Breaking News: Pinal County Sheriff is Outed

Guess what! If you haven’t already heard, Pinal County Sheriff, Paul Babeu, is gay! When I first heard about it, I thought, “Wonderful! We have something in common. So am I!” Oh! Not that kind of gay?

So, the man isn’t holding a press conference because someone called him out on being incredibly happy. Sheriff Babeu is a homosexual. Does that change what he has done with his career or who he is as a person? Did he awake the morning The New Times ran their story and decide he now needed to change his whole personality? I sure hope not. After all, who the hell cares?

Obviously, I care enough to write about it. But, that’s as far as it goes. Didn’t Lawrence v. Texas say it was perfectly legal to do whatever you want in your own bedroom? So, why is it such a big deal? Because the man is a Conservative? Is there a special templated checklist someone must check off in order to be Republican or Democrat? If so, I might have both parties screaming, “Old Adela belongs to you. No! She’s all yours! Can we just toss her over to the Libertarians? They’ll never notice. They’re probably too busy smoking, anyhow.” After all, if we want to put everyone into their own little political cubby of what they should be like….

If Sheriff Babeu had been a Democrat nothing would have been said. It would have been a shrug or, “So? I thought so all along?” But, because he doesn’t fit into that perfect little mold, it’s supposed to be shocking and controversial.

Which brings me to his personal life. We have gotten so much into this reality television and tabloid way of life that we need to know everything about someone’s personal life, just because we know their name. There was a time that personal meant personal. If someone was an actor or a politician, we focused on their performance or how they did their job. Not what goes on behind closed doors. After all, my co-workers didn’t know every detail of my life. Heck! I don’t even know every detail of my life.

So, that’s my rant for the day. I was going to catch you up with all the sordid details of my personal life, since October, but I saw this on the news and wanted to get my thoughts on this out of the way, first.

Be back Wednesday.

Published in: on February 20, 2012 at 9:12 pm  Comments (1)  
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Five Things Not to Do With Your Three Day Weekend

Happy Labor Day weekend!

It’s Friday afternoon and a fabulous three day weekend lies ahead. This includes a weekend of fun in the sun, barbecuing, and hanging out with friends.
I hope you will all have fun, too, but avoid making the following stupid mistakes that can muck up your weekend plans.

(1) Do not start a forest fire. According to this press release for last Spring’s Arizona Wildfire Awareness Week, over half of the wildfires in Arizona are caused by people.
This means the other half are caused by lightning and squirrels not putting their cigarettes out before going to bed.
As much as we enjoyed the wet weather last winter, the sun makes all that lush greenery into tinderbox fodder come summer.
I for one, hate changing plans because a forest is closed or a friend’s house is in danger of being burned down. Especially, when it can all be avoided by taking an extra five minutes to make sure fires are put out. If you aren’t sure, put your hand into the coals. If you burn yourself, you can be thankful that it was just your hand and not the whole forest.

(2) Do not start a brawl over a football game. Whether your Mercedes Benz was dinged by a football before the Rose Bowl or you just didn’t like someone else’s football team, it can hardly be worth the hassle of going to jail and not being able to see anymore football games, in person, for a long time.
Just remember, even if the other guy is a complete idiot, you can wake up the next morning knowing you’ll have a good day — outside of prison — and the other guy is still an idiot.

(3) Stay away from all social media, while drinking. As a friend of mine says, “If I don’t remember it, it didn’t happen.” The statement works best if you also leave no evidence. If you must drink so much that you aren’t going to remember anything about your fabulous night out, at least make sure there is also no physical evidence left behind.
It’s easier to convince everyone in the bar that they must have been more drunk than you, when they thought they saw you doing a strip tease on the bar, than it would be if someone uploads video to Facebook or you tweet: Am I drunk. Going to dance for the cute bartender now.
It’s funny for the rest of us, but you might be hearing about it for a much a longer time.
On second thought, just avoid getting drunk. The story will continue to follow you, anyway.

(4) Do not call the police if you feel you were ripped off during an illegal transaction. We’ve all heard about the news articles about the scholars who decide to call the police when they find out the drugs they bought aren’t worth what they paid for. Or, this 26 year old Einstein, who was not satisfied that the escort he called for did not look like the picture in her advertisement. If you already paid for it, it’s over. Meanwhile, the police, the reporter, and anyone who reads that article is now laughing at you.

(5) Do not become a candidate for the Darwin Award This one should go without saying. If something seems like a fun idea, but, “If this doesn’t work out, I might….” Stop! Walk away! Go back to sleep. You don’t want to be that lamebrain who got his fifteen minutes of fame by dying in such a ludicrous way that his friends won’t admit to knowing him.
Your last words should not be, “I just wanna pet the tiger.”

Have a great weekend! See you Monday. Hopefully!

Published in: on September 2, 2011 at 8:32 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Smoking Hot Dogs!

Hot dogs can kill you! That was the finding of a report released a couple of weeks ago by a group of “let’s promote the vegan life-style” doctors. No agenda there. I am sure they just have our best interests at heart and are really worried that some of us might be smoking a few packs of hot dogs a day. Why else would they claim hot dogs are as deadly as smoking cigarettes?

If you are vegetarian, vegan, or have a diet that says you are only allowed to eat dirt during certain cycles of the moon, bon apetit. Just don’t tell me what I am allowed to eat or try to make me feel guilty, because a cute animal ended up on my plate.

Did you ever once ask anyone what they thought of those cute teeny baby vegetables? The tiny ears of corn, baby carrots, etc.? Those are also living creatures. Plants have feelings, too!!

That’s what I want to see. Instead of ad campaigns telling people why they should feel guilty for eating meat, I want to see one against the cruel practice of eating vegetables. Have you ever heard the screams of a potato when it’s in the microwave? That is not a happy whistle. It’s the same sound a bunny makes when it’s scared for its life. Only the sound is coming from a potato.

If we are only supposed to be worried about cute and cuddly animals and don’t really care about the feelings of the plants, then what are you doing taking food out of these innocent animals’ mouths? They can’t just walk their tails down to the corner grocery store and pick up their own produce. Because of health code violations, many of them are not employable, so have no money to join produce co-ops. They have to go by their wits and what they can find. Even if you have a garden of your own, if you don’t invite them to partake in the fruits of your labor, you’re just part of the problem.

Offended yet? A bit too silly and extreme? That’s how I see “Meat is cruel” ads and studies, like the above. Seriously, who really eats a hot dog a day? It’s summer. I believe I ate a hot dog last week. One, out of the whole summer. Maybe it will increase my chances of cancer. Maybe waking up in the morning and breathing too deeply will also increase the chances of cancer.

I had a lovely aunt who died a couple of years ago, at the age of 96, from bladder cancer. Did she sit down and make a laundry list of what may have caused it? No. If she had not died because of that, she would have eventually died of something else down the road. She was 96 years old, after all. The fact is, we are all eventually going to die from something.

We can moan, complain, feel guilty and worry ourselves sick about every little morsel or we can enjoy our food and being alive today. If you enjoy eating only vegetables or dirt, do so. If you’re a scientist, who has something worthy to share, I would like to hear it. Just don’t expect my world to stop because of what your studies found. Within a year, you’ll be telling me to light those smokies up, because they are better than dark chocolate.

Meanwhile, I know me and I know my body. Which means, I could really go for a steak about now. But, maybe I’ll just settle for a hot dog, instead.

Published in: on August 3, 2011 at 6:43 pm  Comments (1)  
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The Meeting of the FOFU

A mutiny has begun in our community. Don’t worry. I don’t live in Quartzsite. It’s not at that level. Recently a secret group called FOFU (Flying Old Farts United) started meeting to air their grievances about Community leaders, past, present, and future. This spilled over to anyone who had ever been within eyesight of one of the Country Clubbers and may have accidentally smiled in their direction. They even yelled at one of their own for things he might do in the future if he ever became one of Them.

Their first meeting took place in the middle of a busy intersection. After causing a traffic jam, two fender benders, and police intervention, they decided they would move their secret group to the corner bar. Signs were posted up everywhere. We even got little reminder notices on our front doors.

For some reason, they were still surprised when half the community showed up. The other half complained about 8 pm being too late to go out and asked for updates on how the meeting went.

It didn’t go as expected.. Barney, who missed his calling as a bard in a former life, pulled out his book of sonnets and would read them dramatically, according to the theme of the discussion. My brother, Jack, became irate anytime someone bellowed into his ear, “Help us, Jack! You’re our only hope.” Chuck, the bouncer, gave a moving speech about how inspired he was that hippies had enough brain cells to remember what they were protesting, since the rest of us still can’t figure it out.

By midnight, most of the Old Farts were passed out and the meeting wasn’t nearly as much fun as we thought it would be. We decided to take the rest of the party– I mean meeting – to Jack’s house. He even promised not to kick me out, if I would stop stealing danishes from his cupboard and strapping them to my head.

I don’t think I’ll be going to the next meeting. I waited all night and not one of those Old Farts has ever flown. Although, one did make good distance when Chuck kicked him out of the bar.

Tomorrow, we’ll talking about the hazards of smoking hot dogs.

Published in: on August 2, 2011 at 7:15 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Gone Fishin’

Every year, about this time, Don Jose’s Mexican Restaurant (located about 36th street and Thomas Rd. in Phoenix, AZ, for those who are curious) would close down for about two weeks. In the window would be a sign that read, “Gone Fishing”.

Now, I couldn’t blame the owner for it. It’s the middle of July, after all. Who wouldn’t want a vacation away from tripping over those idiots who are constantly trying to fry eggs on the sidewalk? I can only hope he was smart enough to go fishing someplace that the fish weren’t jumping out of the water already fried up.

Next time, I will do my first promotion of why it was always a great disappointment to see that sign. But, for now, I will mention: I hate fishing.

It’s true. I did write on my facebook page that I had Gone Fishing last week, but that doesn’t mean I like it. You can only hear, “Shhhh! Be quiet. You don’t want to disturb the fish” so many times before you want to stick your head in the water and yell, “Get over it, Fish!” Of course, that plan doesn’t work very well when you get nasty, fish poop water in your mouth and nose.

The idea of fishing is always attractive. Especially with stories of Huckleberry Finn and the thought of lazing on a raft. Or, the stories of kids playing hooky just to sit under a cool shade tree, while casting a line. You cannot tell me that any kid on earth would keep perfectly still and quiet, so as not to disrupt the thoughts of a fish. Even Jesus Christ, himself, was friends with fishermen. He was smart enough to tell his disciples to leave their nets behind. Which proves even the Son of God didn’t want to waste time sitting around waiting for a fish.

What is so dad-gummed important underwater that fish would be disturbed by the noises us drylanders make, anyhow? How do we know the fish hear us? They don’t even have ears. Are they holding meetings underwater? Is that where all our think tanks come from? The bottom of a lake or riverbed? It would make the most sense. We never actually see anyone involved in these think tanks and they don’t seem to have any ideas that make sense to human beings.

So, for another year, I have fulfilled my obligations. The dust has been dusted and the fish gut smell has been washed out of my hair (I only had to rinse and repeat fifteen times this go round). The rest of the year’s fishing will be done from the cool, air conditioned comfort of my own living room.

Meanwhile, I’ll be eating steak.

Published in: on July 18, 2011 at 3:18 pm  Comments (2)  
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My Adventures in Exercise

A few months ago I decided that my exercise routine should consist of a little more than keeping my fingers toned, while looking at the television.  I figured it would be nice to identify my body as having some kind of shape, rather than looking like a puzzling piece of abstract art. 

Running was my first thought. After all, how many people finish a 5k  by rolling themselves down the street, like a bowling ball?  So, I bought my running shoes and put on my running clothes. Then, returned the running clothes, because I haven’t bought running shorts, since I was a young girl, and the size was  like wearing thong underwear.

What I learned that first afternoon was all about runner’s high’.  I am very sure it is the same feeling that convinces meth addicts they are invincible.  Because, as I pushed myself and my legs became as wobbly as Jello, I continued running. Ten minutes later, some other joggers stopped to ask if I was okay. For some reason, they thought I was having convulsions.  After they helped me up off the ground, I vowed not to run, ever again. 

Dancing was my  next option.  I remembered enjoying dancing a lot when I was younger.  This time I was not even going to attempt to try on my old dance gear.  I might be lucky if I could squeeze my dog’s body into that tiny leotard, let alone, myself. 

During my first lesson, I felt wonderful. It was like I had never stopped dancing.  Looking up at the mirror, I knew I looked like a movie star.   You have seen the scene in Fantasia, where the hippo dances?  That was me.  Maybe it would have even worked out better if I hadn’t insisted I could lead the lessons, myself.  For some reason, dance teachers are touchy about any offered help.

Finally, I met Ed. He works out at my local gym.  He was very nice for the first week.  He talked to me about proper form and even helped lift the barbell off my chest,.   He seems like a shy kind of fellow, so instead of coming right out and saying he wanted me to be his exercise partner, he told me about how important it was to always have a spotter.  But, I could read beyond the lecture. 

I have spent every moment at the gym following Ed around.  Even learned his routine.   When he  wasn’t coming out as often as he used to, I checked around and found out that sly boy had been testing out a new gym we could work out at together. You should have seen how surprised and happy he was when I showed up.  I am sure I saw tears in his eyes.

As time has gone on, I suppose he has been feeling a bit overshadowed by my progress.   He shouldn’t feel bad.  I think he looks like a nicely built young man.    When I asked him to poke my stomach, so he can feel my rock hard abs, he turned green and walked away.  I suppose the envy was just too much for him.

Sadly, the summer  will bring an end to our  exercise duo.  I plan on spending more time at the pool this summer, showing off my results in my brand new itsy bitsy bikini.  

 Don’t be too jealous.   I am sure Ed will be needing a new exercise partner to work out with,

Published in: on June 1, 2011 at 6:13 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Bluesy Monday


No birds singing in the sky.

My coffee’s cold.

My breakfast cried.

This is the beginning of the Blues on a Monday night

Obviously, I was not meant to write the Blues, but I do enjoy it. Although, I have to be in the mood for it. I can’t actually have the blues to listen to the Blues. Otherwise, I’d just throw the record player out the window.

But, the magic of music has always enticed me since I was a little baby.  My daddy was a Big Band fan. He wasn’t into this rock music that was so popular, and said he wanted me to learn what good music was before I listened to anything else.

 So, I grew up on the likes of Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, and Larry Clinton. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I finally caught up to modern music. Meanwhile, my daddy was listening to rock music anytime I wasn’t around. He said it was to keep him awake on long trips, but during the day? At work? Yes, one of his co-workers outed him after his funeral. All about how he loved listening to Dave Pratt’s Morning Show.  The very one that he would say, “Why would anyone listen to THAT KPUD station?”

 In the end, I still love the Swing music and the Crooners. I can rock out like no one’s business. I can get down to some honky tonk music and not look for rattlesnakes or worry about desert sand getting into my shorts. In fact, the only ‘music’ I cannot stand is rap.

 Rap music. Mr. Greene once compared this poetic beat sound to giving a certain kind of sexual act to a microphone. The remembrance of that statement does not make it any more appealing. But, it does make me want to laugh at the ‘oh-so-manly’ wanna-be rappers who take to wearing some overweight friend’s pants, when they must have messed up their own somehow. Why else would the back end nearly touch the ground?

 But, back to real music. Once I thought of getting a government grant to study the effects music has on people. I know certain music can bring my mood from average to angry within moments. If that’s the case, would pumping in happy, peaceful music, like Enya, into jailhouses throughout the the country make criminals more likely to rehabilitate or would it cause a riot? If it did alter their moods and make them want to put flowers in their hair and dance, would we be able to release them, so long as we implanted 24 hours of Enya music into their brains?

 Maybe I really haven’t thought this all the way through. Which is why I never applied for a government grant for a study on music — or mind control.

Published in: on May 16, 2011 at 5:16 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Arizona Weather and News Casting

Last week I needed to take some time off to get ready for Mothers Day weekend. Which  meant hiding out in a hotel suite, watching chick flicks, eating chocolates and strawberries, while hoping my children wouldn’t track me down.

I came back to my special little place in the world, affectionately known as hell, to find that today’s high was set to be in the 70s. I went to sleep with the a/c blowing as I sweated, only to wake up freezing. This is the bi-polar personality of Arizona. Every Spring and Fall, Arizona plays the hot and cold game. For weeks now, I have been packing and unpacking the winter trunk.

 The winter trunk is not what you think. No gloves, scarves, or wooly coats.  It just means clothing with long sleeves and slightly thicker material, as opposed to my halter tops and Daisy Duke shorts.   I will now  pause as you try to get that image wiped out of your mind…….

 The local idiot newscasters are always surprised every year by any change in weather.  They are never happy with anything that resembles  pleasant weather.  I remember one beautiful late Spring day, many, many years ago as I made my way from the cool breezes and tranquility of Northern Arizona back to Dante’s Inferno, when a voice from a Valley radio station excitedly yelled, “We’ve made it to 100 degrees!!!!” Yay? That’s like getting excited that you have a headache. You know it’s going to happen at some point, but you shouldn’t be looking forward to it.

 Within weeks of the initial ‘We’re burning in an oven’ dance, which may really be about not being about to keep your feet on the ground for too long without sizzling like a piece of bacon, the whining begins . “It’s so hot!……When will it cool down?…..We can’t believe it’s the middle of July and it’s been over 110 degrees for ten days. When did something like this ever happen?” Maybe….last year?

 Then, August begins and we might get relief for a few hours out of the month. Monsoons are described as “seasonal winds that bring torrential rainfall”. Also known as, “wasn’t the sun just here a moment ago and who installed the outdoor shower”? Being in the Valley, the monsoons have a few ways of playing tricks on us. It will rain throughout the rest of the state and the moisture will take a trip to see what our dust bowl looks like. Which means, we swelter twice as much and those of us who enjoy our swamp coolers, get to pay four times as much in tributes to our local  electric company, when we are forced to start using our air conditioners. Or, breaking news will cut into my favorite television shows just to report that three drops of stray rain were spotted somewhere around Cave Creek.

 When we do get a visit from the rain gods, we celebrate. We dance around in the streets. We splash in the rain. We pretend we’re Gene Kelly. Then, the downpour stops, some transformer miles away is hit by lightning and we sit in the hot, sticky darkness wondering when we can use our A/C’s again.

 Meanwhile, the local wing-a-dings are reporting that parts of Tempera and Messia (Tempe and Mesa, for those who don’t live here)  have an outage, but if we keep watching, they will report on when power has been restored.

 Which part is more of annoyance, do you think? That the news will inform me of when to expect my power on when I cannot look at the news or that broadcast journalists go to school for years just to learn how to mispronounce the names of the towns they are reporting on? If you are going to live someplace and talk about it, it makes you look less like a fool if you can take five minutes to properly pronounce the local names.

 Is it the heat that fries the brains of our newscasters, like the eggs in the parking lot in the summer sun or is bubble headedness a requirement to report news to a live audience?

I’ve already decided.

Published in: on May 9, 2011 at 5:29 pm  Comments (2)  
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The Five Senses and a Good Hat


Back in the 1980s, there was a television show called “Night Court”. It starred Harry Anderson as Judge Harry Stone. He was a bit of a nerdy character. Always popping off goofy puns, enjoyed magic tricks and jokes, wore a fedora hat and had an obsession with the music of Mel Torme. Of course, I had a crush on that character.

It is true. Despite what my best girl friend, Patty, says, I have always had a thing for what might be called a geek. Give me a man who can make me laugh until I am in tears, who can hold an intellectual and interesting (Note: INTERESTING, is the key word) discussion on a variety of topics, enjoys an array of beautiful music (especially if Big Band is somewhere in there), and can properly wear a fedora, and I am smitten. But, that’s all on a get-to-know you basis.

What makes the first attraction?

Men are visual. It’s very obvious, when you see a shapely lady walking down the street and have to remind each man who saw her to politely wipe the drool off their chin. Unless, they’re gay. In which case, they were probably too busy thinking about Neil Patrick Harris to notice.

But, what about women? They always go for these musclebound lunkheads, you might be thinking.

‘Tis true. There is something about a man who has strong arms and a chest you want to touch. So long as the body is proportionate. The last thing that looks good is a huge, knobby body coupled with a head so small, it looks like a headhunter’s trophy.  Even if average musclebound lunkhead looks good, if he smells like a sewer and/or has a voice like Justin Bieber, any female over the age of 12 isn’t going to grasp much interest.

But, if he has a voice like Sean Connery or Sam Elliot….. Especially Sam Elliot. Well, there’s a voice that can tell me a bedtime story any night.

 Where was I? Oh, yes. Let’s not forget scent. The natural scent of a man is something that gives me chills. Sometimes it can be enhanced a little with cologne or oils. Not motor oil, mind you. Although, a man who is eye-catching and has just fixed your car is quite an attraction.

 There are many different scents on the market. Some of them make a lady want to snuggle. Others are very yummy, indeed.

Now, Old Spice. Highly NOT recommended. I don’t care if it gives you hallucinations of being on a boat. It’s called OLD Spice and smells like you’re covering up for the smell of the mothballs from your monthly ventures in leisure suit wearing.

That covers the first attraction for me. A man with strong arms who smells nice and has a voice who can tell yummy bedtime stories. . The kindness and generosity are things that should not go unmentioned. If he can also be child-like, but not childish, then you have a recipe worthy of trying out. The rest comes with friendship and time.

 It’s your turn. What are the first qualities you notice? What attracts you?

Published in: on April 28, 2011 at 4:11 am  Leave a Comment  
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747s and Radios

You ever have one of those nights? It’s a beautiful evening. The stars are twinkling, while the soft breezes blow. You’re on your first date with the most beautiful creature ever to walk the earth.. You have picked out the most wonderful restaurant. You smile at each other from across the table. Just as you open your mouth to say something truly clever, the old coots at the table across the room start hootin’ and hollerin’. For the rest of the night, all you can hear is the volume getting louder and louder, as the hens at the table cackle at every bad punchline.

Believe me, I have been there, heard the sounds of banshees shrieking, and let out my own sighs as I looked around and realized I was at THAT table. Come to think of it, I live in that community. Some nights I would love to turn my hearing aid down. Problem is, I don’t wear one.

 Now, I am far from quiet. My friends have asked me many times if I could stop yapping for just a little while. Or, at least take a five minute breath between thoughts. What I lack in my little community is stage presence. Even a blaring radio comes across as tiny and insignificant next to the roar of a 747.

 I am sure there are many of you who live among 747s. The people who wonder why you’re so quiet and keep passing you their drinks, in hopes of making you the life of the party, too. Only problem is, I am more likely to take a long nap after a good alcohol binge, rather than dance on tables and form a conga line on the bar.

 Truly quiet people make me just as uncomfortable as loud and obnoxious people. The neighbor you try to wave a friendly “hello” to or engage in conversation, but they always look at you as if you aren’t there until the day hear about them on the local news. “He was always so quiet. We really didn’t know why the mailmen kept disappearing when they passed his house.” No wonder we have a new mailman on the route every week.

 Sometimes, the conversation in the neighborhood will turn to something more exciting than how to add that extra happy sparkle to indoor plumbing. Maybe Mr. Life-of-the-Party might show up and remind us of his best tanning techniques from 1967. When that happens we all have our own ideas we would like to add, I will look around and see half a dozen people making faces like drowning goldfish, as they wait for that moment when they can politely jump in and add something just as enlightening. By the time the monologue has finished, everyone has forgotten what the topic was about. Or, if we need to clap or not.

 There was about a page and a half worth of thoughts on this. But, a couple of 747s just landed and asked me to lead the conga line, this time. I was given a couple of mojitos, first, so let’s hope I don’t fall asleep.

 Until, next time….when we explore, why fedoras and uniforms make men foxy.

Published in: on April 25, 2011 at 3:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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