It is!

Super sexy! So cast your damn ballots, America!
And before you go to the polls...click this!

Farewell, Margo

Leora Margaret Cope, magnificent wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother passed away Monday, June 11th, surrounded by family, admiration and an endless amount of love.

Margaret Cope was born on October 2nd, 1913 in Mott, North Dakota to parents Leora Sophia and Alexander Douglas, a Presbyterian minister, along with her devoted brothers, Chuck and Jimmy.

She moved to Camano Island, Washington in 1929, and it was there, at a dance, that she met and fell in love with James Cope, the love of her life. 

The two of them were inseparable from the start and together began both a family and a grand adventure. They took to the seas because Jim was a fisherman and sailed from Alaska to the Gulf of Mexico countless times, with stops at ports in between to have their children, Wendy, John and Jill.

Margaret and Jim settled in Seattle's University District where Margaret was an active member of University Christian Church. Many marveled at her ability to balance such a full life and give so much of herself as well. Her life was full indeed. 

All who met Margaret, even for a short time, were touched by her humor, generous spirt and singular grace.

She lived voraciously up until her final days; sharing stories, memories, and laughter, with family and friends. All of whom will miss her dearly.

Snack Time

Monday, May 7th, 10:15 a.m.

"Anything interesting happen at the park this morning?"
"Saw a guy shooting up at a picnic table."
"Sweet."
"Super sweet."

The Welcome Wagon

I'm trying to find just the right words to describe my neighborhood and I'm stalling out on "ghetto-y", so I'm just gonna stick with that. It's a little rough around the edges and by edges I mean gang members. Be that as it may, you have to hand it to the gangs when it comes to an entrepreneurial spirit. They seem to be constantly reinventing themselves around here.

They tag things and then sell whitewash at hugely inflated prices to the terrified convenience store owners. They've taken over the fruit stand on the corner and forced the little guy to sell Schlitz and unfiltered Camels.  Most recently (and most intriguingly) they've opened a barbershop/party decoration store just a half block away from me and I have to tell you, it's not too shabby. On the right side of their shop, they've got glittering Valentine hearts and bright green St. Patrick clovers. They've hung sexy Halloween costumes on a small metal rod and they boast a wide selection of colorful birthday balloons.  And if you walk through the beaded 60's style curtain, you enter the barber part of the business and to be frank, this is the shadier section. I've never seen anyone in there and it smells like weed.

Because the people in my neighborhood have never really embraced me as one of their own, I thought I'd try and break down their walls by supporting their most recent endeavor. Easter was my first chance to hit their newest business and for the most part I was happy with how it went. They didn't really talk much to me and eye contact was a at a minimum, but they took my cash and I took home some shiny egg decorations plus an oversized cardboard bunny. The entire purchase cost me $48 bucks. (Side note - I've seen better deals.)

Yesterday I saw one of the guys that worked there. I waved, maybe a little too enthusiastically, but he waved back. Not so much "waved", but it seemed to me that he felt like it. So, I'm making progress. You know what they say about slow and steady. And with 4th of July right around the corner I may just have it made.

Cuttin' Cals

Summer is nigh and it's time to trim the old waistline. To do this, I'm embarking on a diet that has proven successful to millions and is an absolute cinch - I'm taking  up smoking. 

When hunger calls, I'll curl up and light a cig, satisfied that I'm finally making some healthy choices.  No wonder they call it, Virginia Slims.

Let's retire this one, too.

I heard this twice today, "It is what it is." 

And both times I felt like kicking the speaker in the throat. Bruce Lee style.

Stop it!

I need everyone to stop saying, 

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" and/or "Vegas, baby!"

Just stop saying that. 

Seriously. 

Stop. 

It.

Doggles

Nuff said...

Let's Talk About Squirrels

Squirrels are...I was going to say, fascinating, but that's pushing it isn't it?  I do, however, have a true-crime story about some squirrels I knew.

In the backyard of a small house I used to rent on the east side of Los Angeles, was a large, weirdly shaped avocado tree. All the squirrels in the neighborhood loved it. They hung out in it, swung around on it, just in general had a great time in the tree. The one drawback was this, the squirrels were not used to eating such high fat, gastronomic riches and because of that, they got fat. And because of that, instead of swinging and jumping around, they started to mainly just lounge around in the tree. Lounging and plucking the ripe fruit.  And as we all know, sitting around and eating avocados makes you fat. And they got super fat.

So one evening, round about eight in the p.m., I heard what can only be described as an all-out baller of a fight between Sven (the blond-ish, surprisingly low-key, Nordic-y squirrel) and Sartoosh (the middle-eastern-y, depressive squirrel). It was rough. It was violent. It was curiously entertaining.

The next morning while picking up some dog poop in the backyard, I saw Sartoosh lying on the ground. I knew in an instant that he was dead and even in death, Sartoosh looked depressed. I don't like picking up dead things so I waited until my husband got home and had him pick up the dead squirrel. As he scooped Sartoosh up, I reminded him about the bad ass fight we'd heard the night before. We had a murder on our hands, I told him. But my husband insisted that Sartoosh had packed on the pounds and probably tried to leap from from limb to limb as he had in his youth and fell accidentally to his death.  I suppose there's two schools of thought about most things, so I let it go without further argument. Mostly because I felt kind of embarrassed to have a fight about squirrel murder. But it was murder. Everyone knew it. Especially Sven.

Love is in the Air!

Click right here, sweet cheeks....Love Rules!

Heads Will Roll!

A severed head has been found near the Hollywood sign! I know! A dog found it in a plastic bag and thinking it was a toy (who wouldn't?!) snatched it up and showed it off.  

Sweet mother of pearl, is nothing sacred in this town? If you've got to lop off someone's melon, please have the foresight to take your victim away from tinseltown landmarks. Manners matter.

For Love Nor Money

Yesterday I found myself musing over the heady, mesmerizing days of the summer of 1973, when I fell desperately in love with a woman. Full disclosure: that woman was, Michele Bachmann. And yes, we made love. A lot. Like tons of it, and it was awesome.

Regrettably, our relationship ended like the flash of a meat cleaver through the shank of lamb. I was rather slow to heal.  After loving a woman like Michele, it’s hard to bounce back, but I can honestly say that I look back on those crazy days (and nights, when our lovemaking sessions were the most ferocious) with fondness, and just a smidge of terror.

I first spotted her as she hopped out of a cab in the East Village.  She was shrieking at the taxi driver who had offended her by asking for more than a nickel tip on the 50 buck fare.  But, Michele’s tight with a buck, and fairly loose with the insults as I soon came to learn.  She called the cabby a homo who wanted more than just one kind of free ride.  Wow.  Her shrill voice pierced the humid air as she gave him what for. And frankly, I was instantly smitten.  She seemed so dangerous, yet indifferent.

I approached her cab, my outstretched hand dangling a twenty, somehow knowing that that would catch her eye.  She grabbed the bill with her talon-like fingers and briskly walked away.  I raced after her, my batik dashiki flapping in the late summer breeze.  I didn’t know her name at the time so I simply shouted, “Lady!  Hey, Maam!”  Finally, she turned on her pricey heel and met my beseeching gaze.  And that, as they say, was that.

We spent our first afternoon together in my tiny studio apartment, burning incense, and our bras.  (Michele’s was huge.  I mean her knockers are just tremendous.)  We talked Steinem, Zinn, Chomsky, and the Parent Trap.  (We’re both just crazy about Hayley Mills.)  It seemed there was nothing we didn’t agree on.  We compared our fraying ACLU cards and threw back our heads, and laughed like crafty toddlers at how we would bend this country to our mutual will.  How was I to know that this was mere charade? (Pronounced SHA-ROD.)

At the time I was toying with the idea of starting a commune in upstate Idaho.  Michele initially seemed supportive, but kept dropping hints about using the land as a part-time dog fighting ring.  When I refused, she smacked me on the ass and said, “Just use those lips for coolin’ soup, sister.” Yep.   She’s tougher than a nickel steak. And I knew she was no good for me, but like a huge festering boil – you sort of like it.

Things went from bad to worse.  She began peddling green stamps, used my comb when her hair was greasy, and stole change from my coin purse, making me buy it back at twice the price.

As expected, I awoke one morning to find myself strapped to the radiator in my empty apartment.  She’d drugged me and cleaned me out.  She'd also taken the deed to my land in Idaho. Apparently her dog fighting ring was fairly fruitful for a time.

The next thing you know she’s running for President.  Isn’t that something?  I gaze at photos of her now – shrieking about gun control and arabs, or standing uneasily next to her gay husband, and all the memories come flooding back.  Some good. Some not so good.  Anyhoo, she was a great lay and my one and only lady love.

Ring It On In!

Happy New Year, soda pops!

May every single dream you've ever dreamed come true this very fine new year.

pop the champagne!

On a Permanent Flight

Overheard On Flight #6773

Seat 17B: "Did you want these? These nuts?"
Seat 17A: "No thanks."
Seat 17B: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Seat 17A: "No thanks. I said, no."
Seat 17B: "I heard that, but I thought I heard you say something about my hair."
Seat 17A: "Your hair? No, I just said, no thanks."
Seat 17B: "I mention my hair 'cause I just had it done. Today."
Seat 17A: "It looks nice."
(I miss about 7-8 minutes because I avail myself of the plane's ghastly facilities)
Seat 17B: "So I just wash and go. Just easy peasy."
Seat 17A: "Oh. That sounds nice."
Seat 17B: "Nice? Nice and easy is more like it. And it looks so natural, doesn't it?"
Seat 17A: "Really natural."
Seat 17B: "Really, really natural. Just like nature, that's how natural it looks."
(a lengthy pause)
Seat 17A: "Yes."
Seat 17B: "That's the thing about perms. You can just wash and go."
(a horrifyingly long pause)
Seat 17A: "No. That's great."
Seat 17B: "And you know sometimes I don't really trust those people. The hairdressers. Oh, they say, let's just give you some bangs, or some layers, or a shag, or something crazy and you wind up looking just like dirt. Dirty as sin. But with a perm, you just wash and go. Easy peasy."
Seat 17A: (quietly) "Oh."
(Seat 17A clicks off her overhead light. I imagine she's hoping that if she can't be seen, perhaps she won't be spoken to.  I follow her lead and don my headphones. Easy peasy.)

It Blows

This week a windstorm swept through this tinsely town. The city went completely dark for a couple of days causing much hoo-haw. But here's what you can't do when the power's out: laundry, return email, answer the phone, or cook. All in all, a stunning couple of days, kitten toes.