Mamo Died--- And Do You Think The Angels Truly Hear?.....

I was always told that the Angels of Heaven hear us---and transport our messages to God.

That is what I was always told. I was told that the Angels Of the Lord listen to our prayers and then carry those pitiful messages to God in order to petition God for whatever it is that we have prayed. Do you think it's really true?

It's what I was always told in Catholic school---and believe me, I went to plenty of Catholic schools during my time in school-dom. (Even a Catholic nursing school, if you'll notice, if you read my series of haphazard posts called "Who Ya Gonna Call?" )

But....the thing is.... I'm not a Catholic.

I have nothing against Catholics---but I'm a Southern Baptist. Or, if you will, a Baptist.

And Baptists believe that you pray spot-on directly to God. You pray to the Almighty One Himself. You bypass Catholic saints, you bypass angels, and you bypass any other sort of junction. The Baptists believe that, when you pray, you're talking to (if you're "southern") (excuse the southern slang) to the Big Dog Himself.

Do you think that's it's really true?--- that God is hearing you when you pray?....and when you mourn?.....and when you are in great distress?... or when you feel grief so great that you can't imagine surviving the morrow?

Because what I'm praying for today is a petition for my mother, her brother, and her sister. The children of Mamo..... because......

Mamo took her last breath at 3:15 pm today, with only her son and my mother there to comfort her.

Their mother, my grandmother, my Mamo, died and left this earth....

And I pray wholeheartedly, on my knees, for God to have mercy on Mamo's soul---and also for the peace of mind for her children--- and.. also... this I know for sure.....

If it was MY mother who died......

God help me, I would die, inside, myself.

A beloved grandmother dying is sad and tragic enough----but I am obsessed with the thoughts of the point of view of my wonderful, beautiful mother. Her mother died!!! And I can't help thinking how hideously devastating it is for her---in fact, in my opinion, "hideously devastating" isn't a descriptive enough phrase for the feeling I would believe would be engendered by one's mother dying.

I am so full of sympathy and empathy for my mother that I don't know what to do.

The only thing I know is to write you guys.

In fact, here are the things I told Blaine that I would do if my own mother died:

I would die.

I would die.

I would be inconsolable forever. FOREVER.

I would go to the nearest fucking bar and drink my stupid self into a stupor.

(Which drinking alcohol is not something I am permitted to do since I am a recovering alcoholic....)

I would die.

I would die.

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Mamo has died.

Yes, I am going to Texas again.

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Mamo......... *

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Who Ya Gonna Call?---Part One

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I ain't afraid of no ghosts,

I hear it likes the girls,

I ain't afraid of no ghost,

(yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)

Who ya gonna call?

GHOSTBUSTERS!!!

(Ray Parker, "Ghostbusters")

*

Sigh.... I truly don't mean to keep ragging on poor Blaine, but Wednesday night was such a..... a typical Wednesday night.

As usual, Blaine wrapped himself up in one of the tattered afghans I've either knitted or crocheted for him over the years, and then as I knitted on a psychedelic shawl monstrosity, we watched two solid hours of the television program "Ghost Hunters"--- and gag me!

Two. Solid. Hours!

Okay, it's not that I don't like the genre of science-fiction, because I do. In fact, I absolutely love science-fiction. Right now I'm waiting impatiently for Blaine to take me and see "Star Trek" at the IMAX on Saturday night, yeehah!

And I love lots of science-fiction television shows--- like the darkly melancholy "Supernatural" (where, as you know, I'm totally enraptured with the Angel Castiel), and also the silly comedy about souls indebted to the devil, "Reaper".

I also frequently re-watch wonderful sci-fi movie classics such as "Twelve Monkeys", "The Time Machine", and "Total Recall"--- and I also like past and present TV fantasies like "Star Trek--The Next Generation", "Babylon 5", and "Smallville".

(Okay, not to take anything away from the object of my adoration, the Angel Castiel on "Supernatural", but have you checked out The Green Arrow on "Smallville" lately?.....Good Lord, have mercy--- oh baby, oh baby....)

Where was I?

Oh yeah--- that stupid program "Ghost Hunters" drives me absolutely bonkers with boredom.

Okay, the premise is that the "Ghost Hunters" team is supposedly going around to different locations which are purported to be "haunted", whereby they then set up all sorts of special sound and video equipment in order to prove or disprove the reported paranormal activity, which usually consists of witness reports of someone having seen a ghost, having heard unexplainable noises, having seen objects moving by themselves, or other spooky, unexplainable events.

And with all their impressive equipment, you'd think they'd be able to detect whatever phenomenom the witnesses are either "seeing" or "hearing", right?

Not.

For all their danged "special" sound and video equipment, all I have ever seen them do, hour upon boring hour, is stumble around with the lights out while whispering urgently to each other: "Did you hear that?" or "Did you see that?"....

...and yet whatever it is that they claim they "saw" or "heard" is absolutely NEVER caught on their audio system or their camera!

I mean, come on! I get so dadgummed tired of hearing them exclaim "Did you hear that?" for two durn hours! Hell, the so-called ghosts they're chasing appear to be as elusive as my neighborhood's Ice Cream Man!

"Did you hear that?"--- "Did you see that?"--- "I thought I heard something!"--- "I thought I saw something!"

Puh-leeze!!! But over and over, week after week, Blaine insists upon watching this stupid show. He says that he finds it "interesting" because they go to so many so-called "haunted" places like spooky old abandoned mental hospitals, historic military prisons or forts, ancient antebellum mansions-- and even public places like The Queen Mary, Wright-Patterson Airforce Base, or the traveling museum exhibit from the Titanic.

But I say BIG WHOOPIE.

Because no matter how supposedly "haunted" the location they explore is reported to be, it's still going to be two long hours of them repeating over and over to each other "Did you see that?" or "Did you hear that?" while Blaine and I sit there arguing--- as Blaine strains his eyes and ears toward the television set trying to "see" or "hear" whatever it is that the Ghost Hunters saw or heard--- all while I'm sitting there sighing heavily, rolling my eyes, and saying things like: or "I didn't see a dadgum thing!", or "What shadow? It's totally dark in there!", or "All I heard was stupid Tango bumping his damn head on the kitchen cupboard!"

God, just once I'd love to see those two bumbling screwballs suddenly get confronted by a giant hideous ghost clutching a Sprint cell phone while screeching: "Can you hear me NOW?"

(But I know that will never happen.)

So I'm going to tell you what I told Blaine....

If you would like to hear a REAL "ghost story"--- an authentic one--- then I've got one for you.....

Yes, I actually do.

Oh, hey--- by the way--- four days after the baby birdies flew away and I had that confrontation with the rude chipmunk, guess what?

You guessed it---she's got two new eggies! Lordy mercy, that Mama Birdie is a veritable egg machine. (I wonder if the poor dear ever gets tired of sitting there on those eggs while getting blinded, day after day, by my camera's flash?)

(She'll probably need eye-glasses by the time spring is over...)

Where was I?

Oh yes--- the REAL ghost story.

And before I tell it to you, let me tell you I was always a confirmed disbeliever about so-called "paranormal" activity. I have never believed in ghosts. And never, in my whole life, would I ever have thought I'd ever personally experience anything remotely "unexplainable"....

Until what happened at my nursing school...

It was a very old, historic nursing school--- in an old, historical hospital. And if I hadn't experienced what happened there for myself, I would have told you that whoever was telling this story was lying through their teeth.

Okay so here goes...

A long, long time ago.... in a nursing school far, far away....

I went to a "diploma" nursing school, which is the old way that nurses used to be trained in the United States, before the proliferation of nursing programs at universities and junior colleges. Diploma schools were always based in Catholic hospitals, and were usually two or three-year programs where the students boarded and trained at that hospital for their entire nursing education. And diploma schools were notorious for turning out an extremely skilled and high caliber of nurses.

The students boarded at the hospital, ate in the hospital cafeteria, attended all classes at that hospital, and received all their patient-training "clinicals" in the hospital's wards--- and were completely and utterly controlled by whichever Order of Catholic nuns ran the school. These nuns were usually the meanest harpies women ever to don a religious habit, and they were always unfailingly strict in not only their requirements of impossibly high academic standards, but also in their even higher expectations of each student's level of personal integrity and honor.

A student's moral fiber was carefully researched before being admitted to the school, and thereafter it was closely monitored for the duration of the student's years at the school. Any infraction of the rules or unacceptable behaviors, both inside or outside the hospital, were swiftly and cruelly disciplined by the militaristic nuns, whose arsenal of punishments included assignments of arduous verbal reports on obscure medical diagnoses, grade point decreases, or outright expulsion from the school.

And speaking of grades, you were automatically expelled if your grade point average totted up to less than 76% at the end of each quarter--- or just because a nun didn't think you were "RN material". The nuns never hesitated to threaten us with expulsion, reminding us that we had been given the "privilege" of training to be an RN--- and that the desire to become an RN did not necessarily mean that you would be allowed to become an RN.

In fact, sometimes I think my parents sent me to that school not just because it was considered to be one of the top nursing schools in the USA, but because they held high hopes that the regimented program under the supervision of narrow-minded, dour Catholic nuns would whip me into a more... uh..... mature, responsible young lady....

I once got in a world of trouble when, while eavesdropping at the door of the Mother Superior's office, where she could be heard inside bawling out one of my naughty cohorts, Marla, for some minor infraction in the Microbiology lab---something about Marla claiming that she had discovered "a syphilis spirochete" on her epithelial slide---but unfortunately Mother Superior overheard me leaning with my ear at her door while I titillated my buddies by humming the suspense tune to "Final Jeopardy"...

She yanked that big old oakwood door open and I tumbled into her office, whereupon after landing in a heap on the floor I had simply turned to her and remarked: "Bond. James Bond."

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Back at prison nursing school.

Nowadays these diploma nursing schools have all been phased out, as they and the Catholic hospitals they were attached to have mostly been absorbed into junior colleges, universities, or huge medical conglomerations. My particular school was one of the last dinosaur diploma programs to remain in operation ( up to around 2001 or 2002, I think) but it, too, was finally absorbed into the UMPC, the University of Pittsburgh medical system, as was also the hospital itself.

I attended Shadyside Hospital School of Nursing, of Shadyside Hospital, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Florence Nightingale once lectured at that school when she was traveling in America. Many notable nurses in America were once students at Shadyside. A coveted diploma from Shadyside was considered a free pass to whichever job a graduate desired--- and I wanted to get a job in an Emergency Room, in Critical Care nursing.

I wanted to be one of the "glory girls"...

Shadyside's program consisted of a two-year program whereby we students lived and trained in an old historical 5-story building attached to the main hospital, a somber, gothic-looking Catholic hospital specializing in cardiac care. We nursing students were considered the lowest scum in the hospital, and were treated as such.

The first floor contained the gymnasium and the hospital's microbiological and pathology laboratories. The second floor held the "housemother" station, the students' mailboxes, several elegant visiting salons, a banquet room, and a small TV room where male visitors waited for their dates to come down the elevator from the dormitories---after which they were sternly warned that the student's "curfew" was 10 pm.

The third and fourth floors were the dormitories, each consisting of a long corridor of tiny single-student rooms, a common kitchen/TV lounge, and the maid's quarters. The maid's job was to clean the students' rooms and the common room, and also to be a spy chaperone.

And the top floor of this imposing edifice (the notorious "fifth floor"---more on that later) held the classrooms, the nuns' and the administrators' offices, the Portrait Hall where the portraits of each graduating nursing class since the Cro-Magnon days were hung.....

... and the chemistry lab.

The first year I was there, I was housed on the third floor. Dormitory life there was an extremely strict, cloistured existence-- as the rules included absolutely NO MEN in the dorm, no alcohol in the dorm, no smoking, no cussing, no running around in your underwear (or, God forbid, actual nakedness)--- nor anything even remotely considered as "humorous" or "fun", as these human penchants were considered to be tempting pathways to hell and damnation. The nuns had absolutely ZERO senses of humor.

ZERO. NONE. NADA.

I don't think these nuns had ever laughed even ONCE in their lives--- and they certainly considered it "sinful" for any of us students to ever laugh or crack a joke.

I once received an extremely harsh punishment because, on a quiz about hospital fire & bomb safety, where the question was "What do you do if there is a fire in the student dormitory?", I sassily answered the question by writing "I'd grab the picture of my boyfriend, cram all my stuffed animals into a pillowcase, and then run like hell."

Okay, maybe that doesn't sound too bad for a harmless little prank, but I think I pushed the limits with my answer to the next question, which was "You see a ticking package in the hospital restroom. What do you do?", and I replied "I'd drip dry, warn everybody to evacuate except that torpedo-boobs Charge Nurse on 3-South, and then I'd run like hell."

(In my defense, this quiz was not to going to be graded and was only meant as a tool to assess our knowledge of fire and bomb safety--- and in fact, we students weren't even required to put our names on the papers--- but the nuns claimed they recognized my handwriting...)

Anyhoo, after my first year, whereby I predictably proved myself a total juvenile delinquent, I was transferred to the fourth floor dorm for my second year--- due to the supposed "strictness" of that dorm's maid, who was a notorious tattle-tale.

(What? Did the nuns think I was totally stupid? I soon remedied the problem of that tattling fink by bribing her regularly with alcohol, cigarettes, and frequent cash loans.)

My dorm room, a small little cell just large enough to contain a bed, a desk, a shelf, a sink, and a small closet, was located on the east end of the hall, right under the chemistry lab. Additionally, I crammed into my room a large television set, about a hundred stuffed animals, and various and sundry forbidden items like bottles of Peach Schnapps, stacks of Glamour magazines, and diet pills, all of which I kept locked in the closet so the maid couldn't find them.

Sooooo......

Day after day, after long hours of nursing classes--- and then after even more strenuous hours of laboring away doing the absolute dirtiest of work on the hospital's patient wards--- and even during every free hour I had on the weekends--- I would sit at my pitiful little desk studying until I was near exhaustion. I poured over bacteria charts, lists of nursing procedures, medical definitions, illness symptoms, and lab blood values---because I was determined to make top grades. I even taped lists of nursing information on the wall inside my favorite toilet booth in the bathroom, in order to utilize even those few five minutes for memorizing information I would need for the next test.

But I soon got in trouble, yet again, when the nuns found out that I was placing cleverly drawn "movie posters" on the walls outside the bathrooms, advertising such attractions as: "COMING SOON to a toilet seat near you! The AMAZING Herpes Virus and his colorful cousin, Venereal Warts!"

All of us students were fiercely competitive in our studies--- mostly because the sadistic nuns posted all test scores on a public bulletin board so that the entire school could see each student's grades. And my low self-esteemed, perfectionistic nature simply couldn't bear to get a grade less than anybody else's--- and so I studied like a fiend until my eyes were bleary and I could hardly walk in order to get the highest scores.

And I didn't just want to score a 100% on a test--- I wanted to win the "bonus questions" as well, so that my grade would be 102% or 104%....

Anyway, on a few of the nights I was sitting at my desk studying, I would heard loud chair scrapings coming from the ceiling above me.

How funny, I'd think to myself. I'm hearing the chair scrapings of the girl in the room below me as if she were above me.

Because I knew that the chair scrapings had to be coming from the floor below me because it was impossible for the noises to be coming from above me. And that was because I was directly under the chemistry lab--- and the chem lab was on the classroom floor, which was closed and locked at 5pm every evening.

Nobody was allowed to be on the fifth floor after 5pm, especially in the chemistry lab. Not only were all the classrooms and teachers' offices on that floor locked by the janitor at 5 pm sharp, but even the stairwells leading to that floor were locked. There was simply no way that anybody could be up there at night.

So whenever I heard those chair scrapings, I chalked it up to poor acoustics--- probably just due to the normal creakings and groanings of a century-old building... maybe from the ancient radiators which heated the rooms to an unbearably stuffiness....

Usually I heard the chair scrapings just after the Johnny Carson show began, at 11:30 or 11:35 pm. I figured the girl in the room beneath me studied just as hard and as late into the night as I did.... *

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TO BE CONTINUED....

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* P.S.---I am now on Twitter---because I want to see what all the fuss is about.

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When I Am Old I Shall Wear Psychedelic--- And A Psychedelic Hat

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But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple....

("Warning--When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple", by Jenny Joseph)

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Things I Do Which Blaine Claims Drives Him Insane

(or: Things I Do Which I Think Are Perfectly Fine But Other People Don't Think So But I Don't Give a Dang What They Think)

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1. Blaine claims that I frequently "embarrass him" at Walmart.

Well, what the hell. Okay, so once when we were shopping there he made a rude comment about me "not having a brain" -- and in reply I energetically burst out singing the Wizard of Oz Scarecrow Song "If I Only Had a Brain" while merrily dancing down the middle of the canned foods aisle.

(And let me add here that I did get applause.)

He also doesn't like it when I sometimes make exuberant declarations which nearby Walmart shoppers can hear, like "For God's sakes, Blaine, why should we spend a fortune on brand-name cat food when the stupid cats aren't even GRATEFUL?"

But, truly, I think his complaint is completely invalid because there are times when Blaine creates a scene himself by farting loudly and then exclaiming: "Bo!" --- like it was me who farted, which usually results in both of us dissolving into waves of mad giggling to the stares of nearby shoppers.

*

2. Blaine complains that I talk to myself.... all the time.

Okay, they say that talking to yourself is okay just as long as you don't "answer yourself". But I will admit here that I not only answer myself, but I hold debates with myself, argue with myself, plead with myself, bargain with myself--- and sometimes hold a round table discussion group among several of my selves.

And well....like the other day. I may have been spotted on the makeup aisle in CVS Drugstore having a discussion with myself about the benefits of a new Covergirl foundation. I was debating the fact that their new foundation contains Oil of Olay Regenerist face cream, but their other foundation is much less expensive. However, I argued with myself, I needed to figure in the fact that I had a $2 off coupon for the expensive foundation---and that Blaine was going to get $3 off our total bill because he had accumulated store points with the use of his CVS "store card"---which would mean that I could get the expensive foundation for $13.99 minus $2.00, minus another $3.00 --- which comes to a grand total of.....

...and then Blaine spied me and rudely exclaimed: "What in the HOLY HANNAH are you talking to yourself about NOW?"

(Once I pretended to be talking to a potted plant when my therapist, Fred, came to retrieve me for our appointment. The utter mortification on his face was totally worth whatever crap he subsequently scribbled about me on his ever-present little notepad.....)

*

3. Blaine says my habit of talking "at" the television irritates him.

But I can't help it---things just burst out of me, you know? Like if we're watching the Nancy Grace show and it shows some heinous criminal denying everything, I might blurt out "Wait till the jury sees what's on your computer's hard drive, you MURDERER! "

Or, like when I see yet another fast-talking infomercial host talking about how some kitchen product only costs $19.99--- and then he adds that you can get a second appliance for free if you call "in the next ten minutes"--- I might holler out at the TV: "Do you think I'm stupid? It's not really 'free' if you jack up the 'shipping & handling' charges to TWICE the actual worth of the thing!"

(Which they do, you know?)

And about those ads which promise something if you "call in the next ten minutes" --- if I see one of those ads I might call their 800 phone number and ask: "Okay, did I make the ten-minute deadline?" And when the person replies with a yes, I'll blurt: "WRONG! You're lying! I waited a full 18 minutes to call! So if you guys are lying about the ten-minute thing, then why should I believe anything else you say about this product?" while Blaine rolls his eyes...

Or else when I'm watching "Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares" I might tell the restaurant owner on the screen to just "hush up and make the meatballs like Gordon says or your stupid restaurant is going to go bankrupt and your mother will be out on the street".

Blaine will invariably sigh and ask "Why do you talk to the people on the damn TV when you know they can't hear you?"

(I don't know. But I do know that a TV doesn't talk back.)

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4. Blaine thinks it's "cruel" that I torment telemarketers or creditors who call our home.

The minute an annoying telemarketer asks for myself or Blaine, I quiz them with: "Are you a telemarketer or creditor?" and then listen to them squirm while making excuses.

Or else I'll say: "You just pronounced my last name wrong---and unless you pronounce it correctly I'm going to hang up on you." And then I'll laugh maniacally and say: "Nice try, but NO CIGAR, stoogerino!" each time they make another fruitless attempt to pronounce it correctly.

Another time I might feign timidity while fearfully asking: "Um...who is calling, please?" And then when the caller repeats themself, I'll suddenly SCREAM at the top of my lungs something like "DAMMIT, I ASKED YOU WHO THE HELL YOU ARE!" and then laugh like a hyena.

(But my favorite is when I'll ask in a friendly tone: "Could you hold on a second?" and then put the phone down....for several hours.)

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5. Blaine thinks it's ridiculous that I send "complaint" emails to companies who irritate me.

Okay, so I sent one to Quizno's Subway Sandwiches because I object to their current TV ads where a sandwich oven is talking to the cook in an erotic tone, referring to how they "both enjoyed" some prior physical event (upon which statement the cook looks down at his private area)---and then the oven demands that the sandwich cook "put the torpedo-shaped sandwich in him". And then, additionally, the oven instructs the cook to repeat the cost of the torpedo-shaped sandwich in a "sexy manner".

For all that is holy, spare me this sordid type of advertising!!

I'm sorry, but I think that a sandwich oven lewdly begging to have a torpedo-shaped sandwich "put into him" is a disgusting method of advertising. Give me a break! What if children hear that? Call me a prude, but I think this commercial is just outright SANDWICH PORNOGRAPHY.

Because what happens if the poor cook refuses to be goaded into participation in such sexual activities? Would he then be discriminated against for his refusal? Would he be retaliated against by the "good ole ovens network"? I believe that this ad sexually objectifies sandwich cooks. And thus, I think that victimized Quizno's sandwich cooks have every right to sue for sexual sandwich discrimination.

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6. Blaine complains that I like to buy "tacky", useless souvenirs whenever we're traveling.

So what if I like the typical "souveniry" stuff that you find in any airport, beach shop, or cruise ship dock? What's wrong with that?

(Is 'souveniry' a word?)

It happens every time Blaine and I go on vacation. He'll be in a hoity-toity shop buying some elegant Battenburg lace napkins or crystal candlesticks --- and I'll be outside on the curb bartering with a wizened old street vendor for a sugar bowl shaped like a big smiling lobster--- with matching salt and pepper shakers shaped like the lobster's claws.

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7. Blaine says I have too soft of a heart and tip too much at restaurants and the beauty parlor.

Hey, those poor waiters and waitresses work their butts off for minuscule wages and so I feel sorry for them. And absolutely NOBODY in this entire town but Shirley knows how to cut my hair. She's the only hair stylist in Kansas who knows what the "Farrah Fawcett haircut" is.

(And I'm so very weary of teeny-bopper hair stylists who reply: "Don't you mean 'The Rachel'?")

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8. Blaine thinks it's wacky that I believe in angels--- and that they are hanging around nearby.

But seriously, haven't you ever wondered what in the hell your stupid cats are looking at that YOU CAN'T SEE? My cats are constantly looking at "something" in the air over me--- and their eyes follow it all around the ceiling of whichever room I'm in---and it drives me crazy that I can't see whatever the hell they're seeing.

Because I'm telling you, they're definitely seeing something. Call me crazy, but I'm convinced there's SOMEBODY there.....and I have been told that it is angels.

And so I choose to believe that it IS angels. (Who else would it be?)

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9. Blaine thinks I'm crazy for making remarks to the above-mentioned angels.

It just irks Blaine no end when I say to an invisible angel: "Hey--you there! Don't go telling The Lord that I covet our neighbor's new Rav4 Sport Edition with 4-wheel drive. My damn Jeep is shot to hell. And oh yeah--- please also don't tell The Lord that we never go to church..."

Blaine will always roll his eyes and sigh, while remarking something like: "I don't think the Lord needs a silly angel to tattle on you---He can see what you're doing His-own-dang-Self!"

And then I reply right back: "Hey, it says right there in the dadgum Bible that angels are MESSENGERS, Blaine --- MESSENGERS!"

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10. Blaine doesn't appreciate my oft-used habit of heavy sarcasm.

For example, once, after tiring of Blaine's endless sophmoric attempts to amuse himself with loud farting, I thought I had devised a way to embarrass him. And so the next time he made a really loud and long fart-- and then looked at me with his usual idiotic proud expression--- I put on a bored expression and wordlessly held up an Olympic Games "score card" on which was written a shameful score of "2.5".

(But my tactic failed miserably when Blaine calmly retorted: "Oh, I think that one merited at least a '6'....")

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11. Blaine thinks it's stupid that I ridicule TV commercials for not being more "honest" about what they're really trying to say.

I mean, for God's sakes, don't you get tired of those Activia yogurt commercials where Jamie Lee Curtis claims that the yogurt helps her "sluggish digestion"? Just once I'd like to hear her say: "This yogurt helps me poop better".

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12. Blaine says some of my pranks are "moldy oldies".

Okay, I admit it--- whenever a hapless pharmacist asks on the microphone at the Walgreen's Pharmacy drive-thru window "Can I help you?" --- I nearly always reply with "Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?"

(The other times I might reply with: "Uh..yeah... I'd like two Big Macs, a medium fries....um... and a cheeseburger Happy Meal with a female toy, two apple pies, and a Diet Coke. Thanks.")

) One time a sassy pharmacist replied with: "We have Pepsi, not Coke"...

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13. Blaine claims that living with me is resulting in his being "color brainwashed", due to my love of knitting with bizarre, psychedelic color combinations.

When I modeled the just-completed Mystery Project (which he had previously ridiculed as looking like "Mrs. Bozo's Jacket") he was extremely surprised to find that he truly liked it---but then he just as quickly exclaimed: "Oh, geez--- either I'm starting to actually like your weird stuff..... or I'm just as crazy as you are!"

(I have NEVER claimed to be sane....but I do take offense at the words "weird stuff"...)

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14. Blaine thinks it's ridiculous that I enter what he calls "dumb contests".

Okay, BIG DEAL---so I entered the "Design Your Own Dunkin' Doughnut" contest. I defy anybody to come up with a more delicious and attractive bar-shaped doughnut than my "Bo's Kansas Cornfield Silo".

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15. Blaine doesn't appreciate some of my frequent practical jokes.

Okay, so one time I replaced the "wallpaper" screen on Blaine's computer with a photo I had taken of him bending over, revealing a large portion of his...um.... buttocks area.

But if you could have seen the mortified expression on his face as he watched his derriere appear on the screen--HEH!---it totally cracked me up.

(Get it? Cracked me up? Get it?)

(....I guess you had to be there...)

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