Thursday, December 29, 2005

Happy New Year

The most arduous task I've performed in the last three days is to fend off the kisses of my little Yorkie. And, trust me, that was almost more than I could do!

Since I never catch the flu, I haven't quite known what to do with it. A baseball player who never catches the ball, knows exactly what I mean.

There is that moment of stunned, inoperative silence when the ball lands squarely in his glove and the primordial thought uppermost on his mind is: What in the world to I do with THIS?

For now, I think the best course of action is to hide under the pillow where Pash can't find my nose or my ear. She means well, but I'm quite sure wet-tongue-inside-the-nostril is not an FDA approved remedy.

See y'all after New Year's and, in the meantime, stay happy, stay healthy and remember, if you're out there on the ballfield, keep your mitt closed . . . so you don't catch the flu.
Chaeli


Monday, December 26, 2005

Holiday Recognition

Whew! I'm still alive! For a minute there, didn't think I was going to make it.

For all of You who survived Christmas, Congratulations! You deserve a pat on the back.

For me, the most magical moment of this Christmas day, was waking in the morning and discovering that my little Yorkie pup knew it was Christmas!

Wait. Wait. Before you change the channel, let me explain.

Many dogs have occupied my life. Loved 'em all. Yet some have had special talents that intrigued me mightily.

How did they know that?

For instance, there was the pointer pup, Padre. He was mostly black, had a white chest, and sported white speckles which dotted his face and fur. Typical pointer. If appearance was your only criteria, you'd lose him in a crowd.

If he was alive today, he'd be 280-years-old. In dog years. Which explains why 45 rpm vinyl records existed.

Like today's CD's, 45 rpm records were an "item" back in the '60's. Hep! Padre liked them about as well as anyone, I guess.

Within minutes, when a new record entered the house, whether it was camouflaged in a paper bag or a plastic sack, Padre nosed it out. He would amble over to the stereo speaker and sit alertly, with head cocked to one side, waiting for the sound to travel from the turntable to the black, meshed box.

Padre never did tell me whether his hound-dog-howl was approval or a critical analysis of the music's value. He always waited patiently until the song ended, then commented with one long baying yowl which stretched forever in your ears if you weren't used to it.

Padre never offered his opinions twice. Must-a figured you should have caught the drift of his comments the first time he spoke. A person could play that same record three thousand-six-hundred-and-ninety-two times, and for all the world knew, that pointer pup could have been deaf. Until the next time a new forty-five entered the house.

Yep. Have had many dogs in my lifetime. Many of them have had special talents. But this Yorkie pup? She has the most special talent of all.

She recognized, right off Christmas morning, what day it was.

I lay innocently sleeping, when she placed her first wet kiss on my nose. Realizing that hadn't roused me sufficiently, she expertly applied the old Wet-Tongue-In-The-Ear ploy. Boy! That woke me up in a hurry!

This three-pound canine charmer was sitting on my chest grinning as I scratched open one eye.

She knew the routine. First, I'd grope for a cuppa, then light a cig.

Assured that sleep wouldn't re-claim me, she jumped off the bed, zipped to her food bowl, retrieved a kibble of the bits, pounced atop the bed covers and dropped the dry treasure smartly in my lap.

Sixty-three times more, she performed this feat.

If you think this is normal, you don't know Pash. She's a tidy housekeeper who meticulously keeps her food and her toys in their proper places.

As the pile of Kibbles-and-Bits grew in my lap, I had no choice but to wonder why this microscopic pooch, who always guarded her food ferociously, was suddenly gifting me so generously. It certainly was suspicious. ( Clue: dogs have a definate handicap when it comes to holiday shopping.)

Now, fully awake, I watched Scene Two unfold in this Christmas drama.

After several more kisses, she jumped to the floor and danced a whirligig, hunting for her presents.

You doubt me? Pash may not be able to read but she had an uncanny sense of which packages had her name on the tag. These were the only ones her miniature teeth touched. The rest lay ignored as she opened her gifts with joyous delight.

Yep. This dog, no bigger than a dot on a domino, not only knew what day it was, she knew how to celebrate it.

First, she gave you kisses, then she gave gifts and finally, with joyous exuberance, she opened her own presents.

Have I mentioned the in-betweens? After each gift "unwrapping", she danced a cha-cha-cha before brilliantly executing the Flying-Trapeeze-Jump-Through-Midair routine which enabled her to land in my lap with more kisses!

My! Don't you wish some people were as smart as this little Yorkie pup?
Holiday Recognition © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan




Saturday, December 24, 2005

Peace on Earth

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Friday, December 23, 2005

Enate Oppugnation

I watched the child as this cherub learned to ice skate. Saw the youngster fall, over and over again. Each time, the mother patiently helped the child to its feet, dusted ice bits from its knees, swiped a tear away with mittened fingers and encouraged the little one to try again.

Not to say the child was a slow learner but hours later I was still watching the youngster fall and the mother's patient and tender administrations.

I prayed that this tyke would soon get the hang of it, catch its balance as it were, for I could not give up the vigil until the end played out.

Eventually, the child wobbled successfully across the pond. A grin of self-accomplishment lit pixie features. Yet it was the beatific smile of the mother which caught my attention.

If ever we needed a visual of the meaning of love, it was in that mother's expression.

Later, this very child would tell me about learning to ice skate "all by myself ".

And I would question: "Didn't your mother help?"

"Naw. She wasn't even there." The chest would puff out, the eyes would dare argument and the voice would assert with self-aggrandizement: "I done it all by myself."

Over the years, I had opportunity to observe this child. This mother. Like a favorite running the Triple Crown, I kept an eye on their progress.

Would the child, like the horse, win the Preakness? The Belmont Stakes? The Kentucky Derby? Would the youngster finish the course with love in its heart, or misstep along the way? For it was not a contest of speed, but rather, one of mastering the five relationships.

The mother passed away recently. And I knew, without doubt, that she'd earned the Ultimate Triple Crown.

A thoroughbred in this point-to-point race, in this sport of kings, her ability to love was a front-runner, a pace-setter, a stayer and a winner whether running a turf track or a Gold Cup Race.

The child?

Well, the call is still out, of course, but it's a long odds bet. Better to place your money on the also ran.
Enate Oppugnation © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Australian Snippets

Ever hear the saying: "We are born alone and we die alone."?

That's a bunch of happy horsemanure, of course. If you analyze the obvious, you'll know it just ain't so.

During my San Francisco years, I was favorably impressed by a warm and friendly, bright and spontaneous, Australian gal.

We used to sit and have tea together.

One day as we sipped the strong brew and munched her homemade pastries, she imparted this snippet with an air of great wisdom.

My reply? The obvious, naturally. "Ah . . . Joanne, have you considered that we are born in the protective womb of our mother's love and she is most often aided in childbirth by many hands. Doctors. Nurses. Midwives. Immediately upon our birth, we are embraced in mother's arms with an adoring papa standing ready to hold us. Not to mention the grandparents. Maybe a few aunts and uncles. That sounds like a crowd to me."

Joanne chewed thoughtfully both on the idea and the pastry. "You know, Chae, I hadn't thought of it that way."

Without twitching a wrinkle, I continued, "If our birth is attended by such a multitude, I highly suspect that folks will flock to our death, too. Now they may all be creditors, with pen in hand, saying: "Ahem. Could I just get you to sign this check before you depart?", but you catch my drift, it will be a crowded affair."

I sure miss Joanne. Our conversations always led to the most interesting revelations, usually about stuff, which like her, I had previously swallowed wholly unexamined.
Australian Snippets © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Timely Quote

A quote attributed to John Adams caught my eye: "Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views beyond the comprehension of the weak; and that it is doing God's service, when it is violating all His laws."

I heard President Bush say recently: "I know there are many who disagree with me but they just don't understand . . . ."

I recall there was some flap a couple of years ago when Bush led us to believe he'd received God's confirmation that starting a war in Iraq was a right course of action.

Personally, I can't even conceive that God would condone killing thirty-two thousand people plus injuring and maiming many thousands more.

But then, who am I to know these things? According to Bush, the Prince of Darkness, his own vast views are beyond my comprehension.
Timely Quote © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Monday, December 19, 2005

Cash Cow Con

My ! How times have changed ! Used to be Robber Barons dealt in oil and railroads. Now, they deal in retail.

It's gotten so bad that instead of carrying wallets, men are pulling eight-foot safes on trolleys behind them through the superdome shopping malls in order to pay for their Christmas shopping. The congestion is awful.

Remember when buying Christmas gifts was fun? Back in the days when a double sawbuck of purchased goods would fill a semi?

Now, a plain gray, fifteen-dollar sweater at the local emporium costs a C-note.

I hadn't realized prices had gotten so out-of-hand until my son and I went on a Happy-Holiday-Shopping expedition recently.

We had to bring our insurance broker along to write up the policies on our major investments before we left the store.

There were security guards at the entrance to the retail shops. They checked our Dun-and-Bradstreet ratings before allowing us in. They couldn't burglarize our pocketbooks or glom onto our land titles if we were regular working stiffs.

Which has its advantages. At least, we didn't have to fight the enormous holiday-shopper crowds of years past when the average Joe could afford to buy a pair of boots and a bottle of perfume for his wife.

Now, the retailers call it l'eau d' par d' fumes and charge two hundred-and-sixty-six dollars an ounce for a mere whiff of the scent. I had to ask the clerk if I could, at least, take the plastic bottle home with me since I was obligated to spend the bankroll for the whiff.

It's not as if these racketeers are recognizable crooks like Jesse James or "Duke" Cunningham, either. Retailers come in all shapes and sizes. I overheard another customer refer to them as shoplifters! Enter their shop and they'll lift all your liquid assets, money market certificates and 401K retirement policies.

And I noticed they don't use cash registers any more; they open the vault door and deposit their capital gains directly onto the shelf marked: Another Unsuspecting Schmuck Fleeced.

Nope. Shopping for Christmas gifts ain't what it used to be. The essence of the season has been pawnbrokered by the rapacious appetites of this new breed of Robber Barons.

Perhaps, instead of renaming it: Holiday Shopping, they should just call it what it is: Cash Cow Con.
Cash Cow Con © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Sunday, December 18, 2005

Sunday Morning XIII

If I were to spend a day with God, I think He would want me to see that each and every one of us has, inside us, His Light.

I think He would like me to harmonize with the Light of others. Merge, as it were, with His Spirit in all who occupy our world.

I didn't always see the "world" from this perspective. In youth, I thought it revolved around me! Other people inhabited our earth, but then, they were separate . . . not of me.

I cannot name the day when I finally understood, that we are each an aspect of the other, a reflection of the Universal ONE. Whatever we see in others is a portion of ourselves, just as surely as if we stood in front of a mirror.

When I learn to be in harmony with all that I see, I will truly be in harmony with God.
Chaeli



Saturday, December 17, 2005

Extra! Extra! Read All About It !

Is it too soon to say BRAVO !!! to the brave senators who took a valiant stand FOR DEMOCRACY when they stood up and blocked passage of the continuation of the Patriot Act?

I heartedly pray that they will continue to show this magnificent fortitude.
Chaeli


Friday, December 16, 2005

City Mythology

A shopwalker is not to be confused with a streetwalker. They are entirely different, altogether.

The streetwalker's seemingly purposeless ambling leads to no particular destination. While a shopwalker's leisurely stroll seems equally as purposeless, it is hoped that this exercise will give him a "step-up".

While it is OK to confuse a floorwalker with a shopwalker, confusing a floorwalker with a streetwalker just isn't done. They employ disparate forms of trade.

One is a bit on the off side of the other and both are as different as night is from day. Although the floorwalker can work by night and the streetwalker by day, usually the reverse profits the pockets of each more equitably. Or so I'm told.

In any event, a shopwalker can be a streetwalker, though this is highly unlikely, yet a streetwalker is most often excluded from the ranks of the floorwalkers due to the impropriety of their resumé. The streewalker has difficulty in obtaining credible references, you see.

Which seems a darn shame for the streetwalkers are often a friendly lot, offering an amiable wave and comfortable, if somewhat shopworn, smile while the floorwalker, and the shopwalker too, inevitably stand in the shadow of an elevator shaft, their faces scrunched with distrust, and watch the viator's every move.

That's all very fine and well, I might hear you say, but what does that have to do with me?

If you live in the country, most likely it has nothing whatsoever to do with you unless you do your holiday shopping in the BIG CITY.

If that is the case you should, at least, have a handle on the situation so you know how to spot each of the walkers in turn and know the job description of each in order to avoid some of the confusion large metropolises tend to engender.

By all means, if you have brought your children along to the city witih you, keep a firm grasp on their hands. Do not encourage them to fall in a streetwalker's intersection, nor pocket any stray items on the floorwalker's beat, for though a pocketed shiny bit of fou-fouery might delight the streetwalker it will surely bring the shopwalker's long arm of jurisprudence.

Whew! Now that you are fully informed about the city's streets, shops, floor plans and excercising potential, I can relax and wish you a happy holiday shopping season.
City Mythology © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Thursday, December 15, 2005

The Snollys And The Gosters

I was digging through an old shoebox of S letters today and came across the word: snollygoster.

Heck of it is, I don't remember whether it is an insult of the highest caliber vilifying the culprit who schlepped my jello salad while I demonstrated my famous boarding-house reach swiping the sprouts from under Aunt Milly's schnozzle or whether it was a soupy endearment: "Oh, you adorable snollygoster, you."

Even my fifty-six-pound, unabridged, has-every-word-in-the-universe dictionary doesn't know the meaning of snollygoster.

Has a nice ring to it though, doesn't it ?!
The Snollys and the Gosters © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Wares Beware


I saw Madeleine at the Bon Marche the other day. Her hair was a disaster. "What happened to you?!"

She shrugged. "You know those old houses . . . "

Non sequiturs have never been my bag of apples, so I probed further. "What do old houses have to do with hair? Where were you when it happened?"

"In the shower."

"And . . . ?"

"Well, I couldn't very well wear my glasses in the shower, now could I? With the steam and all." In the nature of noncommittal answers that one rated top of the list. A politician couldn't have done better.

One doesn't actually die of curiosity, of course, but I was close to it. "So what's in a shower that you need glasses to see? You pop in; you pop out. What's that got to do with your hair?"

"If I'd worn my glasses, I could have seen the skinny white tubes."

"Skinny white tubes?"

"Yeah. One was L'Oreal and the other was Clairol."

I thought about this for a moment. "Neither one of those should have bowdlerized your hair."

"You wouldn't think so." Madeleine ran short stubby fingers over the nearly bald area.

"So give. What actually happened?"

"The cosmetics had a major conflict with the hair products."

Madeleine was way out of my league. Cosmetics? Wearing lipstick is too much of a chore for me. "Why would you put cosmetics on your hair, anyways? Isn't that stuff supposed to go on your face? To make you look like a young hip-hop instead of a wrinkled old hag?"

"That's just the problem. The wrinkled old hag bit. But how was I to know? If both companies hadn't used the same packaging designer, I wouldn't have gotten confused."

"Let me guess . . . "

"There's no guessing about it. Poor eyesight might be an advantage when ignoring stuff you don't want to see, but it isn't worth a darn when you're standing in a steamy shower trying to read the small print on two containers which look remarkabley alike. Not that I thought much about it at the time. Just grabbed the first skinny white tube that came to hand and put a liberal amount on my hair. Wanted to remove the split ends."

I peered intently at Madeleine's head. "Well, it sure did that. What was in the tube?"

"Pure Retinol Line Eraser."

It was hard to contain my excitement. "But that's wonderful, Madeleine! If this Line Eraser will remove all your hair, just think what it will do for our wrinkles?"

"There could be a lot worse things than having a few age lines," she muttered as she walked away and headed towards a beauty salon.

"What could be worse than looking like a wrinkled old hag?"

"Looking like an ' 80's version of Sinéad O'Connor," she answered just before disappearing into the wig department.
Wares Beware © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan




Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Holiday Greetings

Revelry Wakeup

If President Bush really wanted to do something useful, he could follow President Grant's example.

And it's high time he did.

Now, as a war-mongering president, Bush probably hasn't spent much time figuring out how to create peace. So give the man some slack. Some have to work harder to "get it right".

I believe the old maxim still holds true: Create Peace and Joy first in the family, then in the neighborhood, next in the town, the state, then in your own country. If successful, the world will follow suit.

Somehow, our militant president got confused.

I think he genuinely believes that if he clobbers Iraq long enough, he can force his concept of peace on the Iraquis.

And, I think, he genuinely believes that this "peace" will trickle-charge back to home plate: America, that is.

Now I don't know about you, but the America I believe I live in is a conglomerate composed of many nationalities, each sharing certain aspects of their cultural and religious backgrounds with the whole.

Ever notice that a joyous celebration is much more enjoyable than a blood bath?

President Grant must-a discovered this, too! For in 1870, Grant enacted legislation to make Christmas a National Holiday.

It's not that Grant was short-sighted. Back in those years, America's melting pot was much smaller. Jets and Mass Transit hadn't yet been invented and travel accomodations were rather limited.

But now, as the cradle of our nation has grown and diversified, so must we expand our holidays to meet its needs.

It is of utmost importance to our national security that we give equal opportunity to all.

And it's perfectly obvious that we can do more to create peace in the Middle East if we first establish meaningful celebrations at home.

So let's help Bush get his priorities straight.

Write, telephone or email your Congressman and Senator immediately and demand legislature establishing National Holidays for: (1) Chanukah, (2) Kwanzaa, and (3) a one-day holiday for Ramadan.

Sure would be nice to have three more weekends of festivities, and besides . . . buying all those extra party clothes would really help the economy.
Revelry Wakeup © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan


Monday, December 12, 2005

Optically Speaking

Ever hear the saying: Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder? Well, I don't know about that, but humor sure is.

There can be a room full of people who will laugh themselves silly over a humorous quip you've just brilliantly executed; then, there's THAT ONE who never cracks a smile.

If you are a consummate actor, you sidle up to this dense character thinking a bit of "explanation" will clarify the wee subtleties and start his endorphins pumping.

As you get closer, the first thing you notice is: he smells like sulpher. You can almost taste the brimstone on your tongue and you suspect rotten eggs would taste better.

His peepers, frozen in a permanent lake of gefilte, add starch to your spine as he looks at a point directly behind your left ear.

It's time to cringe and run, yet your thoughts have a mind of their own. ' Be a darn shame if he missed a good joke.'

So you persist.

Save yourself some frustration. This threepiece-suit is never going to laugh, and there's a reason why . . . .

His eyes are defective.

That's right. The composition of his eyes is incomplete.

More than likely, he has the usual stuff: cornea, retina, pupil, lens and optic nerve. But his eye is missing one of the more important parts.

Vitreous Humor.

I suspect it's a condition similar to color blindness but much more serious.

This particular type of eye problem is often acerbated by an accompanying impairment: The Swollen-Blind-Spot-Syndrome.

Yep. Both Vitreous Humor and Blind Spots are actual components of the Inner Eye.

So, like I said, next time you smell Brimstone in the air, save yourself some frustration. Have a list of several ophthalmologists ready and hand it to the humorless fellow.

You'll be doing him a favor.

With his Vitreous Humor restored and his Swollen-Blind-Spot-Syndrome reduced, it's quite possible that, soon, he'll be able to enjoy subtle humor without the annoyance of all those lengthy "explanations".

And who knows, perhaps, he'll be able to behold beauty, too.
Optically Speaking © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Sunday, December 11, 2005

Sunday Morning XII

"Sing praises unto the Lord Our God!" (Bet-cha that means, like, use your voice to actually . . . SING! )

I was never more aware of this Bible teaching than this past summer coming through Portland, OR.

Oh, I've always known that music crosses the barriers of language, differing cultures, and creates harmony where before there was none.

But Portland traffic made a believer out of me that the power of song can perform miracles!

Where to start? Perhaps with the knowledge that I am a confident driver who has logged many road miles. Transportation machines have the power to fascinate me, so I have "driven" most of them: small and large cars, motorcycles, mopeds, SUV's, semi-trucks, snowmobiles, tractors, combines, power and sail boats/ships, planes (tricycle wheels and tail draggers) and even a small jet.

Yep! If it moves, more than likely, I have experimented with its operation.

But driving a large RV through major cities terrorizes me. It always has, even, way-back-when, metropolises sported only two-and-three lane traffic.

Imagine then, driving through Portland, OR or Sacramento, CA where eight-and-more lanes are the norm!

My 35-foot RV, which up until that moment, has operated perfectly and carried me safely over thousands of miles, suddenly becomes an instrument of death.

My body sits rigidly, fingers are white-knuckled from gripping the steering wheel in a death grasp, and my eyes dart everywhere.

I forget to breathe.

I should mention, at this juncture, that a phobia has plagued me for a lifetime. It's a fear of tunnels. There's probably a fancy name for tunnel-fear but all I know is, when driving through one, my mind stops working. Everything is a total blank from the moment of entry until the moment of exit.

Now you have the picture. Eight lanes of traffic are trying to squeeze into two-or-three lanes of roadway on a blind curve which suddenly decides to traverse through a tunnel.

I figured my chances of survival were slim, considering a lifetime habit of CLOSING MY EYES when transiting through tunnels.

However, shortly before entering this one, my eyes managed to see a wee sign that read: "Sing praises unto Our Lord God." A Smiley-Face was attached to the billboard.

Oftentimes, I take things quite literally.

So with closed eyes and eight lanes of traffic converging upon me, I heartedly sang as many cheerful spiritual songs as I could remember until sunlight on the other side reassured me it was safe to open my eyes. ( It's amazing how many spiritual songs one can remember if the tunnel is long enough! ) With God piloting the rig, my Yorkie puppy and I had made it through safely.

So I offer this advice: if life is too full right now, or currently seems just so troublesome that you can't find it in your heart to sing joyuous praises unto Our Lord God (whatever or whomever You considered God to be ), AT LEAST SING LOUDLY WHILE TRAVELING THROUGH TUNNELS !!!

The vehicle beside you might be me! You know I won't see you while my eyes are closed and we both need all the help we can get until we reach the other side . . . .
Chaeli



Saturday, December 10, 2005

Christmas By Any Other Name

I was headed straight for the man in the red suit with a white tassel dangling from his cap, when the department store manager stopped me.

His smile was tighter than a bolt on a crank shaft. "May I help you find what you're looking for?"

"Thanks, but I'm on my way to see Santa."

It was apparent from the way his mouth puckered that he was hiding a sourball under his tongue. "We don't have a Santa in our store, Ma'am."

"Oh! But you do." I pointed to the man in the red velvet suit. "He's right over there."

"Excuse me Ma'am, but that's Quash Theism, our employee, who takes requests for The Holiday Season."

"If that's not Santa, why is that child sitting in his lap?"

"So Quash can hear the kid's Holiday requests."

"What kind of pediculus are you? Encouraging children to sit in strange men's laps?"

The manager wore a crisply-pressed power-suit which would never become rumpled, nor unraveled by the unexpected. "It's done every Holiday Season, Ma'am."

"No! It is not!" I replied with emotion. "No one encourages children to sit in strangers' laps during the holiday seasons of Easter or Thanksgiving. Only Santa Claus has this prerogative during the Christmas season."

"Sssh!" He hissed. "We don't mention the C-word here."

"Well, spell it with a "K" if the "C" in Claus bothers you." ( What kind of a fanatic was hiding behind those clean-shaven, all-American cheeks?)

A whisper is pretty hard to hear, but this chap managed to speak in a voice softer and more sibilant than steam gathering on a bathroom mirror. "Christmas, Ma'am. We don't mention Christmas here."

Normally, I avoid being center-stage in any drama, but this was too much! Stridently, I apostrophized my remarks to the gathering crowd. "I'm here to do my Christmas shopping. If you are selling Holiday items which are not CHRISTMAS gifts then you may keep your Quash Theism and your merchandise. I will shop elsewhere."

With rare flair, I waltzed out of that department store.

Trouble is: Where am I going to buy my Christmas presents?

I tried Sears and K-Mart. They're not selling Christmas presents, either. Next, I tried Wal-Mart and several other retail stores. HAPPY-HOLIDAY-SHOPPING, my aching snow boots. It's CHRISTMAS gifts, I'm after.

It's scary really, for if secular forces and the large corporations have their way, it's entirely possible that, soon, we'll be singing Festivity Carols as we decorate Jubilee Trees while our children share their secret desires sitting on Quash Theism's lap during Holiday Season. The stockings will be hung on Revel Eve, followed by a Testimonial Banquet on Gala Day.

Kind-a robs the Joy out of the Christmas Season, doesn't it?
Christmas By Any Other Name © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Friday, December 09, 2005

D.C. Rumor

Washington D.C. rumor has it that Donald Rumsfeld is resigning his post as Secretary of Defense.

"Yes. Yes," I hear you say. "That has been rumored before. "Ho hum. What else is new?"

The intriguing item about this rumor is that Rumsfeld will be replaced by the dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, Connecticut's Senator Joe Lieberman, who recently has earned Brownie Points from the Bush administration by going against his party's values to lick the boots of Republican war-mongerers.

Always a fellow to vacillate between values and what will prudently advance his career, it seems this time he may have hit paydirt.

When Jim Lehrer interviewed the Secretary of Defense last night on his news show, I listened very carefully to Rumsfeld's answer when questioned about the veracity of this rumor.

This is what I heard: [Rumsfeld]: "That fellow who wrote that rumor . . . he has written about my resignation before and has been wrong but someday he is going to have a scoop and be right."

Can we deduce from Rumsfeld's answer, that the the rumor is, indeed, true?
D.C. Rumor © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Thursday, December 08, 2005

Backbone: An American Value

Ever notice how big dogs hog the bed at night? Not only that, but while you are sleeping, they steal all the covers!

I'd compare them to the present administration in Washington D.C., but that would be an insult to my canine friends.

Speaking of D.C., what do you think of our gutsy Congressman, John Murtha?

Murtha, now, he has backbone!

It takes real courage to voice an unpopular opinion in front of the multitudes.

I haven't seen that kind of courage in Washington D.C. for a long time. Not, at least, in the last five years.

Gotta hand it to Murtha.

If we're not careful, we'll realize that he is the true representative of "Americanism".
Backbone: An American Value © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan




Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Pronged Mousery

If you're looking for paradise, don't rent this house. It will be vacant in six months, but be forewarned. You don't want it.

Neither did I. Yet, the morning I woke to frigid temps in my RV with my teeth chattering, blue fingertips and hair standing straight up because it was too cold to hang limply, I decided to accept a short term lease on this property.

It's not a bad house. Sports a wood-burning stove twice the size of the living room, an electric range which mischieviously chars every meal, and a heavy-duty sprinkler system which has a mind of its own. Periodically, it waters the lawn. Which, I suppose, would be fine in summer.

However, now that temps are hovering around 18 degrees, when the sprinkler system clocks in to perform overtime work, its water geysers leave 72 perpendicular stalagmites scattered around the front yard. By dead reckoning, I figure that's approximately one every thirteen inches.

It's not the ice pyramids which upset me. It's the crowd which gathers outside the six-foot, double-paned, picture windows that irrigates my irritation. It's like being showcased directly behind one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

As a bonus, a household mouse is included in the monthly rent. He has a picky appetite, though. Only eats macaroni products and beaded key chains.

Despite these little inconveniences, the house would be tolerable, if you were a 1920's-type personality residing in the 1950's. I mean, after all, it does have indoor plumbing and running water.

No. It's those pesky wall sockets that some previous occupant installed more for nuisance value than as a viable outlet that troubles me.

Have you ever tried to plug a three-pronged plug into a two-prong socket?

Doesn't work worth a darn.

It wouldn't be so bad if all modern electric devices had alternative-energy plugs. Flick a switch and the third prong slides into a hidden receptacle. Failing that, they should at least be fence-cutter friendly. Heck, those big tools, which will snap 50-mm wire smartly in half, won't even leave chew marks on those third prongs.

So the natural course of action is to walk two blocks east, round the corner, then walk two blocks south to Ace Hardware and buy two-prong extension cords.

THIS IS VERY DANGEROUS.

Those streets are icy. I was so busy watching the SUV and a Toyota nearly collide that I paid scant attention to the Hummer sliding sideways towards me. It was on a direct collision course with my body and I was too dumbfounded to move out of its way. It was like watching a movie without quite realizing you are a key character in the show.

The Hummer spun round a time or two. A ballerina performing pirouettes couldn't have done better. Wondrously, it stopped before the point of impact.

That was an amazing spectacle! Yet more so, was the driver of this monstrous machine.

The door creaked open and a frail eighty-pound lady who smelled like grandmother's apple pie stepped out, gingerly testing the ice with each foot step. As she reached my side, her spidery arms coiled around me. Her voice wavered as she asked: "Are you all right?"

"Sure," I mumbled feeling like an ancient Redwood hugging a wispy young Aspen.

Her smile trembled, yet bravely she offered me a ride to Ace Hardware. Her finger shook as she admonished me: "It's much too cold to walk."

I considered my options. Freeze mid-step or become a casuality of this lady's good intentions. Walking seemed the better bet. So with gratitude for her offer, yet firmly resolved to arrive the hardware store fully operational and in fine physical mettle, I gently declined.

The Ace clerks are friendly, intelligent and not totally informed regarding their stock. In answer to my query, the live-wire, super-charged employee gave me a superior sermon on electroballistics and grounds. While this information was packed full of details on piezoelectrics, it did not answer my question: "Do you carry two-prong plugs?"

I decided to elaborate. "It is sweet of you to enlighten me about the Edison effect, but all I want to know is, do you have those electrical devices with TWO PROJECTING PRONGS which fit into an outlet and make contact with the circuit?"

This seemed to confuse him. "Two prongs?"

"Yep. That's one more than one. But I'll take more than one two-pronged electrical cord, if you have them."

"Oh! TWO-pronged! Why didn't you say so? No. They don't make those any more."

He was wrong, of course.

Which I discovered once I found the correct aisle. In fact, they had nine hundred-and-ninety-nine two-pronged extension cords. I know it was overkill, but I bought them all.

Finding outdated merchandise these years when product supply is so limited might have been a powerful bragging accomplishment if the mouse hadn't beaten me out of it.

Yep. Like I said: you don't want to rent this house. Unless you are prepared for some serious negotiations with the rental agency. I suggest that you itemize exactly what is included in the lease. The woodburning stove, of course, the refrigerator and range. But you ought to stipulate that you want a different mouse.

One of the standard variety who eats brown sugar, crackers and expensive cheese.

Because I just don't think you'll be happy with the current house-rodent who eats pasta, beaded key chains and nine hundred-and-ninety-nine electrical cords.

And who knows? With so many businesses going belly-up, in six months when you take over the lease, two-pronged plugs might not be available.
Pronged Mousery © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Upper Crust

It's a given fact that the Lower Echelon of The Upper Crust does not bake bread.

They buy it. Then discuss its merits. If they are really into bread, they hire a personal chef who specializes in producing yeasty delights baked "just for them".

To preserve this awareness of the dough theory, it is manditory to marry well within one's social status.

If a member of the Lower Echelon of The Upper Crust weds a member of the Bourgeoisie, it will inheritantly cause misunderstandings.

And Gadzooks, forget about extended marital bliss if an aristocrat contracts a union with a plebs.

It just won't happen. Everlasting union, that is.

Such was the case of one of my closest friends. For years, Victoria was accustomed to hearing her Mother's cultured voice reply to the subtle lifting of their chef's left eyebrow: "Hmmm . . . Gorgés. Brioche should have a bit of flavor, don't you agree? Perhaps it needs a touch of caraway . . . ?"

Ever headstrong, Victoria chose to fall inescapably in love with Mike, an Irish proletariat.

And you know the Irish. They love their taters and bread.

After the newly-wed marital bliss wore off, I distinctly remember Victoria's anguish concerning the bread issue.

With gloves properly placed atop alligator purses which scratched the soft weave of our Chanel suits, Victoria and I waited for the maître d' to escort us to our table at Maxims.

Once seated, Victoria plowed immediately into the heart of the matter. "Kate! He wants me to bake bread! If I hear: "Just like my mother did" one more time, I'll sue for divorce."

I didn't add to her woe by stating the obvious. She really should have thought of this before the "I do's".

Innocuously, I replied: "There are cookbooks, I suppose."

For a moment it appeared as if I would have to describe what a cookbook was, as Victoria fixed me with a bewildered gaze.

Yet, a moment later, in a breathy undertone, she said: "People actually use those?"

"Cookbooks? Yes, my dear, even the best chefs use them."

"Oh, I didn't know! Let's go shopping, Kate, and see if we can find one."

"They are quite common, dear. Finish your lunch. Then we'll visit a bookstore."

Not that I am a dime polisher but I did believe that Victoria's purchase of one hundred-and-thirty-three cookery publications was far beyond the pale of her new financial status.

I should have called later to ascertain her husband's reaction to Victoria's culinary-challenged purchase but I have to admit, a full calendar of soirées blitzed the affair from my attention.

Until the day, several months later, when I happened to glance upon his obit in the Times.

Mother and I were seated in the formal dining room sipping our morning coffee.

"Michael O'Flaherity," I mused aloud. "O'Flaherity sounds familiar. Do we know anyone by that name, Mother?"

"Just the baker, dear."

"Baker . . . baker. But, of course! That's Victoria's married name." Then, the whole episode of the homemade bread fiasco came rushing to mind.

I telephoned Victoria immediately.

"I am so sorry, dear, to hear about your husband's demise. What happened?"

It was difficult to follow the gist of her story, for after each third word or so, loud cries of anguish interrupted her tale.

It's deplorable how the mannerisms of the underclass rub off on the peerage. In times of crises, the noblesse know to keep a stiff upper lip.

Struggling to glean the details from Victoria's hysterical account, I began to piece the situation together.

Her husband, Mike, had discovered the one hundred-and-thirty-three volumes of bakery techniques at the exact moment Victoria presented him with her first loaf of home-baked bread. His reaction to the books was much as I had expected it would be.

By Victoria's own words: "The elite should never knead dough". And so she hadn't. Oh. She had poked the yeasty substance a time or two with a dainty pinky, then had quickly slid the whole kit-and-kaboodle into the oven.

Twenty minutes later, when she removed the unrisen bread from the stove, she fervantly prayed that somewhere in Mike's ancestry, there had been a person of Jewish descent. They, at least, understood the concept of the unleavened loaf.

To give the poor deceased fellow some credit, he did try to swallow a bite of the hammer-hard substance. Yet exactly as he swallowed, Victoria chose to disclose the dollar amount of the cookbooks.

Which confirms my opinion: If one tries to swallow food while in the angst of anger, one will surely choke to death.

There was a funeral, of course. Followed by Victoria's sojourn through Europe. For healing purposes.

Fortunately, she met a Blue-Blood and their nuptials were performed without delay.

It was during my last visit to Victoria's that I had the chance to observe her new chef. Honorée, I believe his name was.

He approached as Victoria and I sat together at the patio table and, quite like Gorgés, raised one eyebrow as he presented the brioche. Victoria sniffed the aroma, peeled away a small section, then daintily tasted the sample.

"It needs caraway, Honorée. Brioche should have a little flavor."

You can see, my faithful readers, that this entirely supports my point of view. To maintain the illusion of the dough theory, it is manditory to marry well within one's social status.
Upper Crust © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan



Monday, December 05, 2005

Shades of Privacy

To say that the lady was pleasantly plump would be misleading. No! This woman displayed globularity proudly as if it was a tribute to healthy cuizine.

To prove the point, she arrived on my doorstep with an over-large bowl of deep-fried chicken (which would have made Colonel Sanders proud) in one hand, an over-flowing plate of freshly baked croissants in the other, and one of those oily smiles that causes instant distrust.

We made the usual greeting noises.

"Hello." [ Hello. ]

"Welcome to the neighborhood. My name is Fannie and I live in the blue house across the street." She handed the food to me and smiled factitiously.

"Well, thank you. Come on in and visit." Furtively, I tried to remove the curlers from my hair as I poured her a cup of coffee.

There were no surprises here. It was a normal getting-to-know-you conversation, until Fannie said baldly: "I noticed that you don't have curtains at any of your windows."

Nonpulsed, I said the first thing which entered my head. "Hanging curtains is like trying to see clearly in a blind alley."

"Huh?"

"It's like being on a blind date with a fellow driving a limousine. If he doesn't check his side mirrors, he'll never see the menace approaching in his blind spot."

Fannie's smile wavered as she replied. "But most people draw their shades at night."

"Why?"

Her mouth puckered as she said hesitantly: "Well, I guess, so people can't see what you're doing."

Idly, my fingers toyed with a coffee cup. "It wouldn't make a shade of difference. Like the blind leading the blind, it would only give the illusion of privacy."

Fannie's frazzled hair-do wilted a little as she delicately swallowed a sip of java. "There's a lot of crime out there. Aren't you afraid, living by yourself? If you pulled your curtains at night, it could protect you from hugger-muggery."

HUGGER-MUGGERY ?!!! Give me a break! When's the last time you've heard someone use H-U-G-G-E-R-Y M-U-G-G-E-R-Y in polite conversation?

Besides, there was a fallacy in her argument. I didn't have any curtains to pull, not that I'm the type to go around pulling on curtains.

Have you noticed that the rods folks hang drapes on are rather flimsey? It'd be my luck to twitch a swag and have the whole ensemble fall. In my opinion, there are better ways of bringing down the curtain.

I looked straight into her heavily mascarad peepers. "Fannie, since the Patriot Act passed, there is no protection from hugger-muggery. Our government's prying eyes, draped in secrecy, screen every detail of our private lives. Why hang curtains to assauge our fears?"

Fannie's tush fidgeted uncomfortably in the chair. "Well, there's that." She stood, prepared to leave. "But if you need curtains, I'll be glad to help."

"Sure," I mumbled without looking up. "Perhaps, we can go shopping for some bamboo curtains. Or, possibly, some iron ones."

We walked to the door together. She paused on her way out and commented: "You're pretty thin. I never see you in your kitchen. Maybe tomorrow, I'll bring over some jelly rolls."

Shutting the door after her departure, I turned and surveyed the window casements. Yep. It was definately time to decorate their bare frames with something.

Let's see now . . . . What about a trompe l'oeil of fat priests on rice paper? Would it bushwhack two birds with the same brushstroke? Fat priests. This three-dimensional illusion of reality should discourage future Fannie-Curtain-Calls.

And hey! Currently, there's a privileged-privacy-pack for fundamentalists, isn't there? I ask you, what's more fundamental than a fat priest?

Yep! Foolscap should be just the right size to cover these delusions of privacy , don't you agree?
Shades Of Privacy © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan