A Bend in the Road.

We live on a hillside up above a busy road, a busy 4 lane road with a long stretch of highway and a big bend. It makes it attractive to those who like to speed.

We are also near some businesses, so we're used to hearing delivery trucks dumping loads at the local garden supply...we love living here, we call it the city cottage, 8 minutes from downtown but on 4 acres of land.

On cool nights we love to sleep with the upstairs windows open, sometimes the crickets are so loud, they overpower any vehicle noises.

Since we have lived here, 14 years now, we have heard the screeching of tires and the subsequent hard clunk of metal to alert us that an accident has happened. It always happens right at the bend, the bend where speed and alcohol fail to mix.

Usually it happens in the middle of the night, and I call 911...they know me by name now. It used to be a common occurrence when the bar down the street was open. It's been closed now for almost a year and the accidents have ceased. The only vehicles we hear at night are the occasional trucks or a speedster with a loud muffler.

Except for the one two nights ago.

There was a loud thump, like the sound of a dump truck load hitting the ground and then the shake of a trailer...my husband and I both heard it and fell back to sleep. Neither one of us even opened our eyes or looked at the clock, so when I awoke later, I had no idea how much time had passed....I awoke because of flashing swirling lights below...up I rose to the window.

Below on the street in total silence where five patrol cars blocking off the road and two EMS vehicles. It was an eerie quiet because there was no talking, no rushing, no sirens...just silence.

The EMS vehicle stood still, no dashing off to a hospital.

Whatever happened below was serious enough to require all these vehicles, but it was final in it's stillness. No one was walking away from this, no one was recovering, no one was alive.

After awhile I got back into bed and prayed and prayed for the soul of this person for whom all the lights are flashing.

They were there from a little after 1am until 6am....cleaning up. Long clean up.

We found out later it was a motorcycle accident, he failed to negotiate the bend, hit head on into a utility pole, then the rider and bike flew 15 feet and hit an empty trailer that was parked in the adjacent parking lot....that was the sound that woke us up, what we thought was a truck unloading, was this horrible last moment of someone's life. The rider was killed instantly, blunt force trauma, a severed leg and lacerated aorta...he completely bled out.

There was no warning of this accident, no screeching of brakes, or honking horn or loud voices, nothing...just the sound of the hit. There were barely skid marks to the pole which is now a fractured roadside memorial dressed with flowers and wreaths and a flag.

All weekend long, there has been a steady stream of motorcyclists slowly riding by, a strange survival observance, and the occasional stop to add to the memorial.

It was a local man who leaves behind a young daughter and grieving family.

I won't go into whether he wore a helmet or leathers, what does it matter at this point? I heard the police asking someone visiting the scene if they knew where he had been, had he been drinking? I suppose an autopsy will clarify that one.

I don't know why there wasn't the sound of tires squealing before he hit that pole, I don't know why for the first time, ever, we slept through an accident.

I don't know why it seems that the change of seasons seems to accelerate events.

I never get the answer to any of those things, and I'm all thought-out. I see it as a tender mercy, that God is in the details and the details are none of our business.

All I know for sure at this point, is that a little girl lost her dad, her life forever altered by a bend in the road.

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It's all in the Non Answer.

I've interviewed quite a few people in my career on TV and radio...and the one thing I came away with was how to spot an insane/pathological liar/addict.

They are all the same and their modus operandi is identical...they NEVER answer your question directly, they veer off into their pre determined agenda, which is one of manipulation...and depending on how crazy or addicted or pathological they are, you can bet it's a trip up interview hill you don't want to climb.

I witnessed Oprah, as the master she is, interview Sarah Ferguson and never once get a straight answer from her...Sarah, the former Duchess of York, is in royal hot water for selling access to her former husband Prince Andrew to an undercover reporter for half a million pounds.

She appeared doped up and never directly answered even one question...I watched Oprah patiently probe and circle and cross examine with the patience of an air traffic controller...fielding in rationalizations, dive bombing half truths, and meandering replies.

I think Oprah's patience was rooted in the fact that she was facing a woman in crisis.

Fergie admitted as much, but there was an odor of insincerity as in, "I know all the repentant press crap jargon,.. how's my hair?"

Oprah knew she was watching a women about to hit bottom, and felt no need to kick her as she was down.

Oprah is a better person than I am or at least more of a pro...the crew would have been tasked with prying my hands from around Fergie's neck and drag me away as I scream at her "You tremendous neurotic waste of time!!!"

I would have realized I could've have handled that one better and where, oh where, is my nine iron...

That is why Oprah gets the big bucks and I play golf instead.

.....

Nashville shows its class...

It's been hard to watch the treatment of Tennessee and Mississippi during this horrible devastation.

Tornado activity and flooding has ravaged these areas beyond belief.

The media all but ignored the situation even though news feeds showed buildings floating down the interstate in Nashville.

In an act of sincere contrition, CNN's Anderson Cooper is publicly apologizing for the snub.

The President, himself, didn't acknowledge the devastation until four days later and he did so in a tweet..a tweet? WTF...
of course I know there was a massive oil spill and a foiled terrorist attack..but this is the nature of the job and the CIC needs to to show up...for pete's sake, send VP Biden or another lacky.

For someone who made it a campaign clarion call to point out the mistakes of Katrina, this was CIC Barack Obama's big chance to show how much better off we are with him running the show...hello?

Nashville showed it's class by not complaining or pointing blame, they dug in immediately and HELPED THEMSELVES...they know FEMA is all but depleted of funds...due to the outrageous number of politically motivated Fed assist calls by Obama in one year...

They never brought up the fact that maybe this treatment is some passive aggressive "red" state payback...but I will...yes I will go there...
and during the help Nashville telethon , which was NOT televised nationally as was the Katrina telethon...not one celeb pulled a reverse Kanye West by declaring "Barack Obama doesn't care about white people."
For those who need to be reminded of his statement at the Katrina telethon, Kanye blindsided his on air buddy Jimmy Fallon by declaring "George Bush doesn't care about black people".

Maybe folks now will see the absurdity in that original comment.

Nashville sees beyond the politics, they are too busy digging out of the mud to swipe at anybody.

They have way too much class for that...and maybe I don't for raising such thoughts, but the truth is we learn by contrast.

So my hat off to the folks of Nashville for staying above the fray and taking care of business and showing the rest of the country, that we the people are the government and not the other way around.

To quote The One himself, "Let me be clear: Tennessee seems to be handling this disaster quite well. This is not a call for Federal aid to rush in and start to screw things up - it’s the symbolism attached to knowing the President of your country is aware of what your state is going through." Really?

They will rebuild and stand on their own two feet, I only hope they have the voting booths up and running first.

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The reason behind the reason

We all procrastinate to some degree. Especially when it comes to taxes.

This year I was really dragging my feet...I mean really digging in and not getting them done for some reason.

Then yesterday, I swallowed deep and started the process, about ten minutes into it, I realized the reason behind the procrastination.

As I waded through travel receipts and generally reliving 2009, piece by piece I came across the gas, Ez Pass and food receipts from all the trips back and forth to visiting my dad as he laying dying in the hospital in Atlantic City, and finally in Philadelphia.

I realized it had been awhile since I woke up and his passing wasn't the first thing on my mind...and now it was all rushing back.

Here are the receipts for the coffee and oatmeal I had each morning with my sister as we drove through Margate on the way to the ICU in Atlantic City.

Here are the receipts for coffee on the turnpike.

It's all filtering back how my cold hearted stepbrother piled up all my father's belongings in the corner of the living room and told us to come get them.

How awful it looked, his life tossed in a heap in the corner by the front door...

Here's the Sam's Club receipt in Linnwood where my sister and I bought boxes and bubble wrap and tape...my stepmother contributed $20 then asked for it back, she thought it was extravagant to buy packing supplies....she never complains about the price of gin as I recall.

It brings back all the secretiveness in their actions, and the unkind words they spoke. I won't go in to details, and you don't want to hear it.

As I'm doing my taxes I can still hear my stepbrother loudly declaring, in between gulps of a cocktail in the largest tacky plastic cup I've ever seen, how Obama was not going to raise taxes, especially on the middle class, and what an idiot I am for thinking differently...wait til he does his taxes next year, and starts paying the VAT tax too...I guess I do have some satisfaction here.

This is the reason why I was stalling, somewhere deep in the great subconscious of my mind, where I keep these things under lock and key...my mind was sending out an SOS...don't go back there, it's a sad reminder.

Here are receipts for my father's memorial, the flowers we ordered to float in the ocean with his ashes during his Naval funeral ceremony.

There's the receipts for framing his WWII medals, the photo montage we made, the week we spent at Ocean City saying goodbye....

So I decided to counteract it all and put on Frank Sinatra, my dad's favorite ...and I am trying my best to not think about the callousness of our step relations...in fact this is a bit of a lesson for step families...if you don't like them, don't go to their funeral or if you do, shut up and let others grieve.

People who study the brain say we hold more bad memories because of the emotional process that happens when we experience something bad or traumatic, it's deep in the brain stem ...so we actually have to work at choosing the good ones...and I'm workin' here.

More counteraction, I think about my sweet Aunt Sis and Uncle Jim who welcomed us in their home and fed us and let us stay with them while my dad was in care in Philadelphia for patients on ventilators. Their home was an extension of our family, with family photos everywhere, and books on the family history...

I choose to remember the sweet friends and family who travelled so far and showed up at the funeral and my friend Janet who sang, her beautiful voice filled the church...and our cousin Patty and Aunt Sis, who spoke so elegantly from the lecturn.

Here's the receipt for all the big band music I purchased on iTunes to play at the reception after the funeral.

I catch myself smiling as I write this...this whole choice thing is working.

Well, now Stardust is playing and Frank is singing, and I am healed just by hearing this beautiful music . ..and I am holding the thought in my heart how thankful I am that my dad played this music and it filled the house when I was a child.

I am choosing the good reasons behind the reason...

And the receipts of 2009 and the unkind times are melting away into a Stardust memory, just like they are supposed to.

....

Where's the mess in your life?

Life is messy...anyone with a child or dog certainly knows that, and no matter what we do to try to control it, the laws of nature always take over with a snicker.

Tiger Woods has been snickered at on a grand scale lately.

We have watched his career and life in a collective awe. His mastery of the game and his seemingly perfect life. Major endorsements hundreds of millions of dollars, a model wife, two healthy children...so where's the mess?

Well now, there are at least twelve main messes in different cites scattered through the country and possibly more in the world. The messes in Tiger's life are his women, and apparently, vicodin.

At first when the story broke that Tiger had been in a car accident in the wee hours of the morning right outside of his home... and a golf club was somehow involved, the mess reared it's ugly head. Tiger and his "people" tried to control and contain it. But you can't do that anymore today. Cell phones and cameras everywhere, digital trails of your life everywhere and money...oh money can make the dumb talk ,talk ,and talk.

The irony that this all started on Thanksgiving evening was not lost on those of us who may be struggling with losses of some kind, whether it be loved ones or financial or perhaps, faith. We look at Tiger and his great abundant life and think "What more did he want...geez, he had it all"...including big uncontrollable messes.

We viewed Tiger as early as 2 years old on the Mike Douglas show with his father, showing the country his wunderkid golf skills. His life would become a series of disciplines ever since. His father used to shake a can full of rocks near Tiger's head as he would swing at the golf ball to teach him to stay focused, and not get distracted from the game...control, don't let it get messy.
Tiger had a ritual of what he would wear during tournaments, he would have his clothes chosen and laid out according to color for each day of the competition...control, don't let it get messy.

Had his affairs been about one mistress and perhaps some love involved, we all would have understood what it means to be a fool...but once it was revealed to be multiple trysts, it became about him and how he can control everything in his life except why he can't be a good husband and father.

As he will learn, you can't control another person...nature...a toddler or a head strong boxer dog or...the mess you have created...until you are willing to admit you have created a mess.

Having said that, my closet is a mess...I created it...no more shoes or purses for me. There I am cured ;)

Of course now the only way for Tiger to turn this around is to head to a sex addiction clinic (hahahahaha) and hide for 28 days..then come out swinging.

He needs to realize the turmoil this has created for his family, not him or his image, his FAMILY...and the two little children that God has intrusted to him need him to man up and be a father or get out of their lives...He has basically forfeited his father role by humiliating the mother and spending millions of their college/inheritance to impress and now suppress the lowlife sluts he has created this mess with.

His career will recover, of course, but never back to the level it was. The worst part , however, is that his family will never recover, it's out of his control.

The mess has won.

.... And when you are at the end of your days ( yet another time you have no control over), facing down the messes in your life, it won't be your career sitting next to you in hospice, or the nursing home, or the hospital bed...it will be your children...or not.

Song choice and American Idol Strategy

When I was a teenager in the 70's living in the little town of Johnstown, when a national rock band came to town, it was a big deal.
We were pretty much land locked and isolated by mountains... so needless to say, football and ice hockey were biggies.
Everynow and then we were treated to a big rock concert... it was always at the War Memorial ( the ice rink) and it was a big event.

I saw Jethro Tull there , and Ten Years After and learned that every concert has a guy on crutches ripping through the audience mid- vomit... It's usually an injured high school football player whose older brother bought him a quart of Pabst.

One year , the Guess Who came to town and I couldn't wait to see them... The song "These Eyes" was such a great tune and I loved Burton Cummings voice.. After I wrangled permission to go to the concert I spent a week deciding what to wear and who to go with and omigod who NOT to go with... I'm sure I bought some Bonnie Bell lip gloss for the occassion.
The lights cane up on stage and the band started this mad groove and Burton Cummings in his perfect dark curly rock hair started belting out a song called "American Woman"... Oh hey it's a tribute to us, my teenage mind thought... "get away from me " ooh that sounds kinda mean "American Women". Yes? "momma let me be -hee". ... Hey wait a minute...

As Burton was singing this and the Guess Who was rocking out, he lifted both his hands up and gave us all the finger.... The double handed finger... Reserved for the most deliberate of bird flipping known to man... Or as it was, American Women.

I walked out of the War Memorial and headed straight to the inclined plane to take me back up the hill to Westmont. It was a silent ride, me in my new Levis and leather vest and peace symbol earrings I bought just for the concert. My Frye boots felt heavy on my feet as I stood on the platform heading home. I couldn't believe a band came to my town and gave me the finger while singing an insult... Damn Canadians.

Which brings me to American Idol... You never thought I would get there did you.

This week was the first eliminations of the lucky 24 chosen as finalists... And the one male rocker in the whole bunch , I think his name was Tyler... Stands up to the mike to sing "American Woman" .

He shouldve fainted or fell ,or faked swine flu, he never should have song that song.

Why ? Because American Idol is ruled by the American Girl... About age 14 ... and she likes cute boys who sing love songs... Even if they are gay.. They want a cute guy who sings a song that speaks to them,
NOT "American Woman get away from me"... Let me be 14 for a second here and say "Duh" .

The AMerican Idol band did a hatchet job of playing the song and Tyler seemed off as he sang... Almost as if he was regretting his song choice already and should have listened to the voice of reason who may have suggested this was a bad song choice ... Not just for the fact that the majority of 14 yearolds have never heard of the Guess Who , but it's not a terms of endearment kinda song.

So yes, he was kicked off the idol island the next night... and some other less talented guys went on to sing another day all because of a bad song choice....and I can only hope if Burton Cummings is still alive, he was able to watch his song be murdered on American Idol and the subsequent smack down by the American girl population ... because it made the teenager in me smile at the perfect full circle.

It's time to push the couch around...

I basically grew up in a house that was built in the 1920's...a sturdy stone Beaux Arts of a home, with georgous woodwork, built-ins and wrought iron that would sustain a massive attack on the castle.

It also had radiators.

My favorite choice of heating.

Radiators provide non dry heat and are usually placed under the windows to take advantage of the cold draft, heat it and send it through the house. It's excellent for your skin, and furntiure. It also provided shelf space because of the large box like covers that would fit over the radiators...sometimes they were a piece of craftsmanship to be admired, sometimes just a great place to put books, photos of the family and the paperweight collection that nobody knew what to do with...and I miss that.

If you lived in a house with radiators , you also knew the fun of moving the furniture with the seasons...furniture was moved away during the late fall so the radiators could, well, radiate...then in the late spring, the furniture was moved back so you could cover the unsightly coils with couch. I liked that "musical chairs/ furniture" concept...rotate, sit, seasons change, rotate, sit....I do it now in my 1930's house. THe living room is re-arranged every late fall and every late spring. In the fall it signifies the Christmas tree coming soon and the furniture circles the fireplace.

It's kinda funny.

It also means there is a serious house cleaning and the rug under the couch is finally vacuumed. So that's what happened to all those Lego pieces....

But that's not the funny part.

The funny part is, I don't have radiator heat.

Start the music , I'm pushing the couch around...

...

The Real reason for the Nobel Prize handover.

We all shook our heads when the Nobel Prize was awarded to US President Barack Obama...merely because he hasn't been in office long enough (especially at the time he was nominated) to have affected any kind of change in terms of world peace.

His promises regarding such issues go unresolved and even he admitted, he wasn't worthy.

But the press, in it's continuing search for validation in it's slobbering love affair with BO, continues to write article after article as to WHY this award was bestowed upon him. They dig deep into the metaphoric well and I was willing to accept that he got the award for NOT being George Bush.

That actually made the most sense.

Until I read this...this seems to me to be the real reason for the Nobel hand over...and why this isn't front and center being majorly debated in our "democratic" society is beyond me.

It's called the Copenhagen agreement...a thinly veiled world order pact ..."green" and "healthcare" being the new black hole of your taxes and government control targets. Really it's the only way the feds can make any money these days...especially after bailing out AIG and Goldman Sachs who are awarding big bonuses this year...amazing how we were so easily fed such a big line of crap. SO read on, see if you are willing to be fed more crap from the new ruler of the world government wannabe and Nobel Peace Prize winner:

http://wattsupwiththat.com/2009/10/16/obama-poised-to-cede-us-sovereignty-in-copenhagen-claims-british-lord-monckton/

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Balloon Boy, and why we care...

We watched on the news, in horror last week, as a large saucer shaped helium balloon sailed through the air with the unthinkable caption: "Boy thought to be trapped inside." 6 year old Falcon Heene was thought to be in that balloon floating thousands of feet in the air.

We stayed glued to the screen, tv or computer, hoping that :

1. there wasn't a boy inside, he jumped out early and safely

2. it would land softly and he would be okay

3. this better not be a joke.

We watch because we can. We watch because we care. We watch and learn.

We watched OJ's slow LA freeway run from the police after the brutal murder of his wife pointed all fingers (gloved or not) at him... we actually watched the Gulf War ala CNN in Baghdad...when baby Jessica fell down the well , we watched the urgent engineering feat that drilled into the ground to her safe retrieval ... the Quecreek miners...we witnessed 911 from our breakfast nooks all over America, tears streaming down our faces, in shared anguish.

The backlash of Balloon Boy, has been that "cable news"...and by the way, all news is cable in this digital age...so what is up with that tag line?...the backlash, is that it was covered at all.

Excuse me?

We have several news channels that cover news 24-7, this is what they do.

I remember when Ted Turner talked of starting CNN , the world's first 24 hours news network...he was laughed at..."no one will watch it " was the naysayers mantra...hmmmm.

We now have 4 major 24 hour news networks and various other options.Balloon Boy was not only news, it was an incredible visual story.

The chase of the balloon through the blue Colorado sky was incredible, the heroes who throw down for these gigs, the question of what will be in that balloon and the over riding aspect of a child involved...in a word: compelling.

Then the story became even more interesting...this might be a hoax... a hoax?!? You can hear every one across this country stomping their feet , angry over the time and emotions invested in the well being of this child... we all felt a collective disgust.

It was the first time we have all felt a feeling that was the same in a long long time.

It didn't matter if you were Republican or Democrat or pro Healthcare reform or attending a Tea Party or protesting the war...we all felt collective disgust over this news story.

It actually felt good, galvanized, intertwined.

So now we will watch the ensuing investigation into a very strange story, shake our heads at the fact that children are wrapped up in this mess, point fingers at the parents, give Jon and Kate plus 8 a break, and move on.

I'm glad I watched it on the news, I'm glad I cared, I'm glad I was mad and felt outrage at the possibility of a hoax.

It happened here in our world on our collective watch.

It was news. Plain and simple.

It's okay if you want to be "too cool for the room" and say this story doesn't matter, that's your decision..and that is why it's on the screen for us to decide. And we do.

Maybe because of this story , someone will take a good hard look at the Heene household..and in turn take a good look at their own.

The fallout from this, is the lesson.

So, yes, I care about the endangerment of a child, the possible twisted hoax, and opinions and decisions of those involved...and I also care about all the other stuff, healthcare, taxes, war, etc...my scope of concern doesn't stop at the doorstep of wonks.

Everything matters...even Balloon Boy.

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Uncle Johnny's Bail Money

When I was about 15 years old, I was futzing around (is futzing a word?) in the dining room , actually I think I was nosing around , no, probably fidgeting while my mother was lecturing me on the virtues of not hanging out in front of the Pizza Shop at the shopping center ( a treasured teenage congregating point)…I think her words were…”Boys don’t ask girls out who hang out at the Pizza Shop..they know you are always available, you’ll never get a Saturday night date doing that”.

I pondered that one, for a teenage second, wondering if that meant I could actually start dating.

As she was telling me this, my young mind started wandering along with my feet, I started circling, pacing about the dining room ,doing the teenage avoid-eye-contact-at-all-costs, trying to keep my mind off the lecture and wondering how soon I could go to the Pizza Shop.

I pass by the soup tureen. The soup tureen, that big honkin’ piece of silver status that never held an ounce of soup in all my days on this earth, ever.

I casually lifted the lid up off the big silver baby and holy Sonny and Cher, inside it was a roll of cash ( I later counted it, 500 clams)….

I looked up at my mom, who was cautiously looking at me, and said “Wow look at all this money, what’s this money for?”

Of course my mind is racing, is she leaving frumpy step father? Is she saving for an operation? Is this for me? Are we getting a pool? Can I come back later and peel off a few twenties that she would never ,never notice?

Racing I tell you, racing.

She answered succinctly and with a finality that meant, no more questions, “That’s Uncle Johnny’s bail money, don’t touch it.”

I put the lid back as if it was radioactive and left the room. I had completely forgotten about the Pizza Shop and started walking to the door and outside to sit under the trees in the yard.

Uncle Johnny, a name that evoked danger, darkness and omigod do I really have his errant DNA?

He drove a ’63 corvette and wrecked almost every Saturday night, he was wild and scary, he made stealth trips to …FLORIDA...he told us he sold acid at Woodstock and I always wondered if it was the BAD acid that Wavy Gravy warned about ….and what the heck is bail money?

Curious beyond belief, I rode my Schwinn up to the shopping center, past the coveted Pizza Shop and to the library where I look up (um by the way, this is the 70’s) the words “ bail money”…. Or “bail”…seems that wad of cash was there to secure a quick release from jail for scary Uncle Johnny.
Since we are talking the 70’s, automatic teller machines hadn’t been invented yet, keeping cash hidden in the house was the way to go.
And bail money is usually needed at 2:30 am never during banking hours…and by the way, the other definition for bail was “a container used to remove water from a boat” something to save a sinking ship perhaps?…hmmm.

So I was RIGHT…Uncle Johnny was not only scary but illegal! There was something not-quite-right about his trips to FLORIDA. I knew it! He had seen jail…touched criminals, walked the perp walk, omigod again…..or not, because of the bail money.

Now here’s were we get to the point of the whole story…don’t you just pray for this moment?

The point is, here I am , over 36 years later… sitting in my sunporch writing this ,while 2 plumbers dig a massive trench from our house to the gas line, which decided to die and leak gas into the air which I smelled last night and made the phone call that started a VERY EXPENSIVE CHAIN OF EVENTS.

But I don’t get too spastic, because I learned early on, from my mother, to be prepared, to save a little cash in the soup tureen in case Uncle Johnny gets thrown in jail…or a gas line needs to be repaired.

And THAT is the point of this story.

....

Nit picking and downtown money.

I guess you know that you are all grown up when you can admit things about yourself. Like, I'm willing to admit that I am a ...nit picker... a term that grosses me out because I'm sure it has something to do with picking lice out of peoples' hair.

I have always been a nit picker, a sure sign of "Princess and the Pea " syndrome. I mostly cut the tags out of all my clothes except my "LIfe is Good " T-shirts, because they prewash and soften them and the tags are cotton and soft...but I once again digress.

As a nit picker, I reserve the supreme right to rant about meaningless sh*t that perhaps you never even considered and may now find that this meaningless sh*t now bothers YOU and therefore my burden of annoyance has been properly transferred to you hence my neurotic mission accomplished. Isn't sharing fun?

SO let's get to the infectious point: I live and work in the 'burbs, mostly. I do TV and media work, the media work takes me just about everywhere for shoots...my voice over work takes me downtown or into my basement where we have a studio and editing suite....we have the ability to record digitally and send it, put it on the internet and never have to leave the house.

This makes me ecstatic because it means I deal less and less with "downtown money" and "parking lot dollars"...you know what I mean ? The dollars that the parking lot attendant keeps on the top of his filthy pile of broken,washed in the Mon,wadded up, taped up cash, some of which still has some unsnorted crystal meth lines on it, and then hands it to you as change...I always give it right back and say, give me some money that's not going to fall apart three blocks from now.

THe worst downtown money exists on the South Side...this is where all the college students hang and drink on the weekends and mingle with the Bohemian (ie: almost homeless if not for girlfriends) population of the burgh. There are more bars per block than in all of Mt Lebanon, a throw back from the mill days. Public urination on a Saturday night is an elevated art form.

I used to love to take my mother there during the day (the only safe time for nit pickers) and wheel her around in her chair as she marvelled at the mowhawk haircuts and crowded tattoo laden arms of would-be graphic artists. She got a kick out of it and loved the candy store next to the Bead Mine. My diabetic mom would sip a milk shake and her 70 year old commentary of the street scene would evoke musings like "Who's going to marry THAT ?"

Once I saw a rat as big as Jupiter walk right towards me in broad daylight on Carson Street, I jumped and screamed, it jumped and screamed and ran down an alley, the homeless guy on the stoop laughed at me...I said to him "Hey, what's so funny?".... he kept laughing.

But I DIGRESS....... last week, I was on the South Side for business, and stopped to have lunch when my husband at a new pizza place (I hate pizza, but was being cooperative that day) , when the (I think it was a she) malcontent girl at the counter, whose hair was falling in my food and had JUST wiped her nose, handed me the pizza and my change..... I stop in a nit pick stupor and gaze at my change, the ultimate "downtown money"...it was a dollar bill completely ripped in half and scotch-taped back together, kind of.

Can you feel my challenge here?

Do I point out the fact that she just wiped her nose and then touched my food, or mention the fact that she gave me a piece of useless currency?

What do I do?I'll wait while you think about this ....mind you now, my husband is sitting at the table looking at me and wondering what fresh hell I was about to rain down ... I think he might even be shaking a little....but like I said,earlier, I'm feeling cooperative...no sense spoiling our "lunch".

So, I put the ripped dollar in her I-can't-believe-she-has-the-gall-to-have tip jar, wrap up the pizza and and leave it on the stoop of the homeless guy down the block.

.