problem burning the midnight oil when I need to, or working the occasional weekend when a deadline looms. But pluueeze, just because I work from home doesn't mean I should be available 24/7, 365 days a year. Do they think I work because I want to? Gimme a break. As soon as my lottery numbers come in, I'm outta here. It should be any day now.

All kidding aside, I do enjoy my work. And there are a ton of reasons I enjoy working from home. If I hit a creative roadblock, I can surf the web, blog, write a story, do some laundry...and there's nobody to tell me I can't. If I want to take a day off, I don't have to get permission from anyone. And if there's a job I don't really want to take on, I can say no. All in all, the benefits outweigh the negative aspects. I know, I know. I am a lucky girl.

I have to run now. The FedX man is here. Hopefully he won't notice my hair. Did I mention I'm not wearing a bra?

It's All About the Small Stuff

2008-07-29T05:27:00.000-07:00

I'm always telling my husband that I'm happy. He doesn't get it. He can see the negative aspect of almost anything. I don't get that. Why dwell on all the crappy stuff? No, we're not rich and likely never will be. We live month to month (and sometimes week to week), but we have a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and gainful employment. We're officially "middle-aged". So what? Our bodies may be aging and drooping and falling to pieces, but our minds are in a great place. Well, mine is anyway. I can be a little more scatter-brained than I used to be, but who cares? I'm probably (hopefully) forgetting stuff I don't need to remember anyway. Which reminds me of my original point...I am happy. And the older I get, the more I understand that it's the small stuff that counts. Seize the moment. All the big stuff will sort itself out in the end.

A few small things that make me happy:

My front porch. I am truly lucky in that I have a porch on the front of my house. Years ago, almost every house had a nice roomy front porch, a gathering place for friends, family and neighbors. I love being able to look out at my small neighborhood and watch the "goings-on". I don't want to be hidden away in the back yard, which is the trend these days. Take note the next time you're out and about and see how many new houses are being built with front porches. None.

I live in Florida, so I'm lucky again because my porch is screened in to keep the bugs out. It's also equipped with an old cast iron wood burning stove. Central Florida can be cold in January and February, and the stove let's us enjoy the porch year round. And the smell of burning cedar wood is heavenly.

My screened front porch was the inspiration for this post. This morning, I was enjoying my first cup of coffee on my porch and noticed the way the sun was filtering down through the old live oak trees and Spanish moss. It was early and the light was thin, but it was beautiful and I'm happy I witnessed it.

Cooking. My mother was a housewife and raised three kids. She cooked a lot. So now she doesn't. Well, not so much. She says she doesn't enjoy it anymore. This is one way in which we're different. I love to cook. I love to cook for my friends. I love having parties so I can cook. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners don't scare me at all. It's exhausting, but I love it. Pizza, anyone? No delivery for me. I'd rather make my own.

Recently, I was making homemade cole slaw and my girlfriend was amazed when I brought out fresh cabbage and carrots instead of the pre-shredded bagged stuff. She was even more amazed that I chopped it all up the old fashioned way, with a knife and some elbow grease, instead of running it through a food processor. I told her I enjoy the physical act of chopping and dicing. It makes me happy. Especially with a chilled glass of Chardonnay close at hand.

Close friends. We've all been told that "close friends are a blessing". That's true, and I think we should all take a few moments every now and then to remember why they're close friends in the first place. In my case, all the usual reasons apply. They're always there when I need them; they give me advice when I ask for it, but otherwise keep their opinions to themselves (even when I'm sure they are dying to step in and say something); we all feel basically the same way about all of life's big stuff. And the big stuff is important, but it's the little things that set close friends apart from mere acquaintances.

I can tease my close friends and they can tease me back. I never let my girlfriend forget that she's a "Jersey Girl." Only a native of the north would go boating with their hair gelled, blow dried and hair sprayed, with eyeliner, mascara and lipstick properly applied. I never miss an opportunity to remind her husband how old he is, even if he is the only one of us who can still get up on water skis. They tease me about the fact that out of the hundreds of photos we have of each other, all the ones of me were taken by me. And we all tease my husband about, well, anything we can.

The four of us went on a cruise together last summer. I have never laughed so much in my life. My face was sore for a week from grinning. We drank. We partied. We gambled. We basically acted like we were half our age. Thank God the cruise only lasted three days. Another day or two and I probably would have had to go into rehab to dry out. We were so miserable on the way home that I don't think half a dozen words were spoken in the two hours it took to drive from Tampa to Ocala. I may have had a killer hangover, but I was happy. Happy that I had such a great time, happy that I was with my friends, and very happy (evil grin!) that they felt as miserable as I did.

I know I was happy. I was grinning in every single photo I took of myself.

Love At First Squeeze

2008-07-28T11:35:00.000-07:00

We met in a bar. There, I said it. We met in the one place that my mother, my girlfriends, and Dr. Phil agree is not the most suitable venue for finding a mate. You can certainly find someone to mate with, but a long term pairing? I'll even admit that the locale of our meeting was not a trendy oak-paneled gathering place of up and coming young professionals, but an oak-floored boot-stompin' country western bar. Out in the middle of the woods. And I'm fairly certain I was wearing pointy-toed cowgirl boots. And drinking Jack Daniel's. I'll even be a bit more honest and admit that this wasn't my first visit to this infamous establishment.

Every southern town worth its salt has at least one "juke joint". They always have a shady reputation (whether deserved or not), and are tucked away in the less traveled part of the county. In its heyday, the juke joint in question was best known for its house band (they played a great mix of southern rock and old country standards), cheap drinks, and girl-to-guy ratio, the girls definitely being the lower number in the equation. When you add up the loud music, free-flowing booze, and three cowboys to every cowgirl, you can see how its reputation as rough and rowdy might have evolved. I'm sure some of the stories I've heard over the years have been true, but I was there to have fun. Who has time to watch the guys prove their manliness over a game of eight ball? I was busy two-stepping and giving ol' Jack a run for his money.

On the night in question, my girlfriend and I happened to take a break from the action on the dance floor and had made our way over to the bar and ordered refills. As I mentioned, this wasn't my first visit. My girlfriend Claire, her significant other, and myself had made a Friday night ritual of coming here to the dance hall in the woods. However, earlier in the evening, Claire had received a call from her boyfriend (let's just call him "Jerk"), explaining that he was on his deathbed with the flu and wouldn't be going out with us that night - or any other night. He was dying. I'm sure he thought we'd forego the scheduled festivities and see a movie instead.

Back to the bar. As Claire and I stood sipping our drinks and checking out potential dance partners, we were quite surprised to see the "Jerk" walk right through the door. Yes, walked. Upright. He wasn't in a wheelchair, or even using a walker! In fact, he appeared the picture of health from head to toe - from his freshly washed hair, to his starched button-down shirt and nicely pressed Levi's, all the way down to his spit-polished Tony Lamas. But wait! He had someone with him. A male someone. Was this his nurse, accompanying the Jerk on one last outing before he checked into the hospital to undergo risky flu surgery? Whoever this tall dark stranger was (yep, the cliche had come to life), we were about to find out. The Jerk had spotted us through the smokey haze and they were pushing their way through the crowd to our perches at the bar.

Of course, the next few minutes should come as no surprise. Claire was busy giving the Jerk a piece of her mind, the Jerk was busy trying to explain his miraculous recovery, and I was busy checking out the new guy. Six foot, dark brown hair and eyes, tall, lean and cute! Turns out he wasn't a nurse at all, but a friend from out of town visiting for the weekend. I guess the Jerk wanted a guys night out and thought that lying, scheming, weasel-like behavior was the way to accomplish this. Jerk.

The new guy and I traded bios. He was passing through town on a business trip and had stopped to spend the weekend before heading to the Panhandle on Monday morning. He bought me a drink, we talked some more, and he even spun me around the dance floor a few times. He seemed like a nice guy. I even went so far as to not hold him responsible for the Jerk's behavior. That is, until he excused himself and asked another girl to dance. Didn't he know about the "equation"? Didn't he understand that there were two more future boyfriends lined up behind him, ready to take his place? Jerk.

I turned backed to the bartender and ordered up another Jack, commiserating with the dusty Jackalope mounted behind the bar. Claire and the Jerk were off somewhere, most likely trading spit and making up. Left to my own devices, I was soon back on the dance floor cuttin' a rug to a Lynyrd Skynyrd song. The night was wearing on and I spotted the new guy a few times, ordering a beer, playing pool...circling the dance floor. Hah! I guess he was finally becoming acquainted with how the girl-to-guy equation worked. What? He was headed my way. He was actually asking me to dance - to a slow song! The nerve. I hurriedly shook off my other two boyfriends-in-waiting and grabbed his arm before he could change his mind. Boy, was I going to teach him a lesson! Once dance and I'd blow him off and be back in the arms of, uh, whatever their names are.

But something happened as we slowly made our way around that old oak dance floor, my arms around his waist, his belt buckle biting into my breasts. We fit. I can't explain it any better than that. Our bodies fit together (in a peculiar way, I know), my cheek resting against his chest, his lips brushing my ear as he softly sang along to an old Hank Williams tune. And was that his hands I felt slowly slide down my back, brush my waist, and then move down and squeeze my butt? Did he have the freakishly long arms of a circus sideshow attraction?

The lights finally came up and the bouncers began their nightly ritual of herding the tired sweaty dancers towards the exit. The plug was pulled on the juke box and another Friday night was over, Saturday morning right on its heels. As we made our way to the door, I felt an arm slide around my waist and pull me close. We passed Bubba and Bobby (or was it Jimmy and Jason?), standing near the bar looking like two lost hunting dogs. Sorry boys, the math didn't work in your favor tonight.

We watched the southern sun come up over fried eggs and grits, side by side in a cracked vinyl booth. And we've seen twenty-four more year's worth of sunrises together, side by side, a perfect fit.

Fate had finally made an appearance in my life that night and introduced me to my other half. The half that was outgoing and gregarious and complimented my reserved and introverted nature. The half that had never met a stranger and would take me on the journey of my life. And no matter what the so-called experts warn about the perils of meeting someone in a bar, when you find that person whose lifeline mirrors your own, whose hand fits perfectly into yours, don't stop and think about the abnormally long arm attached to it. Gently take his hand in yours, place it on your butt, and squeeze.

There's a Pearl In My Wine Glass

2008-07-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

(Note: This story was originally written in January of 2008, a few days after being fired. I would like to take this opportunity to speak directly to my ex-boss: "Thank you for firing me. It is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. By freeing me from a hated job and working with a bunch of crazy people, my stress level has dropped dramatically and I no longer have to take blood pressure medication."

Faux pas number one: trying to make my case with the boss. Past experience should have been jumping up and down on my shoulder and screaming into my ear, "Shut up, you big dummy!" But the light bulb didn't turn on and my normally introverted self kept talking (and talking, and talking).

Faux pas number two: giving the boss's wife the cold shoulder (who, I should mention, was the cause of my trying to make my case with the boss in the first place). Of course, when the boss's wife turns out to have multiple personalities that would send Sybil voluntarily fleeing into the proverbial corn bin, simply ignoring her seemed the safest course of action.

Faux pas number three: not falling to my knees and begging for mercy when asked by said boss about criminal actions number one and two. Instead, I turned an interested shade of purple while trying to suppress the mad hysterical laughter forcing its way up my throat and out of my big fat mouth.

Three strikes and you're out. Or fired. Or let go. In other words, there goes my steady income which provided the finer things in life such as rent and food, not to mention regular manicures and eyebrow waxing.

So this is the point where most sane people would panic. Right? Well obviously I'm not sane. As I cleared my desk and gathered up my office essentials (green tea bags, flu swabs, contact lens cleaner), my thoughts we're already racing ahead to my sunny future. I was on vacation! I would finally have time to get my freelance business off the ground! My phone would be ringing off the hook with offers of employment! I could spend my days cleaning and cooking and doing laundry and being the perfect wife! See? Insanity. Instead of speeding directly to the unemployment office and securing my rightful benefits that would ensure continuing salon appointments, I instead headed directly to my local wine and spirits establishment, stocking up on my favorite Pinot Grigio. A girl's got to drown her sorrow, er, celebrate in style, right?

Which brings us to day four of my, uh, hiatus. The Pinot Grigio bottles are empty. My house is still a mess. Clients haven't been knocking down my door to procure my freelance services, nor have the full time employment offers been pouring in. Okay, I haven't even been asked in for an interview. And my nails need a fill and my brows are looking a little bushy. Some vacation. I know what you're thinking. This is the point where most insane people would panic. Well obviously I'm not your run of the mill insane person. In fact, maybe I could be a case study for a new strain of psychosis. I could get paid for being a lab specimen! Scientists will marvel over my ability to avoid the obvious - I'm unemployed, broke, and have no immediate prospects.

But while sane people might dwell on the obvious, creative lunatics such as myself concentrate on seeing the wine glass as half full - with the promise of new freelance opportunities, the promise of working for a kinder, gentler boss (minus the schizophrenic better half), and the promise that everything happens for a reason. Was I really that unhappy in my job? Probably more so than I was ready to admit. Was it really a good idea to tell my boss that maybe it was "timed I moved on"? Obviously not. He took me at my word and sent me merrily on my way. Am I suffering from panic attacks at the thought that I may not have funds for the next clearance sale? Never!

My wine glass is never empty, nor is the promise of what tomorrow may bring. The world is my oyster and if there's one thing this southern girl enjoys, it's a nice fat steamed oyster on the half shell. Pass the hot sauce, please.