Cavemen Still Roam The Earth

I remember when I got my first brand new, off the showroom floor, car. My parents paid the bill, but I actually went to the dealership to pick out the vehicle. All my father said was “get a 1972 model (yes, that’s correct .. ancient by today’s standards and prices) with automatic transmission, AM radio, and no air conditioning.” That car -- with the 8-TRACK tape player installed by my brother -- got me through five years of college ... and six hot, steamy, summers in South Louisiana.

This past weekend I brought my mother to get a new car. This time it was me negotiating the deal for her. I told the dealer what we wanted in a car and how much we were willing to spend. It should have been very easy ... a 2009, base model Honda Fit with automatic transmission. She already had a 2007 Honda Fit with which she was VERY pleased. And for my mother, who is pushing 80, the fewer the “extra” features the better ... not too many buttons to confuse with other buttons, and nothing too fancy for her to have to remember.

We went to the first dealership ... where we had purchased her last two vehicles ... and we were given the Royal treatment (just like the name of the dealership). Well, this time around “Royal” stood for “Royally Given the Shaft,” “Royally Insulted,” and “Royally treated like Dumb Women.” These Neanderthal Men still had the calluses on their hands from walking on their knuckles like the rest of the Baboons. Apparently they got the size of our brains confused with the tiny size of their testicles in figuring we would just nod our heads and go-along with their skewed view of sales and their prehistoric view of “we men, you fool women” society.

Never before have we been treated so rudely when trying to spend nearly 20,000 hard earned dollars. Somehow these male morons forgot the definition of “Customer Service” and that $20,000 is a lot of money to hand over.

Somebody forgot to let these non-evolved apes know that humans no longer live in caves, the earth is not flat, and that women no longer walk a step behind men.

First, I was told I had to sign an “Agreement to Buy” before the salesman would try to locate a 2009 Fit. I laughed and asked, “You expect me to agree to buy before I know you have a car, the price of that car, and whether my mother even likes the car?” I stood up, said “no thanks” and headed for the door. I was quickly stopped and asked to reconsider. I explained I would reconsider when they took their “Agreement to Buy” off the table.

Well, they found a car, then proceeded to give me a non-negotiable price which “only” -- ONLY -- gave them a $1,500 profit. I gave them another laugh, and reminded them “only a $1,500 profit” was a lot of profit, and more profit than I was ready to give on a 2009 base model when the 2010 models were already on their lot. I then wrote down the price I was willing to pay ... a fair price that gave them a fair profit and a bigger profit then deserved for the treatment we were given. But that’s when the salesman made his biggest mistake.

This gum-chewing, socially-stunted, clueless fool then said: “What gives you the right to make an offer like that?” I don’t know why I was stunned with his question, but I was. Then again, he may have been stunned by my answer.

“I have the right to make that offer because I’m the one buying the car, and writing the check that was going to give you a profit ... and in the recession of 2009 a profit is better than a loss, which you will soon know because you just lost this sale,” I declared.

You could hear the big suck ... the one that kept his butt stuck to his chair and his mouth opened wide as my mother and I got up and headed for the showroom door.

Something tells me that if we had different “junk” between our legs the dealership would have treated us differently. But then again, we sort of felt like we each had a set of basketballs south of the border as we walked out the door ... ain’t nobody gonna pull one over on my mamma and me ... especially two hayseeds with the brainpower of those banjo players in the movie Deliverance.

As for my mother ... she’s now driving a brand new Honda Fit Sport purchased from a different -- and better -- dealership. She’s got an AM-FM radio, CD player, and satellite radio receiver, cruise control, alloy wheels, USB interface, mp3 player, a spoiler on the hatchback, plus a 1,000-watt smile across her face.

... and the buzzards keep circling!”

National Girlfriends Day

I am only as strong as the coffee I drink, the hairspray I use and the friends I have. To the cool women who have touched my life. Here's to you! 

It is good to be a woman: 

1. We got off the Titanic first. 

2. We can scare male bosses with the mysterious gynecological disorder excuses. 

3. Taxis stop for us. 

4. We don't look like a frog in a blender when dancing.

5. No fashion faux pas we make, could ever rival the Speedo. 

6. We don't have to pass gas to amuse ourselves. 

7. If we forget to shave, no one has to know. 


8. We can congratulate our teammate without ever touching her rear end. 

9. We never have to reach down every so often to make sure our privates are still there. 

10. We have the ability t o dress ourselves. 

11.  We can talk to the opposite sex without having to picture them naked. 

12.  If we marry someone 20 years younger, we are aware that we will look like an idiot. 

13. We will never regret piercing our ears. 

14. There are times when chocolate really can solve all your problems. 

15. We can make comments about how silly men are in their presence because they aren't listening anyway.  



" and the buzzards keep circling!"

The Grass Genie Part 2 ...

The Grass Genie has been identified, and the Grass Genie no longer cometh.

I suppose it was just a matter of time, but the unidentified grass cutter mystery has come to an end. It seems a local lawn service company changed the employee who works in my neighborhood. The new guy thought my house was on the list of houses with a contract. His misunderstanding was my reward. But now the original employee is back on duty ... meaning my grass is overgrown ... and looks like the dreadlocks hanging out of helmets of some NFL players.

Now I have had to devise a "Plan B" to get the grass cut ... and that "B" does not necessarily stand for "best" plan. I decided to purchase a lawn mower and cut the grass myself ... imagine that. 

"How hard can it be," I asked myself. Parents assign the grass cutting chores to their teenage sons, and nobody gets hurt ... at least not very often. I've seen pregnant women cutting the grass ... probably to induce labor. Hell, I've even little blue-haired ladies cutting the grass. I've seen kids who can't tie their shoes, pushing the lawn mowers. And needless to say, I have seen husbands cutting the grass. Surely I -- the Queen Buzzard Belle who has survived more than 50-years of semi-hard living -- can cut grass. 

First I had to buy a lawnmower. This was no easy task ... sort of like going from store to store looking for the perfect outfit to wear to the perfect party. It's not like asking if this new outfit makes certain body parts look better than they really look. However, there are things like horsepower, and cutting radius, self-propelled, and different fuel types.

I looked at that guy in the lawn and garden department like he was a used car salesman wearing a plaid sports coat and a food-stained tie. This is what it must be like when a young man makes his first walk through the condom isle at the drug store. The difference is that I got to touch the lawn mowers, push the lawnmowers, and look at the attachments for the lawnmower. I don't think the pimple-faced kid with the sweaty palms, gets to do all that in the condom isle ... at least I hope not!

So I decided on a light-weight, electric powered lawnmower that is an energy-saver, non-polluting to the air, low-noise, and non-vibrating. And the price was decent, too.

Next was to put it together ... which wasn't too hard. However, getting the grass catcher on the mower was a little more difficult. I'm not going to try to compare it to attaching a condom, because this is supposed to be clean ... or at least sort of clean. Just trust me, it wasn't easy.

Then came the actual using of the lawn mower. I was pushing and grunting, working every inch of the lawn. My back was cramping, I was gasping for air and sweating like there was no tomorrow. And this went on for at least 30-minutes ... maybe more, I just lost track of time.

Now .. Now ... Now .. I was cutting the grass ... just cutting the grass ... nothing more ... don't think that this sounds like something else ... don't make anything more of this story than cutting grass ... although I wish there was something more to be made, but that is another story for another time.

Let me tell you a thing or two about this electric lawnmower. It needs no gas, it doesn't stink the way regular lawnmowers stink, and it doesn't vibrate your hands and arms until they fall off. However, that extra-extra-long extension is a royal pain in the rump. I had to dodge that thing like you have to dodge road-kill on country streets. At one point that cord was wrapped around my legs like a boa constrictor. I had to stop and restart that lawnmower so many times it was like the first time I drove a stick shift car.

I have a new respect for those people who cut grass. I am almost inclined to say that allowing youngsters to cut grass is actually a form of child abuse. And ladies trust me, if your husband has the stamina to ask for sex after cutting the grass ... grant his wish, because he deserves -- and has earned -- an afternoon or evening of sex. 

Unfortunately, I am a divorced woman and the closest I came to a sexual experience after cutting the grass was a pint of Benny & Jerry's best ice cream ... at least I didn't have to fix breakfast the next day. That may be the silver lining in this story ... ice cream. Trust me, it was good, yet sex would have been better.  

But I did it ... I accomplished my goal ... and I believe I deserve an "atta-girl" on my back. Next step is to buy one of those weed-wackers. Just think of the damage I can do with that toy.

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

    

Pour Me A Vacation ...

A few weeks ago my youngest brother -- a mere child of 41-years -- gave me a new iPod for no reason at all ... not my birthday, not Christmas, not Be Kind to Sisters Day, and not even International I Used to Change Your Diapers Day.

He said he wanted me to have a new iPod because I had been lusting over the new iPods of both he and his wife. Truth is -- like former U.S. President Jimmy Carter -- I did lust in my heart over their new toys. However, I was trying to be a grown-up and not whine because they had something I wanted and wasn't buying.

Not only did my baby brother send the new toy, he also loaded it with a lot of music ... more than 500 songs. He knows me fairly well, and knows I am a Parrothead. He has seen the parrot tattoo on my leg. He has seen me in shorts, Hawaiian shirt, straw hat or pink baseball cap, umbrella drink in hand, and Crocs on my feet (no flip-flops because I am very accident prone and have been known to trip over my own two feet even when sober). He has also heard me say "I'm in a Buffett State of Mind," meaning I need to get away ... even if only in my drink.

He loaded the iPod with lots of Buffett music. However, there is one Buffett song that is not written or performed by Jimmy Buffett, which has become my new theme song. It is Barmaid Play Me Some Buffet.

It has the most wonderful lyrics ...

Barmaid play me some Buffett,

I'm in the mood to get away,

So pour me a vacation

I need to leave here right away

I gotta get down to the ocean

If it's only in my mind

So take me out to paradise

If only for tonight, I can leave it all behind.

Truer words have never been spoke or sung! 

My world -- and probably yours -- has been on overload for the past few months. We've had to deal with the hurricane that was and the hurricane that wasn't ... and deal with the bad memories, nightmares, and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome of watching on TV as our friends and family in Texas suffer with the aftermath of that blasted -- good for nothing -- storm named Ike. In fact, the brother who gave me the iPod can't even read this because he lives in Texas and is still without electricity and internet. Prior to Ike, I don't think he has ever spent a night without air conditioning. I'm sure this has caused him to turn into one of the Seven Dwarfs ... not Bashful, Dopey, or Sleepy ... but probably Grumpy!

We've had to deal with the gas prices that seem to yo-yo up and down like the stretch waistband of my "fat girl" jeans. And speaking of earthquake like movement of my waistband ... have you seen the prices of a pint of ice cream lately. A carton of Ben & Jerry's best is right up there with a gallon of gas. Maybe I should spend the money on the ice cream, ditch the car, start walking, and give my waistband and break. The chance of doing that is about equal to my winning the Powerball Lottery.

If that wasn't bad enough, we have heard the news of the stock market imploding, the Wall Street meltdown, and the White House bailout. Lord only knows what those things mean, but they sure as hell don't sound good. And sooner or later we know that all of those things combines are going to trickle down on us the way pancake syrup slops down the side of a short stack of flapjacks. 

It used to be that filling the gas tank was easy ... $25 and drive away with a smile. Now you need a bank loan to fill the tank. But don't bother going to the bank, because most of them are having their own troubles.

You know things are bad when going to the grocery is enough to give even the strongest among us a stroke. Now you need to wear horse blinders when buying the family groceries. You have to look straight ahead and stick to your list, because to make those impulse purchases, may just cause you to no longer have a pulse. 

But tonight -- thanks to my brother -- I'm going to leave it all behind. Tonight I'm going to the local Taco Bell and get one of those Strawberry-Mango freeze drinks on their menu. I'm going to take it out of the plastic cup, pour it into a tall glass, and some good golden rum from Barbados, put my fanny into a lounge chair on my deck, put the earbuds into my ears, and crank up the new iPod and all 103 Jimmy Buffett songs, including my new theme song with the line "Don't wanna think about tomorrow .. not until tomorrow comes." You are hereby invited to join me ... even if only in your mind.

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

Say Hello To Male Birth Control ...

There may finally be a birth control method -- other than abstinence -- which will be approved by the pope and the rest of the catholic church.

Yeah, I know ... why does a 50-plus year old, post-menopausal woman care about birth control -- especially male birth control? But this is interesting stuff ... albeit not necessarily good stuff. Consider this, the Cleveland Clinic has come to the conclusion that cell phones are linked to low sperm counts. This recent study gives a whole new meaning to the Joan Rivers line "Can we talk?"

Doesn't the whole idea of this cause you to shake you head and wonder "why?" I mean, why did somebody come up with this idea for a study? Or why didn't I know about this back in the day when I used to worry about the possibility of getting pregnant?

It seems that a man keeping his cell phone "on" and in his pants pocket, puts the busy signal between his sperm and their quality and quantity. According to Ashok Agarwal, who is the Director of the Center for Reproductive Medicine at the Cleveland Clinic, the vicinity of the working cell phone to a man's testicles seems to cause some extra heat. That heat can cause the receiver to come slamming down on how a man produces sperm for reproducing, and whether they can swim like Michael Phelps or just tread water ... so to speak.

The Clinic gathered 361 men for the study --- probably contacted them by telephone first --- then did the study for 13-months. These guys kept their cell phones in their pockets ... just 2.5 centimeters from their gonads ... and used an ear piece to talk, while keeping the phone close to the "wells of life." 

These men seemed to trade their little swimmers for the gift of gab. Guys who used their phones for more than fours hours each day saw their sperm count drop from 86-million per milliliter to a mere 50-million per milliliter.  Honestly, how many men do you know who spend 240-minutes on their phone every day? Surely, these guys were just too exhausted from talking to even think about sperm production ... they were worn out, and so were those 36-million little guys produced by their "boys!"

I'm still trying to figure out how this whole thing works. These guys signed up for a research study on their testes. Can't you just hear the talk around the water cooler in the office or the urinal in the men's room? 

"Yeah, I got myself signed up for a sex study ... they're wanting to test the strength of my 'boys.' Yep, I'm gonna show 'em just the stuff I'm made of. Uh, huh .. I'm gonna put the rest of those dudes to shame once they get a peek at my rather large 'personality' and my Olympic team swimmers. Step aside guys, we're gonna make history," he says as he puts everything back in place, zips up, runs his fingers through his hair as he passes the mirror and walks back to his desk standing an inch or two taller.

Then, just 13-months later this guy no longer stands at the urinal ... he's sitting in the stall, looking down and mumbling "guys, what have you done ... you let me down." And he can't hear the guys at the urinal laughing because he's got hearing loss from all those hours on the cell phone. Not to mention the decrease in the size and quality of his "personality," which now resembles something that just got fished out of a cold lake.

Mothers --- if you want to become grandmothers --- tell your sons and sons-in-law to get the phones out of their pants pockets. Don't even let them clip it on to their belts ... even that is too close to the "Tropics of You Know What."  Agarwal says even a"a slight increase in temperature could result in a decreased sperm condition." 

But according to the study, your potential to become a grandmother and to maintain the family line is in jeopardy even if the men in your life put the phone to their ear. It is thought the phone can expose the hypothalamus to excessive electromagnetic energy, and that might hurt hormones which govern sperm production.

The Cleveland Clinic news release states more research is needed before coming to hard conclusions. Let's see how fast the volunteers clammer to get to the front of the line for that study.

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

  

 

Was Chicken Little Correct?

Have you ever wondered if Chicken Little knew something about this world, but didn't get the message to you?

You know Chicken Little ... the itty-bitty bird with the big mouth which ran around screaming "The Sky Is Falling .. The Sky Is Falling." Just think about the past couple of weeks ... 

There was this really nasty guy named Gustav that came lumbering through the Gulf Coast of Mississippi and Louisiana, including Baton Rouge. He was an ugly so-and-so who flooded streets, downed trees, ripped off roofs and was like a boil on the butt of humanity.

Did I feel something on my head?

His evil cousin, Ike, decided not to be outdone by pounding the Texas Gulf Coast, Houston, and West Louisiana. This less-than-friendly chump drowned Galveston, knocked out electricity to roughly 5-million people, and kicked the "you-know-what" out of the region and its residents.

I think I really did feel something on my head. Didn't you?

And those genius weather folks at the National Hurricane Center say they expect no tropical formation within the next 48-hours. What is that? Are we supposed to take solace in that forecast? It's like "you're safe for 48 hours, but we'll have something new with which to scare you in only 49-hours."

On top of that, just when it seemed like gas prices might be getting away from the mode of "I have to sell a pint of blood to fill the tank," the price goes up 30¢ a gallon. I can't help but wonder how college students put gas in their cars, when they can't rummage for change under the sofa cushions.

I didn't see it fall, but I heard something. You did, too, right?

Then Wall Street takes a jump off the side of Mt. Everest, wrecking a ton of 401-k Plans and annuity polices, not to mention stock portfolios. And the government gives an $85-billion bailout to AIG. Don't you wish you could get a bailout from some of your bills and pitfalls? 

The only bailout I could get would be to jump out of an airplane, but since I can't even afford a plane ticket right now, that would be a tough task. And if I could get a ticket, there would be no leftover money for the parachute ... that might actually please some people. Then there are others who would offer me a broom for flying out of the plane. If that would work, I'd cast a spell of equal proportion on those who offered the broom!    

Surely you saw that piece of something bounce off my head.

If that's not enough, consider this ... the cost of anti-aging-anti-wrinkle-anti-ugly cream has gone up, along with my "natural in a bottle" golden brown hair enhancer, and the cost of my prescription hormone replacement medication.

And if the price of my Prozac and Myers Dark Rum go up ... that blasted, pygmy, Chicken Little can count on me pulling the sky down on his head right before I personally pluck each of his tiny feathers and kick him all the way back to the hen house.

Take that you raunchy little bird. That will teach you to keep messages from me!

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

In Memoriam ...

Today I make no jokes, poke no fun, and take no creative license. 

Today I remember the thousands who died seven years ago on September 11, at the Pentagon, the World Trade Center Towers, that sacred field in Pennsylvania, and in the four airplanes hijacked by a band of terrorist determined to bring jihad to the United States.

Today I remember the children left with only one parent, or no parents following the attacks, as well as the families who lost love ones. And today I remember the men and women sacrificing, fighting -- and dying -- in Afghanistan and Iraq ... and their families left at home.

May their lives not have been taken in vain. May we never forget.

Queenie

Be Careful What You Wish For ...

Remember being a kid and wanting to be a grown-up? Well, I've learned through experience that sometimes it just sucks being a grown-up.

I can remember being a kid and racing to the mailbox every afternoon to see what "goodies" were being delivered, then being disappointed if the box was empty. Today, if the mailbox is empty it is cause to dance a jig, right there in the middle of the street. It means there is nobody wanting to get his or her hand into my wallet to steal my hard-earned cash.

I can also remember the "luxury" of being a teenager and taking a shower until the hot water heater had been sucked dry. Today I still drain that water reservoir, but not without thinking how much it costs to refill it with water and the cost of electricity to keep it hot. 

Same holds true for the air conditioner. When my parents were responsible for the power bill I would crank the temperature down to 65-degrees without a second thought. Today my thermostat is set to 78-degrees. I may hang around the house half-naked --- don't picture it --- but when the power bill looks like the national debt, something must be sacrificed. I suggest the "Peeping Toms" look into the windows of somebody else.

Of course you must remember jumping into the car on a Sunday afternoon just to go "joy riding" with friends. First of all, there is no longer any chance of my "jumping" into the car ... that ability left when my butt got bigger than the car window and arthritis took over my joints. It also ended when gas went from the 25-cents per gallon of my youth, to the $3.63 per gallon of today.

Then there were those "Ladies Night" specials at all the area bars in my college days. We could drink all night -- every night of the week -- and not spend a single dime. Last week I went to a Caribbean restaurant with friends and spent $13 on a single umbrella drink. It would have been nice to have at least gotten a little tipsy from the fruity concoction. Turns out the lightheaded feeling came from 1) looking at the bill, and 2) realizing the cost of that drink made buying a gallon of gasoline a real bargain.

If that wasn't a slap in the face, I was in for a rude awakening the next morning when I went to the Super Wal-Mart. There was a time when I bought my make-up and skin care products in a department store. Now everything comes home in a Super Wal-Mart bag. As I was checking out, I watched as the anti-aging products passed over the scanner. There was the exfoliant, the wrinkle reducer, the wrinkle prevention cream, the concealer, the wrinkle filler, the moisturizing make-up, the moisturizing cleanser, the nighttime moisturizer, the daytime moisturizer, the skin serum, the skin buffer, and the pore minimizer. I spent $112 and there wasn't a single thing to eat in that bag. At least if I ate, the wrinkles would fill with fat, and I would probably die early ... surely before any more wrinkles formed.

There were also the hours I could just sit and daydream about all the things I would do when I was a grown-up. Forget doing that today ... I've got three loads of laundry waiting to be washed, a client report due tomorrow, groceries to buy, the car needs an oil change, and the dog has to go to the vet. The only time I get to daydream is when I'm in my bed ... because, of course, insomnia also comes with being a grown-up.

Yes, maybe a vacation would help correct my less than bright outlook. But with the high costs of airfares, the price of checking luggage, the weak dollar, and the fact I used my last vacation days running from the most recent hurricane, a vacation is not in the picture. 

Instead, I'll turn off the cell phone, play some Jimmy Buffett on my iPod, put a paper umbrella in my Coca-Cola®, sit on the deck and let the garden hose pump some water on my toes, kick back and remember that I am the one who couldn't wait to be a grown-up.

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

  

  

Like Mother, Like Daughter ...

As you have gotten older, have you noticed your parents want your advice on certain issues?

It's a little strange ... you are the same kid your parents said didn't have the sense God gave a flea. However, now you get asked questions about extremely important issues. These include questions about health insurance, long-term care insurance, living wills, medical issues, and even financial issues. The experts call this "role reversal." I call it more than I bargained for at this stage of my life.

Remember when your parents taught you how to count? Then they drilled those addition tables into your head, along with the subtraction, multiplication, and division tables. I can vividly remember my mother bopping me on the back of the head when I screwed up those tables. I can remember her asking "how are you going to get through life if you don't learn this?" 

Well, here I am over 50-years old and I still don't know those tables. But I do know how to work both a calculator and use computer programs to handle the math. And now I get asked to look over her credit card bills. Maybe she realizes those tables were not as important as we were led to believe.

Then there were the times when I would sit at the kitchen table struggling to read and comprehend something from some english literature book with my mother pointing to each word. For the reading mistakes, mother would slap the table -- thank God -- instead of me ... maybe she had pity on my poor soul. She was convinced back then I would never learn to read, and absolutely not be able to comprehend.

However, now when I go to her house she is quick to hand over a stack of opened mail for me to read and give her my advice. I must admit that when I read her mail, I make sure not to sit at the kitchen table, and make sure she is another room of the house. Still, there is that rapid heartbeat, and sweat dripping down my back throughout the process. My therapist calls it Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Maybe I will outgrow this one day when I realize my mother's reflexes have gotten slower as she has gotten more mature. 

Sometimes things come out of left field and surprise me, sort of like an afternoon shower on a hot summer day. Just today my office phone rang with a call from my mother. Bless her heart, she was besides herself. Her credit card company called asking if she had made some purchases on line. My mother tries to understand current trends, but when she hears the words "on line" her first thought goes back to the days of hanging the just cleaned laundry "on the line" to dry ... it does not mean on the web.

I made some phone calls regarding the unauthorized charges. You won't believe what I found. Somebody --- certainly not my 78-year old mother -- tried to download "adult content" from the web. That's adult content as in XXX Hot Porn. Not only did this horny bastard try to download this erotic material and charge it to my mamma ... he tried four times to download this pornography and charge it to my mamma! 

It seems the credit card police caught the suspicious charges as soon as they came through, then kicked them out faster than popcorn cooking in a microwave. The credit card company has my mother's "permanent record" --- another one of those fearful things from school days --- which includes her age. Can you imagine the poor guy who placed the call to my mother. He had to ask this mature woman if she had tried four times to make a purchase of sex videos from some place in Cyprus. At least he was discreet -- or a great big chicken -- when he made the call, and didn't mention the pornography ... that became my task.

I called mother, told her my investigative reporting training had lead me to track the charges and crack the case .. all in less than 30-minutes. Needless to say, I was rather proud of myself. However, that really didn't impress her, until I guaranteed her she didn't have to pay the charges, that the card had been cancelled, and a new card would be at her door in less than one week. 

It was only then that she asked who had tried to use the card, how I figured it out, and the dreaded question ... what had this "so-and-so" tried to buy. Notice my mother is such a sweet and proper Southern woman that she used the words "so-and-so." That goes along with her other curse words ... "cracker barrel," "cream cheese," and "son of a biscuit eater." Unfortunately, her use of those words did not rub off on me ... I inherited my vocabulary from my father.

In any case, I explained I tracked down the telephone numbers on the web and linked them to the porn sites. Well, you know her next question. Yep, she asked "did you look at that filthy stuff ... please tell me you didn't watch anything."

Here's where I wanted to bop her on the back of the head for not comprehending. The guy had to pay to watch this stuff ... and I wasn't going to pay to watch. Then came the next question ... "What do you think he was looking at ... do they show everything?"

There is no proper answer for this question when the question is asked by one's mother. Any attempt to be truthful would have just brought about other questions ... questions I didn't want to answer. So I changed the subject. I opted to tell her how I had traced the name and email address used by the bozo trying to get my little mamma to pay for his cheap thrill.

And that's when it hit me ... we had really reversed our roles. I finally understood why she changed the subject so many times when I asked what I thought were legitimate questions. Like me, she didn't want to ride down a bumpy road into uncharted territory.

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

 

Mother Nature Wins ...

Have you ever tried to outguess Mother Nature? 

Take my advice, don't waste your time, energy, or brain power. She's sneaky ... she's got a bad sense of humor, and -- trust this woman when I say --- she's one woman not to be trusted!

In the South we have to deal not only with the heat of our long, long, summers; but also with the long, fickle winds of hurricanes. It's been one week since Gustav made his unwelcome presence known to those of us in the South living along the Gulf Coast. That nasty man was no Southern gentleman. He did the wham and the bam without the thank you mame!  

I heard weather forecasters on TV and the radio say the National Hurricane Center was right on the mark with predicting where Gustav would stick it to us. If that's the case, why didn't anybody tell me. 

Gustav was like a 1980's dancing fool. First he threatened to do the Conga around Florida, then the two-step into Alabama and Mississippi, followed by the Cajun Jitterbug through Louisiana, and the Cotton-Eyed Joe in Texas ... leaving most of us dizzy and out of breath!

Now, as a journalist I have chased hurricanes through the region, from South Florida to Western Louisiana. And I have had storms chase me all the way back home. But after Katrina, I vowed not to be taken alive by another storm ... never to be that hot or thirsty again with no air conditioning and refrigeration.

With the internet and satellite radio, you can keep track of every little hiccup and burp of these storms. I guess that is supposed to be comforting -- getting to see the big bag of wind before it kicks your butt from here to kingdom come. Instead, it just gives one sleepless nights, new strands of grey hair, chronic diarrhea, tension headaches, and extra pounds on the body from that nervous eating pattern when you gulp down hurricane provisions before they spoil. Trust me when I say hurricanes do not provide picture-perfect Kodachrome moments. 

And if you evacuate, you've got to pretend you are Christopher Columbus searching for the new world as you decide to go east or west or even north --- yes, we Southerners go north when we must. And good luck finding a motel room along the way. I spoke with some Louisiana Belles who told me they drove past Memphis to find a room, then put three adults, one dog and two cats into that room ... don't picture it. If that wasn't bad enough, they ate Memphis barbecue the first two days. Between the barbecue beans, grandpa, the husband, and a nervous dog, the motel management almost had to evacuate the evacuees for fear of a gas explosion.   

To make matters worse, Gustav was the disaster that wasn't. By the time he hit the Louisiana coast he had no balls ... just a sock stuffed into his pants. His rain was similiar to that of a horse on diuretics and his winds similar to a great big fart. But a couple million people got out of his way, praying he was not the evil twin of Katrina.

Halloween came early ... he scared the beejeebees out of us, but left us with the treat of not too much to clean up. Just one week later we are faced with Ike about to play a cruel trick on the Gulf Coast. He's taunting all of us from Florida to Texas. Plus, he seems to be in cahoots with the forecasters who keep saying "it's too early to tell where he's going to make landfall."

Mother nature must have  stock in the companies that manufacture Pepto-Bismol®, Immodium®, Nervine, Jack Daniels, and Myers Rum. Too bad Mother Nature doesn't have stock in companies that provide hormone replacement therapy. 

I can't help but believe cranky old Mother Nature is going through menopause -- that less than pleasant change of life crap -- and taking it out on all of us in the South. I know it's not nice to fool Mother Nature, but we don't have to show her any Southern Hospitality either. 

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!"

Give Me a Map & Some Rum ...

Forget all the jabs I have taken at our neighbors to the north ... today it's time to shake hands, hit the road and share the rum 'cuz there's a hurricane with his sights site on the Gulf Coast.  

I lived through Betsy, Camille, Fredrick, Andrew, Ivan, Katrina, Rita and a whole bunch of other nasty-minded storms. I've learned my lesson ... as long as I've got gas in my car, I'm going north. I've got the Atlas, GPS, Myers Dark Rum, my Visa and MasterCard and I'm out of here. When I find a safe place to plug in my computer I'll be back.

" ... and the buzzards keep circling!" 

The Code ...

Okay, so now you have an inkling of my "buzz blog" about being a Buzzard Belle. It is my sarcastic look at life ... surviving those events which kick you in the tail feathers, make your beak start to quiver, and generally make you want to crawl back into the egg from which you were hatched.

Presently, there are six Buzzard Belles ... three charter members, and three who -- based upon our friendships and their survival traits -- were quickly allowed into the brood. We nest in different states and different cities, are different ages, have different educations and occupations, and have different family dynamics. And for right now, this brood remains at six ... we have voted to not even grant membership to our own daughters!

Now, there are lots of qualities which make up the character of every Belle. Each of us has her own story and events which have ruffled her feathers. We have all flown into strong winds and rough weather, have seen our nests fall apart, and have lost and gained some feathers on this journey called life.

Our "code" is simple:

I am a "Buzzard Belle."

I have survived the circling buzzards.

My wings may be showing hints of gray, my tail feathers may be getting wider, and I have certainly been plucked over.

However, I am proud, I am thriving, and I am flying high.

Like I said ... simple, sort of up there with "don't sweat the small stuff," and "BRING IT ON!" We're tough birds, veterans of life, and their aint much these Belles haven't seen, or done, or survived.

... and the buzzards keep circling!

In The Beginning ...

"The Beginning" for me was more than a half century ago! My God, half a century, how did that happen? Well, I know how that happen, and I even know when it happen. 

There is a site on the web where you can put in your birth date, then find the date of the day on which you were conceived. I put in my birth date and was surprised to find that I was conceived on my parents fourth wedding anniversary. I suppose they were celebrating.

I called my mother with this tidbit of news, and could see and feel her blushing over the more than 100 miles of fiber optics through which we were speaking.

Now I know how I was conceived and -- thanks to Al Gore's invention of the internet -- I also know when I was conceived. I'm just trying very hard not to envision the "how" and the "when" at the same time ... in other words, don't picture it!

So here I am ... a baby boomer at a cross road in life. I've turned 50, and find myself sitting at the crossroad of having it make my stomach turn, or turning a new leaf. Lucky for you, you are reading the first turning of a new leaf with the posting of my blog. Who knows, this blog may turn into something more ... but that's for later discussion.

For now, I'll just give you the lowdown on my being a "Buzzard Belle." I grew up in the South ... you know, where we turn one syllable names into three syllables, where we run the air conditioning from March through January, where General William Tecumseh Sherman was an unwelcome visitor, where everybody has at least one crazy relative proudly displayed on the front porch sofa, and where we remember that the first three letters of the word funeral are "FUN," and that's what we have following the solemn ceremony when we bury our dead.

Actually, we believe in FUN all the time ... isn't that what living is all about? To that end, a group of long-time friends have named ourselves the "Buzzard Belles."

We get together at a dignified southern hotel at least one weekend each year for an event we call the "Buzzard Belle Ball." It's a weekend of catching-up, shopping, eating, drinking, dressing in tacky garb after dark, leaving family and work behind, and generally giving the "finger" -- or wing -- to those ever-circling buzzards.

As for those ever-circling buzzards ... that's actually a fun story. One of the Belles told me the story of a summer trip to visit her grandmother on the family land. She explained a game she and her cousins had invented and name, "Drawing Buzzards." 

With nothing better to do than bake in the sweltering summer sun, they had a way to decide each day who was the bravest cousin. One would "stand guard" as the others would lay in the grass pretending to be dead. The longer the "dead bodies" were in the grass, the more buzzards would begin circling overhead. 

As the hours progressed, the buzzards would circle lower and lower waiting to feast on their prey. Please remember this was in the 1950's and 1960's when there was no thought of sunscreen, consequently, they were baking and burning everyday.  

In any case, the cousin who braved the heat -- and the closing in of the circling buzzards -- the longest, was named the "bravest cousin" of the day. This game was played each day during the summer visit ... mainly because there was nothing else to do, and maybe because they had baked themselves senseless!

For me, that story became a metaphor for modern life. While meeting deadlines, paying the bills, working on charity events, dealing with unpleasant clients and unpleasant medical procedures, going through my divorce, dealing with an aging mother, looking for a parking place at the Wal-Mart, going through menopause, and barely making it to my next birthday; the daily goal -- in most instances -- became surviving to nightfall before the circling buzzards got close enough to make me their supper! (in case you don't know, "supper" is the southern word for the nighttime meal ... some northern folks call that meal "dinner," but in the South we eat "dinner" at noon)

So this is "The Beginning" ... and unless the circling buzzards decide to bite me on the butt, it won't be the last!

... and the buzzards keep circling!