Dear Henry

My Darling, Dearest Henry,

I just can't believe that they have taken you away from me! For life! Without parole!  It's only been two days and already I feel like its been forever since we've touched. I swear, those sneaky  lawyers took my innocent words and twisted them all around. Like when I told the jury that I saw you the night of the murder, and you were covered in blood and holding the gun that happened to have the same bullets that killed those very same people you had sworn revenge on. And they convicted you on that flimsy evidence!

If I had known that those words were gonna convict you, I 'da taken the 8th Commandment....no, wait, I think that's the one that gives us the right to arm bears......so maybe its the 3rd Commandment..no, I think that gives women the right to gloat...whatever, I would have just taken that commandment that  gives me to right to say nothing. I  promise, my heart, that I will work with your lawyer, Mr. Ludlow, to get you out of jail.

All my love forever,

Lucille

*****

My Dearest Henry,

I have an appointment to  meet with Mr. Ludlow this morning to review your trial. I know that your mother doesn't think he is a good attorney, but for a public defender, I think he's a swell guy. Mr. Ludlow thinks that your verdict can be appealed with the right loophole.  Tell me, Henry, is there any insanity in your family? Veneral diseases? Did barking dogs ever tell you to do something illegal? Do you ever hear voices in your head?

Try to work on this with us, darling.

All my love forever,

Lucille
*******
My Dearest Henry,

That Jerry Ludlow is such a hard worker. We have been spending many evenings together working on your case. Most nights we really get into it. Your mother has been watching the kids for me so that Mr. L. and I can really concentrate on what we are doing. I don't know why your mother gives me such a hard time about watching the kids. After all, there is a good possibility that two of them may be yours.

All my love,
Lucille
 *************
Dear Henry,

Sorry its been a while since I have written. Jerry suggested that he and I do some investigating up in Atlantic City. He heard a rumor that somebody who lives up there may have some information that would prove your innocence. I cannot tell you the number of hours Jerry and I spent in the hotel room, just waiting for "Bobby" to contact us. (that was all the information we had). He never did, so not only is he covering up for a triple murderer, he is also a big, fat liar.

Henry, I thought of you the whole time. One night we had room service, and knowing how much you love seafood, I had a lobster in your honor.

Love,
Lucille
*******
Dear Henry,

Jerry has come up with an idea that he thinks will help you.  He suggested that you and I divorce. That way, it won't look like I am trying to get you off just because you are my husband and possibly the father of  Geraldo and Kourtney. It will look like I am just a concerned citizen trying to undo a terrible wrong.

I asked the kids what they thought. Bon Jovi, all full of himself now that he is 14, said it didn't matter to him. He just wants to know if you can get Richard Ramirez's autograph.

The twins, Brittni and Tiffni, said, what's another divorce? They are so practical, those girls. And lucky! Just the other day Brittni found a diamond ring, a real diamond. A bloody finger was still attached to it, but Bon Jovi sawed it off.

Geraldo is so big now, but doesn't understand what divorce  means. I told him that it meant you would no longer live with us, but he pointed out that you don't live with us now. He had me there. Kourtney just shrugged and said Jerry smells better than you. So let me know what you think.

Love and Peace,
Lucille

*****
Hi, Henry,

Well, the divorce papers are filed. Really, its the best thing for all of us. I am sorry if you felt pressured to sign them papers. Believe me, I had no idea that  Jerry knew gang members in prison. I really don't think they would have broken your legs and arms if you hadn't signed. Are you sure you heard them clearly?

Your mother is running around town, yap, yap, yapping like a little dog, telling everyone that Jerry is living with us. He's  not living with us...he is just here a lot during the nights and weekends. What is the real killer show's up? He stays in our old room with me because he feels I am in the most danger. He is so protective that he is even taking me to his nephew's Bar Mitzvah on Saturday, as he doesn't feel safe leaving me alone, except for all the kids.

Peace,
Lucille
********

Hi, Henry,

Oy, things have been so crazy here. Jerry has brought some of his tchockas over to our trailer, like his Barco-Lounger and big screen TV. He theorized that since he is here so much, he might as well be comfortable. The kids just love that big screen TV, especially since its hooked up to HBO.

I do apologize for not visiting you more often, but I have been so sick in the mornings lately, and my feet get swelled up for no reason. Plus I have gained a few  pounds. I will start coming again after I have lost this weight, say in about 6 months.

Shalom,
Lucille
*******

Henry,

I miss you so much that I had another baby just to fill the void. I named her Pamela Paris GaGa.

Jerry isn't around so much anymore. He feels that the real killer has probably lost interest in me, and he says he just can't get any work done around here, what with all the kids and all. So he comes and goes. Your mother just doesn't understand. Thank God our place and hers are on opposite sides of the trailer park.

Lucille
*********

Henry,

I think its time we start to look for another lawyer. Jerry said that he has gone as far as he can with everything. He took all of his stuff out of the trailer and never looked back. The kids are devastated. Brittni screamed, "Just when we get something good, it goes away." But I promised her that I will find a way to get the cable back. Doesn't your buddy Fender do illegal cable hookups? I think I have his phone number around here somewhere. He's still single, right?

I need to ask you a favor. Bon Jovi got caught trying to rob a bank. I swear, these kids grow up so fast. Nobody in my family ever starting robbing banks till they were in their mid-20's.

I think he will just get some time in juvey, but if he does end  up in the big house, would you kinda look out for him? His Uncle Jimbo is there, but he should be sprung soon. You are the only lifer he knows. And Bon Jovi always did like you. Of all of the kids, Bon Jovi complained the least about your foot odor.

Hang loose,
Lucille

 

Still Crazy After All These Years

On Wednesday, April 11th, Charlie Manson is going up for parole again. I think my penchant for crazy people is well-documented, but ol' Charlie is  completely off-the-charts looney.  43 years after the Tate-LaBianca murders, he remains the ultimate American boogeyman. 

The crazy people I am attracted to are like the ones I grew up with.  Some families hide their crazy relatives; not my family, we flaunted them. Made sure the craziest ones were front and center at family dinners, vacations, weddings, funerals and all other kinds of familiar get-togethers. 

My grandfather was married six, maybe seven times. Nobody really know for sure. One Easter, he had invited all of the grandchildren to his house for an Easter egg hunt.  Right before we got there, Grandpop and his then-wife, Grandma Teet, had had whopper of an argument, so Grandma Teet forcibly removed his dentures from his mouth and hid them. 

Grandpop didn't miss a beat. He offered us kids a quarter for each Easter Egg we found, and a whole dollar if we found his dentures.  As I drove home that night in the family Buick, with an entire $2.25 to my name, I remember thinking that when I grew up, I wanted to be an Easter egg/Denture finder.  I should have stuck to that plan. I'd probably be making more money. 

Crazy people also married into the family, like the guy who married my cousin Betty Jane. Guy was a skinny little white kid from Dundalk who got "politicalized" at Dundalk Community College. In 1970, he hijacked a plan to Cuba.  Guy sent a list of demands that had to be met before he would release the plane's passengers from the Cuban runway. 

1) American capitalism is over. Americans must change to tried and true Socialism. 

2) All American Banks will open their vaults and distribute money to the poor and downtrodden. 

3) Cousin Betty Jane will STOP harping on him to appear on "The Newlywed Game." He will not sell his soul for a refrigerator. 

Cousin Betty Jane responded that it wasn't just a refrigerator, numb nuts. It was a FRIGIDAIRE! Then she promptly filed for an annullment. Guy stayed in Cuba, taught Socialist History at a Cuban University, and now is laid to rest in a very nice plot overlooking Havana. 

Anyway, lots of luck on Wednesday, Charlie. You are too nutzoid for even my family, and that's saying something. I don't anticipate seeing you on the streets anytime soon, but, should that happen, let's just keep walking past each other.  And one more thing....don't go callling on cousin Betty Jane, either.  You just might find yourself in a fresh, new hell called, "The Newlywed Game. "

Forgive Me, PETA, for I have sinned

I have a life-long agreement with Mother Nature. I don't invade her house; she doesn't invade mine. This is why I don't go camping or fishing, or any other activity that involves the outdoors and/or bugs.

Apparently, the huge spider in my shower didn't get the memo.

When I drew back the shower curtain last night, this...this..hairy creature, with big, black, bloodshot eyes, looked up from his cozy porcelin perch, as if saying, "Hello, Grey-Haired Goddess. Why don't you come in and take a shower with me?"

Well, I have heard that line before, but never from a spider. 

I ran into the living room and grabbed Clementine, the cat, awaking her from a pre-bedtime nap.

"Clemmie, come get this icky spider in Mommy's shower, " I begged her. "You get a chance to be a hero, instead of just plain old ornamental!"

Clementine was not happy to be flung into this drama.  She toggled on the edge of the tub, took one look at the spider, jumped and fled into the bedroom.

"Good idea, " I called after her. "Take a power nap to devise your strategy."

Having the funny feeling that kitty wasn't coming back anytime soon, I had to devise Plan B. None of the friends I phoned were available that very minute to come to my place to kill the beast. Okay, on to Plan C. Take on the spider, one-on-one. God, why must I do everything myself?

I devised an ingenious plan....corner the spider onto a piece of paper, then release it outside, in the wild freedom of the patio.

The spider, I must say, was not game for this. I must have poked his legs with paper about one hundred times.  I don't  know whether it was exhaustion, or paper cuts, that finally got him on board. I scurried into the living room, holding the spider/paper as far away from myself as possible.  The master plan was working. I was a genius.

Let me rephrase that....I would have been considered a genius had I remembered to UNLOCK THE PATIO DOOR FIRST. 

My patio door doesnt' have just a plain, old lock to it...it must be unlocked with a key. A key that was on my keychain. A keychain that was somewhere on this earth but not, apparently, within eyesight.  Shit!

So now I am hopping up and down in the living room like a participant in some deranged Mexican hat dance, just knowing in my heart that this spider was probably getting nauseous on  this wild ride and would, no doubt, be vomiting all over the paper any second now. 

I run back into the bath, with just a split-second glance into the bedroom. Clementine is sleeping soundly on my bed. Traitor. 

Now my mind is just about to explode from fear of spiders, spider bites, spider vomit, and all things icky. In a panic, I throw the paper into the sink, turn on the tap, and watch as the biggest, ugliest, nastiest spider gets sucked down the drain. I think I may have heard a tiny cry at the end. 

Please forgive me, little spider. I am sure, in a future lifetime, you will be my miserable boss, creepy neighbor, or slimy future ex-husband. I will do everything I can to make this up to you. 

So long as you don't get in my shower, okay?

 

 

RUNNING FROM THE FUZZ

Today I am a wanted criminal.

It all started innocently enough. I was the middle child in a lovely family....screw all that, let's just get to the crime that has turned me into a fugitive.

Yesterday, I pulled into the Hopkins garage as I do everyday. I immediately saw it...a primo parking space on Level 1.  Level 1!! Not Level 2, 238 where I usually park. A space right there by the ramp into the hospital. OMG!!!

I, of course, immediately fly to the coveted space, just to discover IT WAS ALREADY OCCUPIED. By one of those sneaky little Cooper cars that are so damn small you can't see them till you are inches away. Making me think there was an open space.....I hate those lying-ass cars. 

The unfortunate part of this, aside from the steam of profanities that assured my parking space in Hell, was that I had  no choice but to continue with the one-way traffic flow that lead out of the garage, back to Madison Street. Which is a one-way street, going away from the hospital. 

So, as many criminals before me, I made an impulsive decision which changed my life forever. I made an illegal u-turn in the garage to go back UP the parking levels.

All of a sudden, there were HopCops (Hopkins police) all OVER the garage, running towards me, screaming, waving arms. I think one of them even dropped his donut. 

I've never had that many Coppers tail me before. I didn't know what to do. In my  confusion, I just did the only thing that I could think of...

I waved to them. 

Then I floored it all the up to level 4,891, where I hoped they would never find me.

By now, I was thinking like a master criminal.  After parking my car in the pigeon target practice area, I pulled the coat hood over my head and slinked (slunked?) towards the furthest elevator. Ten minutes later, I was crossing the overpath into the hospital, into safety. I had just pulled off the perfect crime, a hardened criminal walking among the innocents. 

No doubt my mug shot, taken my one of the garage surveillance cameras, will be all OVER the internet shortly. So if you see a wanted poster of a fat-faced white chick waving from a beat-up old Hyundai, with the caption, "WANTED--THE PARKING GOOFBALL"--please, I beg you, don't turn me in. I am just too set in my ways to do time in The Joint. 

Besides, you don't want to mess with a hood like me. I am, after all, THE PARKING GOOFBALL. 

Driving Miss Crazy

I drive a lot, which means I spend many hours listening to the car radio. When I turn the radio on, I usually  hear something like, " ....and that concludes our 10 hours of straight music. Now some messages from our sponsors."  D'oh!

I am a child of television, which I guess makes me a visual kinda girl. I have the darnest time understand product pitches without pictures.  All last week, I kept hearing a commercial informing me about the pleasures of Popery. ("Ah, the soothing essence of Popery will relax your mind. Let your spirit soar!")

Really? The Pope can do all that?

Well, no, he can't. But maybe potpourri can. I finally figured out that the Pope does not come in aromatic choices of sandlewood, lavender, beach breezes, or sugar cane.

It's worth sitting through those commercials, though, when a really great song comes on. Last weekend, the  window was down, the radio volume was up, and I  just grooving to The Stones, "Paint it Black." I  felt young and hot.

Then I sneezed, which yanked my head forward, causing my sunglasses to fly off my face and onto the car panel, which rendered me hysterical as they are prescription sunglasses and I am no-kidding blind without them. For a second there, my whole world was black indeed.

Luckily, I found the glasses pretty quickly, so no harm was done, except to my ego.  I remember when I didn't need glasses to see, didn't pee a little bit when I got excited, and being hot had nothing to do with flashes.

But there is no need to get upset over the natural aging process. As a  matter of fact, I think what I am going to do right now is go to the store and get something soothing that will ease me into a relaxed frame of mind.  I sure hope there will be a variety of scented Pope's to choose from. 

USA TODAY

Hi, all,

Please check out my article in USA TODAY:

http://content.usatoday.com/communities/popcandy/index

Meanwhile, my blog will have a new entry very shortly......

The True Story of the Nativity

December  is just a crazy busy month for me, so this is the last blog of 2011. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and Happy 2012.  I couldn't leave 2011, however, without ensuring that you know the TRUE story of the Nativity. 

Let's start with the Three Wise Men. No wise men visited the Holy Family at the manger....it was the three Weissman's, a family who used to live next door to Mary's mother before Morty Weissman opened a successful used camel dealership and subsequently moved his family uptown. 

Morty, who was also an amateur astronomer, spotted the most beautifully brilliant bright star on night while gazing at the universe. The star seemed to whisper to Morty, urging him to find the newborn king. 

As usual, however, Sylvia Weissman was screeching at Morty for some stupid little thing or other, causing Morty to misunderstand the message.

"Pack the camels, " Morty screamed back in response. "We're going to find the seaborn ring." 

Neither Morty nor Sylvia had a clue what a seaborn ring was, or where to find it,  but a trip out of the house was a trip out of the house.  So Morty and Sylvia and their adult son, Benjy, packed a few essentials, including Benjy;s drum set,  and headed in the direction of the star.  Morty was hoping the star would give directions, but if it did, Morty missed it due to the constant nudging from Sylvia. 

"Where are we going, Morty? And what are we looking for again? Great Herod, my back hurts. I think old Mrs. Baumgarten lied to you when she told you that she only used this camel for trips to the market. Have you checked its' humps? Marty, Marty, I'm talking to you! How much further? "

"Just follow the star, " Morty replied. It was times like this that Sylvia fantasized about killing Morty. But she knew if she were a widow, she'd have to marry Morty's brother, Irving. Now there was a putz! So she left well enough along and didn't even try, except once in a great while, to off Morty. 

After a couple of hours, the Weissman's passed The Inn, a real fu-fu hotel that happened to be totally booked due to the Handleman wedding. 

"Hey, Mom," said Benjy, "look at that little  manger, behind The Inn."

"Oh, I love valet parking," Sylvia said dreamily.

"No, Mom, look closer...isn't that  little Mary, our old neighbor, lying in the hay and screaming like a banshee?"

"Oh, my, it is Mary, " Sylvia realized. "Morty, pull over. "

The Weissman's parked their own camels just in time to help Mary give birth. As the baby Jesus was born, Sylvia wrapped Him in her finest scarf, a beautiful white silk which she had purchased wholesale from her cousin's scarf kiosk. 

"He's so beautiful, " she cried. Then she laid the baby with Mary, and turned and smacked Benjy upside the head. 

"That could have been my grandson," she cried. " But no, you have to spend all of your time with those lousy no-count musician friends of yours. When are you going to grow up and get a real job?" 

Benjy stared vacantly at his mother. Sometimes he fantasized about doing her in, but then he and father would have the room for his uncle Irving to move in with the. Now there was a putz! So he left well enough alone and didn't even try, except once in a great while, to off his mother. 

The Weissman's never travelled empty-handed, so they had a few gifts for the baby. No, not gold, frankincense and myrrh.  They had  golden franks and cur. 

Luckily, Joseph had some rolls and potato salad, so it turned into a real picnic.  Morty tried to buy some beer, but all he could find was some wine sold by Jeremiah, who always had some mighty fine wine. Benjy drank so much that night that he did a 40 minute riff of an early version of, "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida."  Thus was born the Little Drummer Boy myth.

The next morning, the Weissman's left on their futile search  to find a seaborn ring.  The Holy Family also saddled up and went home. The families would never meet again, but Joseph and Morty did run into each other a few year later at the Summer Olympics.  Morty again found some mighty fine wine, and drank so much that he was two days late in returning home. Because of that, Morty was passed over for a promotion...in his own business!!

But the story of Passover is for another day. 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYBODY.