When I Am Boss of the World

I think I must be a "hater". I hate to think that, ironically, but it's the only conclusion I have come to when I think about all the little things that bug me to the point of exhaustion. In the new year, I've resolved to only hate things one at a time, so today I'm concentrating on WORDS. I have decided that when I am The Boss of the World, people who misuse and mispronounce common words will be punished in cruel and unusual ways. In no particular order, allow me outline some of the most agregious errors which we tragically all encounter in our everyday communications...

Are You Smarter Than a Fith Grader? Shoot me now. This is one of the worst because it is so unnecessary. It is not difficult to pronounce the second "f" in fiFth, so just do it, would you? You sound like a firth grader when you mispronounce that word.

My grandmother has altimers disease. What is THAT? This insidious, most terrible geriatric disease of all time is not "altimers", it is Alzheimers. There is no "t" in Alzheimers. Repeat that. There is no "t" in Alzheimers. Alzheimers, Alzheimers, Alzheimers. Yeah, I know your memory isn't very good any more, and you could hide your own Easter Eggs, but you do NOT have Alzheimers yet, so remember how to pronounce it.

Irregardless of what you think, I am a smart person. People! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! Do you realize that when you misuse words to the the point that everyone accepts it, it will show up in the latest dictionary as an acceptable variant usage, and then when the NEXT dictionary edition after that comes out, it will be the primary usage, and so it goes. I'ved studied linguistics and etymology, so I know that of which I speak. UGH. I am old and a bit of a curmudgeon and don't tolerate change very well, so please help me out here. Irregardless of whether you think I'm smart or stupid.

Unfortunately, air travel in the USA has changed since 911. Get with the program, kids. Since September 11, 2001, it has been generally accepted that the correct pronunciation for that fateful day is "nine-eleven", OK? "Nine-one-one" is the number you call when some snaggle toothed old bitch is trying to pummel you with a sock full of rocks, just because of some perceived semantic error you may have made while talking to yourself in the shower.

To you, The American People who are in harm's way....The final bug up my etymological ass is especially appropriate for when I Am The Boss of The World. I pledge to you, THE AMERICAN PEOPLE, to stop using the phrases, "The American People" and "in harm's way" when I make my State of the Union addresses. Why, oh why, must politicians grab on to a phrase and then, like a dog on a bone, refuse to let it go? Really, all you verbose politicians, you CAN say "Americans", or "people", or get a thesaurus and learn a new word, but stop saying "The American People" this and "The American People" that. Stop it. When I am The Boss of The World, I spit on your mother's moustache! You will be "in harm's way", or how about just regular old "danger", if you continue to overuse words and phrases in this manner.

Those are just a few of the linguistic travesties that send my blood pressure into orbit. There are many more, but "I literally died" the last time I tried to write them all down, it was so overwhelming. I"m feeling faint from all the hate, so I'm going to take a bath now and then I'm taking to my bed. I shall use this time of reflection to conjure up goodness and light and proper pronunciation for when I Am The Boss of The World. Alex, my adorable, little munchkin, would you fill the bathtub up with gin for Mommy, and hold the olives....

Sue Cassidy

Jesus Laughing

WARNING!! THIS BLOG IS IRREVERENT TO THE HIGHEST DEGREE POSSIBLE. If you are at all sensitive to my satirizing about religious events, grab your Gideon and giddy up, cuz this ain't the blog for you. I personally think that God had a great sense of humor because he created aardvarks, didn't he? I think he would appreciate satire and hyperbole in His name, so take off, eh, Hosers, if you don't like it. : )

Jesus Laughing. By Sue Cassidy

As the countdown to the Christmas Gift Exchange begins, I'm hearing all kinds of media controversy about whether or not gift cards are the answer to all our gift giving problems, or if they are the Spawn of Satan. The problem is, it seems that the media is the only venue where this Devil Incarnate seems to reside. I have never heard a real, live Gift Card recipient EVER complain, "Oh, dear. Another gift card that I can use to buy whatever I want, when I was really hoping for another crocheted doily from Grandma...." HELLO!!!!!!! How could anyone not WANT a Gift Card? Not only are they great for the recipient and oh-so-convenient for the giver, they are actually BIBLICAL. Huh? You say? Biblical? How so? Well. I know it is a thin line between brilliant theory and stupid rationalization, but let me say this about that:

Picture poor Baby Jesus being born in a manger. It had to be some freakin' cold and here is this poor little son of a bitch -- oh wait. Did I just call the VIRGIN Mary, a bitch? How irreverent of me, she wasn't a female dog. A pregnant and unmarried, teenaged tart, but she was no bitch. So here is this poor little Bastard, who doesn't even get His own crocheted quilt from Grandma to snuggle up in. It is so cold you can see His breath, right next to the breath of the pigs in the barn. Pigs!!! Bad enough He is freezing to death, but this poor little yet-to-be-circumcised Jewish baby is forced to share his frigid oxygen with NOT KOSHER pigs, and the dairy is not even separated from the NOT KOSHER live pork bellies in the barn. I think this is what they refer to when the bible talks about "Original Sin." But I digress.

Along come the three Wise Men. They came bearing gifts for the newborn baby. What did they bring him? They brought him gold, frankincense and Myrhh. Great. Just want a freezing baby living in an unkosher, freezing manger needs. He could have been better served with a nice, warm, woolen blanket, made from kosher sheep. But NOOo-o-o-o-o-o-o, the Wise Men brought what was meaningful to THEM. Let's discuss one by one:

Gold. It's precious, valuable and worthy across all cultures and times. Gold is money.

Frankincense. This came from a milky sap tapped from the Boswellia tree. Frankincense has been touted for its medicinal and soothing properties. Ancient people burned frankincense, believing it to carry their prayers to heaven. This was a tradable commodity in biblical times, so it was essentially money.

Myrrh. Myrrh's most notable use in biblical times was that of an embalming material, used in Egyptian mummies. In fact, how very prophetic of the Wise Men as Myrrh was one of the burial spices of Jesus, 33 years later. Like Shakespeare would say, Jesus was "hoist on his own petard." Like Frankincense, Myrrh was also a valuable trading commodity and for 3 chickens and a goat, you could get enough Myrrh to keep you from decomposing until you got to the other side of "Da River", if yas know what I'm sayin', Tony. So, it too was essentially money.

Do you see where I'm going with this? The Wise Men went to a lot of trouble to give Baby Jesus a gift card!!!!!! Something he could trade for something he wanted. A Gift Card is the modern day equivalent of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh! So pat my head and call me brilliant, right? Think how much easier it would have been if the Wise Men had itty bitty little gift cards to carry across the desert, instead of all that heavy, hard to carry Gold. Trying to keep the shepherds from smoking the Frankincense must have been a bitch of a job. Maybe the bright star in the East was an hallucination because the Wise Men themselves smoked some of it, I don't know. And the camels eating the sticky tar-like Myrrh! I think that is why camels appear to chewing a cud to this day. Yes, indeed. Gift Cards would have been the ticket, but as it happened, they really DID give the biblical equivalent thereof.

So this year, when you are thinking about gift options for your loved ones, think back to where the tradition of gift giving started. It started with a baby in a manger who received Biblical Gift Cards, for which he probably traded for a warm blankie. Merry Christmas, folks.

The Grinch Stole Christmas

The Grinch is alive and well and working at CBS this year!!!! I know this for a fact because we were watching "The Amazing Race" last night and saw him doing a commercial. "...With The Mama in her 'kerchief, and Mike in his cap, we had just settled down for a long winter's nap..." This commercial was a public service announcement and it showed a handsome, serious, young man, looking intently into the camera, telling the masses that the best thing you could get for your woman for Christmas this year is: drum roll here -- a Pap Test!!! HUH? Like THAT will get ya laid. Are you fucking kidding me? I had a mammogram for my birthday and now they are advertising pap tests for Christmas? I'm not making this up. This was an Honest-Ta-Gawd commercial on primetime network television.

I can see it all now. Men everywhere are scrambling to return the Tiffany Jewellry and the Hermes Birkin bags that they bought for their ladies. Can you hear the conversation now between Buddy Dude and the Mercedes salesman, "Yeah, this is Buddy Dude in Huntington Beach. I ordered the white Mercedes 500 "S" Class Coupe for my wife for Christmas and you were going to deliver it to the driveway with a giant red bow on top? Yeah, well, cancel that. I got her a Pap Test instead...." Can you spell "hand me the clever, Beaver, I'm going to cut my husband's nuts off!" I'm sure the Dr. Georgios Papanikolaou, for whom the test was named, is rollin' in his grave over this one. This type of marital discord was most certainly not his intention when he developed this most violating of "female type stuff" tests.

So for all you men who saw the commercial last night and thought, "Why yes, that is exactly what my wife needs. She has enough 3+ carat, GIA certified FI-IF flawless diamonds. She can't take THOSE with her when she dies a painful death from Cervical Cancer. I'm going to give her THE GIFT OF LIFE!!!, I'M GOING TO GIVE HER A PAP TEST FOR CHRISTMAS" Shoot me now. Spoken like a man who has never been forced to lay down naked on a cold steel table with his legs in stirrups. Do you actually KNOW what they do to you in a Pap Test, clueless husband of mine? Once they have you strapped down to said cold table with legs in stirrups, they remove a large metal object from the freezer and shove it up your Hootie! Without buying you dinner first! Yup. Swear-Ta-Gawd. Then they reach inside with a 16 inch barbecue skewer and scratch your inner Girly Bits with it. My inner Girly Bits don't GET itchy, thankYouVeryFuckingMuch, and if they ever do, the Kama Sutra lists dozens of ways to get your "itch" scratched, none of which involve a barbecue skewer shoved up the Lady HOO HAW.

Don't miss my point here. I think Cervical Cancer is a serious matter and I'm thrilled that there is a government agency out there that stays awake at night worrying about it. So much so that they would release a prime time, network commercial touting the importance of it all, but really? REALLY? Let me state publicly now: I'd better wake up Christmas morning and find a nicely wrapped Canon lens under my tree: 14mm, Wide Angle, L Series optics, with an ultra sonic motor and 2.8 aperature. If instead I find an appointment with Dr. MagicFingers, OBGYN, M.D., I won't be responsible for my actions and my Big Ass cleaver was just sharpened for when we killed the fatted turkey for Thanksgiving, so I'm just sayin'.

Anyhoo, that's all I have to say about that. I'm outta here. I have to call Mike's doctor. I'm giving him a Colonoscopy for Father's Day.

Pap Test for the Wife: $250
Tiffany Silver Key Necklace for the Wife: $500
Canon 14mm lens for the Wife: $2199

A good nights sleep with no cleaver in sight: Priceless

When I Am The Boss of The World

Suzie Crankypants here. I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more. Why do I have sand in my vagina, you ask? I wish I could say it was just one thing, but it is many little things. So many frick frackin' little things annoy me and it builds up and builds up and then KABOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I explode. I have tried to deal with these petty annoyances by taking a pharmacological route, better living through chemistry, but that didn't work out so well, and I'm now blacklisted at every pharmacy in the OC. So I think the better way to fix this is to become Boss of the World. I know I'm not smart enough to right all the large wrongs of the planet, so it is my solemn promise as Boss of the World, to try to fix the little ones. This blog is the first of the "When I Am The Boss of The World" series.

When I Am The Boss of the World. Part One.

First on my list of stuff to fix as BOTW, is bagless vacuum cleaners. This is one of the biggest little offenders on my list. Do you remember the old vacuum cleaners that came with disposable bags? I didn't have an issue with those, but apparently there was a better way. The brainy engineers at Hoover must have all been hungover or coming down off "shrooms" or something, because out of their drafting tables came the plan to revolutionize the world of house cleaning by coming up with the "bagless" vacuum cleaner. "No more running out of bags" they said. "No more expense of having to BUY those bags, " they said. "No more chopping down perfectly good trees to make those expensive paper bags that you always run out of, " they said. And it was so. Everyone worshipped at the altar of "green" and here was a way to save a paper bag and the gas it took to drive to the store to buy them. "What an exciting time to be a housewife," I thought. "This is home maker history," I thought. I still remember the darling shoes I was wearing the day I bought my first bagless vacuum, my Super Duper 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters....it was all to good to be true.

Oh, at first I was happy. I had on my little black dress and my pearls and Jimmy Choo shoes and I was makin' tracks in the carpet, baby. Marvin Gaye is on the Ipod and I'm more than aware that I'm wearing my best Victorias Secret Silks undies. Back and forth. Up and down. Oh, how it sucked. Oh my, how it moved. A little to the left, Sweetheart. Ohhhhh, that's it, suck some more. The honeymoon was short lived though because before I had finished vacuuming the first flea infested room of wall-to-wall, I noticed that the "Wind Tunnel" was made of clear, see through plastic. Now wait a minute, here. I did NOT bargain for that. I don't want to watch dust, and dirt and dog hair whirling around in a dirty ass vortex of scum. When my Hoover had a disposable bag, I didn't get to see the shit that was stuck to my carpets and if you don't see it , it ain't there. So this was NOT a happy for The Sue. Denial is a highly underrated coping mechanism, so I decided that I would turn a blind eye and pretend I couldn't see through to the dirt. There. That was better.

The next time I pulled out my Super Duper 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters, I remembered to not look at the filter, and not look into the wind tunnel and things went much better. It wasn't an occasion to wear Jimmy Choo, but I did still make the effort to wear a dress and pearls. I was listening to Hootie and the Blow Fish through the tv music channel and was wearing my Jockey for Her Thong. Not quite as fancy as last time, but still, keepin' the flag flyin'... I got through the cleaning process without once glancing down at "it" and all was right with my world and it was good.

It was the third run through that things started to go bad. Still wearing a dress, I wore Payless Pumps, and I had ditched the pearls AND the underwear, but I still looked faboo. Anne Murray was singing on the radio. The problem started when I realized that the canister was full. Already, after only two cleanings. "Alors! Mais, non. How could this be?" I asked myself. A HAH!!!! I see what happened. The hard plastic canister doesn't expand like the paper bags do. I used to be able to not change a bag for 6 months, back in the antiquated days of disposable, not eco-friendly paper bags. The bags would be bulging like a pregnant sow at the County Fair by the time I got around to changing them, but NO-o-o-o-o-o-o, now I had to empty this after using it twice. "It ain't fit," I thought. It just didn't seem right.

So I take the vacuum canister and pull it out of the 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters. I opened the lid to empty it into the trash and before I could say "for fuck sakes", the dust and dirt and dog hair was swirling around in a cloud and I was inhaling it. YUCK. COUGH, COUGH, GASP. I remember back in biology class when we learned about germs and microbes how the reason poop smells bad is because honest-ta-gawd, actual POOP PARTICLES are hitting your olfactory receptors on their way to your lungs!!! No frick frackin' way was dust and dirt and dog hair going in to my lungs. I started holding my breath, desperate to get the canister emptied before I passed out. I had to bang it against the side of the trash can. When I couldn't get the clump of dog hair unstuck from the 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic fucking air filters, I had to reach in with my bare fingers, Lord preserve us. Where was my velvet fainting couch when I needed it most. I could feel myself getting weak from lack of oxygen, so I dropped the canister and ran to the patio door to get a mouth full of clean, life sustaining clean air. I'm sure I looked like the fireman in the movies who crawls on the floor below the layer of black smoke, to get one last breath of fresh air before he selflessly returns to Dante's inferno to rescue the crippled baby from a certain death.

By this time, I had dust in my hair and on my profusely perspiring face , dog hair glued to my lipstick, and my darling little dress was now hiked up around my waist in all the excitement. My hands were GROSS, ICK, PUKE and I had run out of fucking patience with this piece of shit Hoover Whatever. Unlike the aforementioned selfless fireman, no way in hell was I returning to that dust bowl. Girlie bits to the wind, commando if you will, I took a running leap at the back fence and headed straight for the neighbor's house, when I took refuge in a Lemondrop Martini, shaken, not stirred, with extra sugar on the rim. I know that I am a role model for children, but I drank to forget. And drank, and drank, and drank.

It wasn't long after that we ripped up all our carpets and had hardwood installed throughout the house. The Super Duper 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters got sold in a garage sale soon after and I vowed "never again" would I fall for the old "bagless is better" bullshit. Today I speak out to all who will listen about the evil inherent it that flawed design.

I said all that to say this: When I am the boss of the world, there will be no more bagless vacuum cleaners. I can't imagine I'm the only person who feels this way about this technological "improvement" to vacuum cleaning. I will issue an executive order to the Hoover engineers. Perhaps they could have figured it out themselves, but I have waited long enough for them to have an epiphany, and say "Eureeka! I have an idea. Let's develop reusable paper bags. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, you just pull out the entire bag and throw it in the trash! No muss, no fuss...." Yeah, that's the first thing I"m gonna do when I'm the boss of the world.

To be Continued.... next: People who can't talk right will be banished to the Seventh Circle of Hell. People who say "altimers disease" instead of "Alzheimers". Folks who pronounce "fifth" like "fith". I "literally died" when I heard that for the first time. ARGGHH!!! Shoot me now, but do Tune in again, for Sue Cassidy's Blog Series: When I am Boss of the World.

Hi, My Name is Sue, but you can call me Stella

I encountered someone named Brittney the other day. Except she didn't spell it that way. N-O-O-O-O-O...that would be "so totally already done, like..." She spelled it (I am not making this up) "Brytnii". Swear t'GAWD. Brytnii. Now living in Southern California brings me face to face with all kinds of unconventional conventions, for lack of a better term. Tupperware parties hosted by latino drag queens is one thing, (one wonderful, delightful thing actually), and botox parties are another. But I want to bitch slap anyone who tortures words and names like that. In order to combat this frustration, I've decided that if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. To that end, I'm changing the spelling of my name and that of my husband. It won't be easy, we'll have to keep reminding people that we don't spell our names the traditional way, and people will probably mispronounce them all the time, but at least we will be different, like everybody else here in Orange County. Sincerely, Myk and Sioux Cassidy

Just Call me Babelfish

So we are taking down our Christmas tree and am groovin' to the latin beat of "Gypsy Kings". I love to sing along to spanish songs and i'm in my prime today. Never mind that I can't speak a lick o' the language. I just make shit up. "Yo quiero Taco Bell....fajita burrito, chimichanga-a-a-a-a-a.....feliz navidaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"""""" and here comes the chorus, "Guacamole, guacmole, guacamole, cha cha cha, carnitas, burritas, fajitas, GUACAMOLE.......CHA CHA CHA" Never mind that there is no such thing as a "burrita", unless it is a female burrito, I just don't want stuff to rhyme. I sing pretty much the same words to every spanish song, and I'm a really fly girl to be able to sing in spanish like that. I throw in a little flamenco move here and there, and you would NEVER freakin' know that I'm not singing the right words. I amaze myself sometimes, at the diversity and depths of my talents.

Not nearly humble enough, in Huntington Beach, I remain, The Sue

HO HO HO

2008 has not been a banner year in the Cassidy household. Everyone has their "stuff" and everyone has their own methods of dealing with it. Personally, as I have lived a long, long, long fifty years, I have endured many trials and tribulations and have figured out a variety of coping mechanisms that have worked for me. For example, denial. Denial is underrated as a coping mechanism and i'd highly recommend it to anyone. I know some rely on the "power of prayer" to cope with their stuff. Novenas to St. Jude were never quite my thing, but I did pick up some Holy Water on a recent trip to the Middle East where at the Jordan River they were selling water taken from the river where Jesus was baptized. I tried it, but it didn't really work. Perhaps I should have mixed it with Gin instead of vodka, I don't know, but the religious route clearly wasn't for the heathen likes o' me.

Friends who believe in "better living through chemistry", have suggested that I take a more pharmaceutical approach to coping with life's stressful times. Well that IS a thought, but I can't see me making the rounds of the Pharmacies in town, with prescriptions bought over the internet, or obtained from a fleet of local doctors whom I've blackmailed with illicit photos from their company Christmas parties. Seems like too much work to me, just to score a bit of valium.

So I've finally decided how on a multi dimensional coping mechanism that has the potential for lots of positive spin off. I'm going to start smoking crack. I never thought of it before because I've never done illegal drugs before, not even marijuanna, and I think it is brilliant. I'll find me a cocaine dealer through my local Mother's Club and I can cook my own crack. Martha Stewart has a recipe on her website for crack that she colors with red dye no. 4 and shapes into snowflakes. In preparation for smoking homegrown crack, I've started smoking Marlborough Lights, but some days I forget to smoke, so I'll have to work on that. Smoking crack will make me forget all my "stuff", my "issues." It will make me skinny. Living in Orange County, the land of scrawny Social X-rays, that is a benefit not to be laughed at. It will give me tons of energy. I will go to work at 6 am, work till 10 pm and still have the mojo to clean my toilet with a toothbrush at 4 am. It might make me scratch a lot and have the wizened, snaggle toothed, wild eyed look of a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet crack ho, that sure beats the baggy eyed, tired look of a soccer mom with a misspent youth and sun spots on her face.

As for the potential spin offs I spoke about? I'm seeing a t-shirt line, bejewelled with things like "I heart my Crack Whore", or "Will work for Crack" "Crack Princess", or for my husband, "I'm with the Crack Whore" with an arrow pointing left. Bumper stickers might be a great add on to the line, "I brake for Crack Whores" or "Honk if you love Crack Whores."

So that's my idea. What do you think? I'm going to give it some serious consideration and in the meantime, I'm off to Home Depot for poppy seeds. I hear there's serenity to be found in the opium trade.

Your friendly neighborhood Crack Whore in training, sue

Slime Thing, My Foodie Adventure in the Middle East

Chapter Two

The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and…

FOOD

There is so much to say about Jordanian food. I am a picky eater and was NOT looking forward to eating unfamiliar food and I had visions of eating goats eyeballs disguised as meatballs. To my pleasant surprise, the food was really great! I really should knock off the wise cracks about their food, cuz if you really think about it, every culture has SOMETHING that outsiders would find universally disgusting. For example, while Middle Easterners may enjoy chewing on ram’s testicles, the Hispanics have their Menudo (spiced animal guts), the Scots have Haggis, and North Americans have oysters that look like cold snot and fruitcake you could build high rises with, to offer up as delicacies. And Jello Mold with carrots in it. Let’s not forget our own culinary mistakes.

Having said that, I found the food to be mostly very tasty and visually appealing. Until it came to the Green Slime Thing. Green Slime Thing. Ugh. We had been invited over to Huda’s house for the largest meal of the day, the midday meal, which is literally MID day, 3 pm. Dinner is never eaten before 9 or 10pm and unless you are going out to a restaurant, and is typically the lighter meal. I think they were trying to starve me into submission cuz The Sue can’t wait till 3 pm to eat, especially now that I am diabetic. So off we go, with my blood sugar low, that wasn’t meant to rhyme, I needed to eat, it was TIME! Most of the meal, looked fairly normal: rice, a meatloaf looking thing in a yoghurt type sauce, touboullah salad. Ok, we’re good. I load up on the things I thought palatable and was about to dig in, when I saw IT. Sitting in a crystal bowl right in front of me, was a green slimy mixture that looked like something that came from a Grade “B” Sci Fi flick. It appeared to be like a cold, pureed spinach, except when you picked up the ladle, strings of it went from the spoon to the bowl. YUCK! Not only was it cold, but it was cold and gelatinous, and that it was in a crystal bowl like a centerpiece, I knew I was expected to eat it.

There is something you must understand about the Jordanian food experience. Like in many cultures, food is offered as a gift to you. To not eat it, is to insult your host. In previous meals with the Hudhud family, I would take some of the chicken dish, the beef dish, the salad dish, the hummus, the grape leaf rolls, the rice, and I would eat until the point of being sick because I didn’t want to be rude. Then they would notice I didn’t take any of The Lamb. “What’s the matter, you don’t like The Lamb?” They would be say this in a hurt tone, while they load it up on my plate, daring me to say “no….” Rather than risk an international incident, I ate The Lamb.

Here is the food conumdrum: if you like the food, and you say so, they will automatically start loading more on to your plate, pleased as punch that they were able to make you happy with their offering. If you DON’T like the food, you can’t say so, so you must lie and express your delight over it, and endure the inevitable second and third helpings they thrust upon you.

Knowing all of this, I sat like a lamb to the slaughter, so to speak. It all happened in slow motion. The geriatric matriarch of the family, no doubt the author is this culinary travesty, came over to serve me personally. “You. Eat. Much good…” and with that she picked up the ladle and prepared to pour it all over my much needed mid day meal. Buoyed perhaps by my plummeting blood sugar levels, I said, “No, really, I have too much here as it is, but it all looks so delicious!!!!!!” Ignoring my not-so-disguised pleas for mercy, she dumped the ladle of Green Slime Thing all over my plate of rice and Arabic meatloaf. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes, but I thought, it could be worse. She could be offering me some of the mushy and cold left over grape leaf rolls at the end of the table. They looked like doggie turds and tasted horrible when they were fresh, so I had no interest in revisiting THAT. I decided to be a big girl and just suck up the Green Slime Thing and hope that I could scrape it off the top of my meal without detection.

I managed to get through the meal without gagging too much. I’ve developed food coping mechanisms that I employ at such times, which involve copious quantities of water, and only breathing through my nose. In dire situations, I may have to imagine Brad Pitt spoon feeding me mannah from heaven, but I usually get the food down somehow. Consuming this particular meal took every trick in my repertoire, but it wasn’t long before I had finished it. I was careful to not express an opinion about it, lest they load me up again, and I felt that I had navigated a mine field and emerged intact. Then she came at me again, this time with the rolled grape leaves/vinegar flavored doggie turds. Tears rolled down my cheeks as she enthusiastically loaded up my plate, exclaiming, “You. Eat. MUCH good…” I was crying cuz I knew I was going to have to drive a stake through her well intentioned heart.

That is where this tale ends. I couldn’t “eat”. It wasn’t “much good”, and when I think back, that was the last time they invited us into their homes. She glared at me as we left that afternoon, and didn’t heap upon me the blessings in Arabic as before. I am determined to make it up to her though, to mend the diplomatic fence if you will. As soon as I get back to the States, I’m going to send her a box of oysters and a fruitcake.

sue

White Wine Goes With Fish

Here’s something you probably don’t know about me: I was quite the fisherman in my day. As a child growing up on Prince Edward Island, we would fish mackerel and smelts in the ocean, trout in the rivers.
I got very good at tying flies for fly fishing salmon in Nova Scotia too, much to my mother’s chagrin. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I showed her the fly I made from what is now a bald patch on her mink coat. I explained to her that I HAD to use the mink cuz when I cut three patches out of her Persian Lamb Coat and the lamb texture was just way too curly to get tied properly. She fainted. My neighbors still wonder why I was always chasing their cats, and how their furious felines would show up with what looked like alien crop circles shaved into their backs.

You can only imagine my delight in finding out that Rex Strickland from ODL has organized a shark fishing expedition for the Corporate folks, just before the beginning of the SGO Conference in San Diego. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?????? I’ve ALWAYS wanted to go shark fishing, and as a SERIOUS fisherman, have had that on my “Bucket List” ever since my brother did a similar trip last year. This will probably be my only chance to shark fish, so I wanted to be completely prepared for it. When Jen Eberts emailed me about fishing prep, I thought I should share with her some of my thoughts on what that prep should entail, as she is just a girl and probably is clueless about such a thing. Of the two questions she asked, I felt that the “What should I wear” was where I could provide the most guidance. We will be going out late afternoon, and coming in around 8 at night. Being out on the ocean in late January at night, can present some challenges as it will be very cold and damp and windy, and the boat deck can get pretty slimy and messy. I thought that by sharing my clothing tips with you, the franchisees, I may in some way prepare YOU for a similar trip, should you ever be so fortunate to go on one. Perhaps you can print this out and put it in your tackle box....

Dear Jennifer:

In your last email about the fishing expedition, you asked "Do we need extra life insurance for the shark hunting trip?" Why, you are just so practical!!! That is hardly as important as your second question, "What do we need to wear????" When I first heard that we were going shark fishing, I gave much thought to that question, as it is indeed the most important thing. Personally, I went out and bought a pair of mittens, the kind that the top comes off and reveals your bare fingers. This is crucial when calling on the dexterity necessary to bait a hook at night on frigid waters. They were inexpensive, so getting fish guts on them won't be an issue, but quite aside from that, they are totally darling. Fuzzy polar fleece, they are a leopard print, that will SO match my leopard print bag in which I'll be carrying my fishing tackle. Details matter.

Also, to that end, I bought a fabulous matching leopard print hat. Perfect for keeping my freshly coiffed-for-fishing hair from blowing around. Don't forget, we will be getting our picture taken with any fish we catch and we must look totally cute for that. I felt that a matching scarf would be "trying to hard", but perhaps a cashmere ivory colored turtle neck would frame the face for photos and would tone with the whites of the glazed over dead fish eyes. I am still thinking about what color lipstick I should wear. Something that goes equally well with both Tuna and Shark. I think pink goes with tuna, while the redder lipsticks look great in a shark photo, especially if there is shark blood dripping off the teeth. So don't forget: cute mittens, matchy matchy hat, appropriate lipstick. You may even consider a facial foundation with an SPF of at least 50 and a moisturizer. Those bitter winds can be hell on the complexion.

I suspect that you've already given some thought as to what shoes to wear and what fragrance might be appropriate on a fishing trawler full of men and shark bait. I'm not an expert, but might I suggest "Eau de Poisson" dabbed behind your ears. This is actually a fish pheromone and will attract many species of ocean fish, especially if a brisk north wind comes in to play out there. Our fishing guide's name is Captain Crunch and he reassured me that I was on the right track here. I am not real concerned about my shoes, as they will probably not be visible in THE PICTURES, but I know Jimmy Choo makes a darling kitten heel made of alligator skin, so it would be waterproof and the blood and guts should rinse off nicely without damaging them. I wore 6 inch Manolo Blanik stiletos on my last fishing trip and I would definitely NOT recommend those. That was a ridiculous choice, I realize now and everyone laughed at me because they were suede and you KNOW how suede is impossible to clean. Never again would I wear suede shoes on a fishing trip.

That just about covers it. Get out and SHOP, SHOP, SHOP, girlfriend. We will look totally hot in our little fishing outfits and if I have time, I'll will bedazzle some bobbers and lures. I'm sure THAT will attract fish, as the crystals will really sparkle in the low light of evening on the Pacific Ocean.

"Oh a sailor's life is the life for me,
How I love to sail on the bounding sea..."

I'm really looking forward to our fishing adventure. See you at the dock.

Sue "Jaws" Cassidy

Author's Post Script: Didn't catch any sharks and almost got killed by grey whale that breeched right in front of our boat, going 30 mph in the dark! We were 15 miles out in the pacific ocean when it happened and it scared the crap out of all of us, but...it was a magnificient site after we all calmed down. The whale was about 20 feet long and just came out of no where and breeched about 5 feet from our port bow and the captain reacted instantly, cutting power to the engine and everyone screamed, not quite sure what had happened until the falling whale hit the water after it breeched and then it swam under the boat and did another full breech on the other side! By then we had all realized what had happened and were able to watch the second breech with awe instead of the initial terror that we experienced by comingthisclose to hitting it and all being thrown into the pacific ocean at night with no hope of a rescue! And I didn't get a drop of salt water on my darling shoes. In case you were wondering.