Bunny Lake is Missing

I have to watch Bunny Lake is Missing again.  I’m not getting something.

You’re having an incestuous relationship with your brother with whom you live.  Your kid goes missing.  This brother never liked that she existed because she comes between the two of you.  Some guy got you pregnant and you never married him — in the 1960s (movie version).  Scandal!

Anyway, how did you not know that your brother was an insane psychopath all these years when you finally discover that he kidnapped your kid and hid her in the trunk of the car?  Did he have a nervous break-down after working as a journalist?  How does someone so insane hold down a job like this?  Oh wait.  That’s a stupid question isn’t it?

Back to square one

I’ve thought of different ways to make money.  Most of these methods aren’t viable — what do I know about being a madame?  I think of all those hairy gangsters threatening to – I mean offering me buyouts or making me give up ninety percent of my income for ‘protection,’ and it turns me off.

Pity.  I think I have a knack for being a madame, albeit kind of a crazy one.  I would offer my employees benefits and have daycare centers for the ones with families – you know – like Amsterdam.  I had planned to pimp – I meant — to employ men also.  But that idea now is just dust in the wind.

My next way to make loot – being a pirate.  I’d love wearing a black patch over my left eye.  People would think there was such mystery about me, and maybe that I was a bit of a degenerate too.  Oh – and I’d love to tell people to swab the deck and walk the plank.  Do pirates still do that?  I wouldn’t want to be an internet pirate.  Or one of those Somali pirates.  Wasn’t that weird?  Plus – how do pirates make money?  I think they take stuff from people and I don’t like that.  If I’m going to do that I might as well be a cat burglar for a living, and that’s out of the question.

So then I thought I might make cakes because I have passion for it so.  The people would taste the passion and I would get shit loads of customers.  My oven’s from 1980 though.  I’d need those appliances cooks on cable television have.  No way could I afford those!  Just think, the reason I’m considering being a madame, a pirate and a cake baker is because I need extra loot, so kicking out all that cash for state of the art appliances with no certainty of a client base might be fool hardy.  So back to square one, being a broke ass bitch.

Sucker!

Once in a blue moon I buy a lottery ticket, then I do what comes naturally — what ad agencies know about our mental make-up — I fantasize.  This is how the ad campaign “All you need is a dollar and a dream” came to be.

A friend mentioned the power ball to me, otherwise I wouldn’t have noticed.  I thought Gee whiz, I’ll be out of a job next week and I need dental work.  I might be chosen to win this time.  Plus, I’m humble – hehehe – if I win, I thought, I’d stay in this very same apartment, but I could pay to get my sofa fixed, that’s all — oh and of course I would give money away.  That’s why I deserve to win it.  So I bought a ticket.  I asked Sol, who owns the candy store, how it all works, when to check for numbers, etc.

George Orwell satirized the sad nature of excessive lottery ticket buying.  Thank goodness I don’t have this habit.  But whenever I do buy a ticket I feel like a big fat sucker, and I got suckered tonight.

Bare Trees

Fleetwood Mac’s Bare Trees is open-ended.

Does it say it’s fine that I’m in bed butt naked, by myself?

Or does it say that you need to get out of your bed, come over here and get in mine?

Fleshing out that idea, we’ll pull the blinds up, watch snow flurries materialize from a peach-colored sky.

Dolly want to kill kill

Late last night I shoveled a salad of barley, edamame, cashews, spinach and brussel sprouts down my throat.  I had been exercising.  I needed sustenance.

The barley concoction got stuck in the middle of my esophagus while I lay in bed trying to sleep.

I finally slept and – you guessed right – had a nightmare starring Creepy Dolly Kill Kill and The Man with the Sguiggly Hair.

After a gothic struggle with the doll in a room lit by a candelabra, I dragged her from underneath the bureau and ripped off her plasticine face, which rendered her mute.  No longer could she taunt through cherry red lips, “Dolly want to kill kill.”

You should have seen it yo!  I ripped Dolly’s face right off of her head and threw it into the hall!

That’s when I saw… him… the Sguiggly-Haired One, creeping toward me from around the corner, up to no damn good.

Horrified at the sight of him in my dream, I awakened upon hearing myself moan, cow-like, “mawrrrrrrrr,” a dull crying out against the monster, I suppose, that permeated the first dimension.  It’s like waking yourself up with your own snoring.  That clump of barley was stuck still in the center of my chest.

So this is what barley salad did to me.  I’m looking at the salad now and it’s so unassuming, so pretty.  Would I be a fool to eat it again?  My folly shall soon be revealed…

It’s my blog and I’ll say what I waaaant!

Ahhh…  Young people.  They’re energetic with wide eyes, velvet skin, and taste dee-licious.  They have the pabulum of hope, feeding them along a journey of dreams.

They are meant to breed then.  Their parts are unused, well-oiled, with the aroma of moss and dew.  They don’t stink.  They don’t have bad breath, seepage, fart issues – oh don’t even ask what seepage is.

Think of a new car – that new car smell with all the parts working, ready to go!  My parents married young.  My mama was seventeen.  I’ll bet my 21 year old daddy was quite the howling wolf chasing after mama.  They were healthy, creamy.

Old women having babies – more power to you.  To be fair there’s technology, but me, I’d have a heart attack running after a two year old.  I’d be dead by the time it was in junior high.

While it’s not wise for teens to breed, I believe it’s probably the time when you’ll get the most energetic and pleasant smelling mother.  I remember mama flipping around, rolling, and singing songs, everyday!  She had so much energy left over that she taught me how to read when I was just three.

We were kids together, mama, daddy, baby brother.  We all played ring around the rosies – ha!  Problem is that when my brother and I became adolescents we all had fist fights – nah just jivin’!

I think women are meant to breed at 16 – yeah I said it!  This is why they don’t smell and have so much energy.  They are rosebuds admired for their vibrant color and emollience.  And boys the same.  They are firm and smell like spearmint and fresh cut grass.  They are strong and can chase girls for 32 miles.  I know this to be true from my own experiences in the last century.  They are fiercely attracted to each other because of these qualities for the purpose of populating the planet.

I say all this to say, what?  I don’t even know.  But I’m not drunk!  My conclusion doesn’t have jack shit to do with breeding.  It’s just that — as an old woman – and this is just for, me, crazy Sandee – while I’m still horny, I don’t know if it’s meant for me to be fucking anymore.  I look fine for fifty — I’ve been hit on by a few youngsters.  But I’m in this weird stage in the past couple of days where I’m thinking sex is unnatural for me now.  Oh I’ve got stamina and I’m in shape.  But there are tingly things happening in my body and I have fibroids.  I think that nature maybe dries us out and makes us wrinkled because it’s saying your cootchie time’s up, unless you’re already married to another old person.

Please pay me no mind tonight — I’m sorry.  And in case you’re wondering – I don’t have bad breath and I don’t stink.  But I do have farting issues.

Hey there honey…

On Thanksgiving I saw my grandma at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale.  It was lunchtime.  She sat with her assigned table mates, Bobby and Matt.  Bobby calls everybody honey.  He uses the word like people use salt:  “Hey there honey!  Haven’t seen you in a while honey!  Happy Thanksgiving there honey,” he says.

Matt’s a small man who speaks softly.  He was asleep in his chair wearing his white disposable bib when I came.  When I sat down, he woke up.

“Ohhh!  Good to see you!  You look great!”  He said.

“Yeah, you look great there honey,” says Bobby.

Bobby told us that the cook there is Italian.  “Yeah, they make the spaghetti here downstairs honey.  They make it there.  The cook’s Italian.  They make it good there honey.”

Today the attendants served the seniors turkey dinner.  But Bobby always talks about  spaghetti.

I’ve chatted with Bobby and Matt before.  I found out that Bobby used to be an undertaker’s assistant.  He worked for his uncle and says he never got paid.  “No he didn’t pay me honey, no.”

Behind us at another table was the woman who takes her shoes off and puts her feet up on the table.  Today she had taken her shirt off, so she sat there topless, no bra.  Her feet were on the table as usual.

“Hey honey put some clothes on there honey!”  Bobby said.

“Oh that woman’s crazy,” grandma said, making a shooing motion.

“Leave her alone,” said Matt, looking back again.  Then Matt told me, “I wonder if I went over there and told her to stand on the table if she’d do a dance for me.”

“Ahahahaha!  You mean like a stripper?” I said.  Matt cracks me up with these bits.  Matt laughed too.  The old woman, she didn’t look bad.

Purloined

 

Today I thought I’d eat a turkey, cranberry, and stuffing sandwich and watch Thankskilling on Netflix.  Not only do I love Eva Halloween for keeping Halloween alive all year, I also love her for introducing me to this movie.  Even if I don’t like it – I love the idea of watching it on Thanksgiving.  This doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for stuff.

But I might get to hang out with my dear friend and her mom instead.  I’m grateful for that.  She came to the rescue five years ago on X-mas when I had nothing going on.  While not a fan of Thanksgiving and X-mas, I do usually visit relatives.

Five years ago on X-mas I went to this friend’s house and had the X-mas of the century.  It involved Bloody Marys.  Stupid me topped those off with antihistamine because of my allergy to the dog and had to be ‘walked’ home.  At least I remembered it all – oh wait – no I didn’t.  “Did you like the gift that I bought for you?”  I asked the next day.  “I opened it in front of you.  Don’t you remember?”  She said.

For the next fifty years, with a little help from my friends, I’m going to piece together all of the events, incidents, and ‘interludes’ that alcohol viciously purloined from me.

 

Ooooh Hap-py Daaaaay!

In the shower I backed up and bent down to pick up my wash cloth — good mor-ning sun-shiiiine!  Houston, we’ve just landed on that thing you pull up and push down to get the shower going and shutting off.  Reminds me of the time I took a whore’s bath stooped in the tub.  The faucet was being repaired, so the water just shot out of a hole in the wall in a forceful stream.  I took my time getting it repaired.

Happy discoveries brighten my day.  They are the unguent on which I might slide into the next, freely oiled and beneficent, unarmed and happy, facing beasts, motherfuckers, slimy bastards, and sons of bitches with a smile and a prayer!  Ooooh Hap-py Daaaaay! 

 

 

 

 

 

A rotary phone with a squiggly long cord

I’m half of a hundred, I’m free.  I just told a guy that I had a Facebook crush on him.  Would I have been too cautious to say this at twenty-five?  I don’t know because that was the last century.  Facebook hadn’t been invented yet.

So would I have been able to tell this same guy face-to-face that I had a crush on him?   Would I have been able to tell him during a rotary phone conversation — by Pony Express?   I’m such a silly dewy – Pony Express! Ahaha!

But I don’t even know if I would have used any of these modes of communication for conveying a crush, because like I said, it was a Facebook crush, a different animal.  I haven’t seen this guy since he was a kid either.

But generally I think I’d tell a guy I had a crush on him.  I’m bold if I have a hankering for you.  I’m possessed by my hormones then and you should hear some of the stuff coming out of my mouth.  I should have been a dude, I’ve got so much swerve.

There are many things I feel more confident saying nowadays, and not just because of premenopause hormones – speaking of hormones.  I’m on the planet half a century and have been through more.  My theories have been tested and proven to work.

It gets better.  I hear we can turn off that filter completely and, you know, let it fly.  Like grandma.  She says what she wants.  You should’ve heard what she said when I told her I kissed a boy dressed like a girl.  It was absolutely vile what she said.  I laughed two days.

That’s why I don’t want to visit her now because I’ve nearly shaved my head.  She WILL say something about it and I WILL say something back.  That’s how we roll.  But she know I luv huh.

At the half century mark I’m just warming up.  Protect your heads.  No more hemming and hawing, beating around the bush, no sugar-coating or pretty euphemisms. With time running out, my language will be condensed.  There will be nuggets of truth flying in the air hitting people in the head.  Who said getting old wasn’t any fun?