Conversations With the Devil

dang it's cold out there colder than a germans heart wish i didn't have to go anywhere today i didn't even have time to wash my hair this morning before starting that block of ice that is my jeep to warm up but hey at least i can now were my special sweater

where is my special sweater were is it it's not here were IS it crap Shit it is not in its spot why isn't it here? why are my leather choppers here up not the sweater I frikin need that sweater and it stinking matching miter to cover up this hair blue sweater blue sweater stripped sweater blue striped sweater yellow ugly sweater stupid rose sweater red sweater itchy red sweater fluffy mohair sweater black damn sweater black dumb ass sweater but NO FUCKING GREY AND WHITE SWEATER

"Hey what did you do with my sweater from Finland you goat? Yes you did, it had to be you. Oh don't give me that, the boys can't reach that shelf. What were you doing in my closet anyway? The cat DID NOT knock it off it's shelf. THE GREY AND WHITE SWEATER WITH REINDEER AND MATCHING STOCKING HAT THAT GOES DOWN PAST MY BUTT YOU SENILE COOT. I CAN'T HAVE NOTHING NICE IN THIS HOUSE WITHOUT SOMEONE- HELLO? HELLO! OH JESUS CHRIST IN A SWEATER!"

grrrrrrrarrrgh the jeep is running and i should of been there already i guess i will just put on my blue snow flake pattern sweater at least it will bring out my eyes yes hid from me you stupid cat you and the goat were probly in on it together whats this under my snowflake sweater? it's a hat it's a hat? oh my miter my hat matches the blue sweater not the grey sweater damn i'll be damn

"Helloo? Yeah, it's ok. I know you are. You should be. Just don't do it again. And stay out of my closet. No I don't want another sweater, I'll be fine. I gotta go now. I still love ya."

Kissing Michael

The new chef at the bistro is the golden boy. Like his biblical namesake, this angle walks around illuminated by his halo. He has perfected his cooking skills in the likes of France, Italy, and Monaco. He is all that with a side of saffron infused truffles on the side. Michael can do no wrong.

He has managed to organize our chaotic mess of a kitchen in a very short time. But now no one can find anything in his new self serving work area. Our potions served are smaller, more exoticaly beautiful for double the price. We are proud to have both candles and flowers on our linen covered tables. We are no longer a bistro but a fine dining establishment.

Not only is Michael a great food artist, he is a dish in himself. The woman who work there, from the retires, to the adolescence, all flock into the kitchen for a chance to flirt with this man. It is an embarrassment to watch. "Michael, just so you are aware", the thirty something female owner, standing closer to him than the skin on a peach, "that a table just got up and walked out after being seated. It could be the service, (they were the only table in there at the dinner rush hour- had their own private server, and a couple to spare) could be they were looking for some other type of food, or could be the prices", she gushed. I did not tell her that they left to join the small town populated by the other people who walked out due to the prices.

I have the opportunity, I think to learn a lot from this man. I have taught him a ghetto thing or two myself. But it was with disgust he taught me to make Tallegette Taliphuno. As I watched him tossing the cheese into the pusco sauce to achieve the "telephone lines" effect, I was flabbergaste-nomicly repulsed see him taste it straight from the serving spoon, repeatedly, after dropping the same spoon on the floor. He mistook my gaping mouth from his action as a hint that I also wanted to taste his food. "Taste?" he asked offering me the dirty spoon. "No!", I answered taking a step back. "If I want your spit I will just kiss you." As appealing as both he and his food is, I will be doing neither, sampling any crunchy unknowns or swapping spit with Michael. Fine dining my harry monkay ass.

Better Late

So Santa Claus was a little late at our house this year. Martin Luther King Day late. Not having time before the holiday to shop, procrastionation caused me to order my boys the custom skate boards from the catalog that they have been drooling over all year long, instead of going to the mall myself. I opted for the garenteed delivery for Christmas by paying double the price of the already expensive boards. I do not know who ordered the blizzards that swept across our country causing the boards to remain in some wharehouse on the east coast during the holiday.

Christmas morning my boys raced down to the fireplace to find a letter with the pictures of their boards that read, "You have been very good this year but the eleves have not. They screwed up painting your boards. I will be back, see you soon. Love Santa."

The kids had recieved enough bounty that they did not even miss one less gift from Santa. The skate board supplier unbeknown to us, cancilled my order when unable to deliver them by the twenty forth of December. All of us forgot about them. Until Martin Luther King Day.

We had Monday off and were in desperate need of clothes so off the the much dreaded mall we go. I hate malls and I hate shopping. My oldest son, K1 shares this distain. For K2, everywere is a party and an adventure. It was a squirly bunch of monkays that entered that shopping meca.

First store we happen apon is a new boarding store. Into the urban trashy chic store we go. The place is a mess. Looked like any teenagers room. Clothes are in sloppy piles everywere. Bare lighing and raw concrete floors. Kenny Rodgers is blaring over the sound system. As my eyes bug out at hearing the lyrics to "The Gambler", at an encredibly high volume, I scan the place for help. The three young male employees are standing in a group in the middle of the store, too ingrossed in their own conversation to even aknoledge us. As I approch, I catch part of the conversation. "Yeah, her, she's like, well.", punk one says. "I so know, tight but, dude." They look my direction in what I take to be somewhat hostile that I dare interupt this deep exchange. "Want something?", punk with the highlighted hair nicer than mine asks. "My son needs to try these on", I answer gesturing to the jeans in our arms. As we are waiting for him to unlock the changing room door, I have to ask him about the music choice in there." "Oh yeah, this is Kenny Rodgers. We play him just to scare people and put them on edge. We laugh like crazy when the seventy year old grannies come in here with their grand kids and can sign along word for word." (Ok you only have to hear that song once to be able to sing it word for word.) K1 is already in his own personal happy spot and is ignoreing us and pretending his is not part of this embassasment. K2 has wormed his way into the center of a circular cloths rack waiting to jump out and startle someone. After we have made our clothing slection we spot the counter were they actually sell skate boards. As we walk by, the boys both pick out their favortive board. Realizing we are serious customers by the tower of hoddies and jeans we are carring on of the punks as move on to politly ask if we need any futher assistance. "No", K2 answers glibly, "our boards are being delivered." Dude, they didn't forget.

Our next stop is the food court. As they are sitting, inhaling french fires, I tell my kids, "Stay here and finnish your food, I need to go try on bras.", knowing they would not want to follow me into a Victorias Secrets for that, I buy myself some time.

Meanwhile back at the board store, I am paying for the boards they had selected. "Thirty minets and you can come back and pick them up", young punk dude tells me. "Thank you, Santa screwed up at our house this year."

On our way out of the mall I fein ignorance and walking back into the same store as if I had never steped inside before. "But Mom", come the protests, "we have already been in this store already." "Are you sure?" I bluff, I don't think so", I answer from the middle of the store. "Hey, you kids", young man yells, "Some white haired dude in a red suit stopped in here and dropped these off for you", he says pointing to the counter were their new freshly assembled boards lie waiting for them. The boys grins were as big as the boards they were carrying out under their arms proudly as we left the store.

"You gotta know when to hold them, know when to throw them, know when to walk away, know when to run..."

Thank you punk dudes, that was like, yeah.

POP QUIZ

Ok, I'm going to throw this one out at you, and the first on to come up my correct answer will win an all expense ode written by me. And if by chance you were with me in the dive bar drinking welfare whiskey and smokin food stamp crack when my addled brain thought of this, please don't blow it for me. (I'm still chafed from the first blowing.) Plus the range authorities are still looking for you for questioning.

Which would I rather be, and why, Steven Tylers guitar, or his harmonica?

This competition open to many, one will win. Employes ,relatives are hard rock impersonators not eligible. Eat the rich and love in an elevator.

Not The Sharpest Knife In The Door

"WHERE THE HELL IS MY KNIFE?", I beller at full volume. I am standing at my kitchen counter with home cured gravlox in front of me, it's perfectly succulant flesh anticipating the sharp thin edge of my fillet knife. The egg butter and rye bread await nearby. The Aquvit spicy and chilled in it's own block of ice.

I, having been banned from Hubbies almighty sacred special fillet knife, bought my own after numerous futile attempts of uncovering it's latest hiding spot. "Do you know how many fish this knife has been in?", Hubby would ask after catching me carving radish rosettes with it, and taking it from me. "But it is the sharpest knife we own!", I would protest. "Thirty thousand fish." "THIRTY THOUSAND FISH! If I only catch one hundred fish a year- for thirty years- that is how long I have had this knife.....Don't let me catch you using this knife on anything that wasn't swimming an hour ago." I then named his fillet knife, "Lover Blade", and would make kissy noises when it was around.

When he walked in on me unexpected, skinning chicken breasts with his Love Blade I retorted, "I'm NOT using your knife, who are you gonna believe, me or your lying eyes?" Didn't work.

The time he found me cutting candle wicking with it, I just stood and looked at him square in the eye and started taking off my clothes. Didn't work.

It was pure insanity that caused me to try to carve runes on my leather bustia with his Love Blade. Throwing myself to the floor and spasmaticaly twitching and convulsing, that didn't work either.

So when I finally broke down and bought my own very special knife I expected some respect. Honeys reaction was questionable. "What did you go and buy a knife for? You don't need a knife!"

After my screaming outburst I hear a yelp from the living room. Hubby comes slithering hurriedly into my kitchen to the sinkfull of dirty dishwater, were my knife had been left soaking in the filth. He tries his best to non-challantly reach in and by chance find my knife but I am right there.

"My knife!!!", I wailed, looking at it's cracked wooden handle. I am not screaming now, I am too sad.

"First of all", I start in a solemn kindergarten teacher voice, "you never leave a knife this sharp in a sink full of water were someone could of reached in and lose a finger." My husband nods in agreement with a guilty look on his woeful face. "Hot water is bad for keeping an edge on a knife, plus banging it on the metal sink." He gives another nod in agreement. "You never leave wood to soak in water without it cracking". "Yes", is all he has. "But, it's not the first time I have ever wrecked something of yours," is my goats reply, "why you act so surprised?"

*hubby is currently enjoying his gravlox shake through his feeding tube.*

Flowers From the Soul

Back when my sister first opened her flower store, I would go in every day to help. The shop was tucked away in a strip mall, in between a vetinary clinic and a Chinese take out restaurant. Afternoons lulls would find me perched on my stool at the counter, slumped over the computer with my chin on my hand. Business was slow in the beginning, so often I would while away my time on the computer trying not to nap or people watching out the window lined front of the store. That was when I had first seen Jim.

I watched as a car slowly pulled in a parking space directly across from the shop. A thin graying man got out and hitched his too large pants up as he turned and deliberately surveyed the front of the store with a scowl upon his face. He then turned and pulled an undscribable object from the front seat of his car and advanced menacingly toward our door. He striated determinedly up to my counter as I trying my best to unwind my legs from around the base of my stool and scramble to a standing position.

"BAM", he slams the object down on the counter with force. "What can I help you with?", I ask in my best customer service voice, wondering if I would be protected from any harm if I just duck down behind the thin counter between us. "Yes, I got some flowers from here a week ago and they died." I dare take my eyes off his angry face long enough to look at the object he had dropped down before me. It is one of our boxes and whatever strange object inside had a few droopy brown flowers projecting from it. Not knowing how to handle this I meekly answer, "Hang on.", and run to get my sister from were she was working in the back room.

"Heidi", I hiss, " there is a guy out there- and he is MAD!" Having already heard our limited conversation, Sis drops the vases she was unpacking with a rustle, and hurries out to the front.

"Is there a problem here?", she politely asks in a more assertive manor. "I got these flowers from here and they died", the man repeats with a glint in his eye. "Yes", Sis answers, live flowers do die." "It's to be expected, they do not last forever." "Well....", the man stammers as he is unwrapping his bundle on the counter. I have to step closer to figure out what it is he has unveiled. The brown lump smells slightly and looks vaguely familiar. At this point my Sister breaks out in pealing laughter. Grumpy man is trying his hardest not to smile, forcing the corners of his mouth down. "I know flowers die, I just want new ones in this same container."

After Jim happily leaves with a fresh arrangement, Sis tells me his wife, Gloria, had come in the prior week to order an arrangement for Jims leave of absents party. He was being forced to take off time from work early due to cancer. His co-workers had found an old petrified leather boot and Sis had created an arrangement in it complete with flowers sticking out of the cracks in it's soul. Even sick, Jim had a very good sense of humor. He never did get to go back to his office.

Jim and Gloria were regular customers and better yet fequent visitors to the shop after that. They soon became Sis's fast friends. Together or singularly they would come in and sit on Sis's plush velvet couch to be surrounded by flowers to self comfort themselves after cancer treatments. It was there they planned Jim's funeral arrangements while he was still well enough to make decisions.

The last time I seen Jim was when I delivered him an arrangement to their house. I was in a hurry as I waved at Gloria out trimming her lilac bushes in the yard and carried the flowers into their house. I was not prepared for the wasted grey slip of a man with tubes and hoses coming out of him in the hospital bed propped in front of the window, were he could watch Gloria in the garden outside. I wish I would of taken the time to sit and visit with him but once again the chicken in me made me bolt for the door in haste.

That was an incredibly hard funeral for my Sis to do. She had good idea's of what Jim would have liked but she labored long and hard over the perfection of every arrangement. And of course there were a lot of them, as Jim had a lot of friends.

I let out my own sigh of relief after we had gotten all the flowers delivered to his wake on time. Now I had thought, I can just sweep up the floor and clean up the disheveled shop a little and Sis can go home and get some rest she has gone with out for too long.

Instead to my surprise I see her start an another arrangement. A HUGE rose arrangement. I was delighted that someone had ordered that spendy of an order of non-funeral arrangement until I walked over to read the card-

"Cry not for me my darling, for today I dance with angles".

Jim had ordered flowers to be delivered to Gloria on his funeral day.

"My Way?"

Last night a Lenny Kravitz impersonation contest was held here. Although all three performers renditions of a sexy bad-ass rock icon were exlemparay, there was and could be only one winner. Me.

K1 did jack the stage with "American Woman", but using a plastic machine gun for a guitar took away from his performances viability. Nice try, but next time think music, not war. Then again, more women in the States are carrying guns, and that could be how I, myself become closer to Lenny.

"When Will I See You Where Gin", sung by K2 to the tune of ".....See You Again", was moving on it's own accord, but K2 was automatically disqualified when he removed his shirt. Sex sells but not from a seven year old in my house. Sides K1 and I got jealous we had not thought of doing that for our preformances.

The electricity was audible in the house during my performance of "Are Ya Gonna Go My Way". It brought everyone to their feet. The stage and lighting show were phenomenal. The music poured from my hands as I hit the play button on the boom box behind me. The fire works during my closing cords were my grand finale. Helped that I was the only only who knew what Lenny looks like.

Each act was as good as the next last night. I only wrote of the top three preformers. A good time was had by all.