My Memorial Day

Answer: The Swift Boat Skipper from the last vignette. Question:  Who's the guy in the picture?.

Mrs. Linklater is a member of the Viet Nam generation.  Not because she actually went there, although we sometimes forget that many women did serve in Southeast Asia.  But because of the men her age she knew who went or were sent there.  And how it affected them.

Memorial Day for her used to be about remembering those who gave their lives and died. More and more, she realizes it should celebrate the ones who gave their lives and still live among us with their memories. 

Here are some personal vignettes about the vets she has known.

Marine Special Ops, codenamed "Captain Midnight"  -- The first time Mrs. Linklater saw Pete at her health club, she wanted to meet him. A girl thing. It took awhile -- five years. He wasn't the world's most friendly sort. But when they finally met, she managed to forge a friendship with him that lasted two years. Think what it would be like to hang out with a cobra. And two years is a lifetime

Pete was in Viet Nam during 1963-64 when we supposedly weren't in Southeast Asia except as advisers.  If you ever want to cast someone to play a commando, he still looks like he stepped off a poster, tall, dark -- almost brooding -- handsome, muscular, and way too calm. He also hates bugs, snakes, and other creepy crawlers, from one too many nights out in the jungle, not being able to move, eat, drink, or make a sound for hours on end.

A few years ago, Mrs. Linklater was playing tennis with him, when he heard Russian being spoken on another court.  The man is fluent in Russian and Italian. He waved at her to meet him at the net. He then proceeded to demonstrate how he killed a Russian Major in Viet Nam, after spending five hours slowly and carefully crawling up on his hut. He grabbed her by the back of the neck with one hand, then almost broke her nose with his other hand.  He did this three times until Mrs. Linklater said, "Okay, I think I get it." 

Hm-m-m, having a flashback are we? Mrs. Linklater snapped him out of his trip down memory lane by asking if they could play their own game of "Commando" some evening. His eyes lost their blackness and that distant, far away look. Finally, he laughed. Phewf. 

Green Beret -- Just back from a tour of duty in Viet Nam, Mrs. Linklater met him at a neighborhood hangout. Someone she knew pointed him out, saying, that guy's been checking you out since you walked in. Oh goody. He was in civilian clothes and looked very GQ.  He wasn't just nice looking and tall, there was something about his bearing, the way he stood, that just oozed confidence.

He was also very easy going and friendly. At the same time, there was that eerie peacefulness about him. Is it the nature of men who have lived the demanding, often brutal, lives of commandos to be inordinately peaceful at other times? There is also something in their eyes  A mystery that runs silent and deep.. 

He had a fancy last name with a III at the end of it, which Mrs. Linklater thought was funny since his first name was Fred. "There's three of you named 'Fred?'" On purpose? Mrs. Linklater thought someone could have been more imaginative.

Over time he talked about Viet Nam. She heard detailed stories about the deaths of villagers, when they were looking for "Charlie.". When these assassinations were being explained to her, the slaughter actually seemed to make sense. A necessity of war. She was young, naive, and captivated. Okay, not thinking too clearly. The stories she heard were told to her way before any of the My Lai controversy hit the papers. Only then did what he said take on some perspective. Sometimes the terrible truths are tempered by personal feelings, when you talk with someone you care about who was there.

SEAL --When Mrs. Linklater met him, Bill looked like a carbon copy of Mac Wilkins, the Olympic discuss thrower or shot putter -- forget which. Most SEALS aren't that big. They tend to be six feet or so and lean muscle. Bill was 6'2" and bulked up like a football player. From the time he joined the Navy at 19 to the time he got out of the SEALs, he had grown a lot.  He gave Mrs. Linklater some of his old uniforms to show her -- from the early years, when he was a skinny 6'. She still has them.

When he first told her that he had been a SEAL, she said, "Oh, you were the guys that blew up the innocent women and children."   Mrs. Linklater is nothing if not charming. 

He bought some wooded property and built a two story, three bedroom house by himself.  One afternoon she took a walk with him through the brush and he suddenly began to crouch down and walk more carefully, looking from side to side. "This is how we used to walk through the jungle," he explained.  

He had a scar on one leg that looked like someone had taken a serving spoon and scooped part of it out leaving an indentation just like you see in ice cream.  "Is that from a bullet wound?" Mrs. Linklater asked more than once.  He never answered. He would only look at her.

He rarely talked about Viet Nam except when he was drunk. Which became more and more frequent over time. One story he repeated a lot.  That was watching one of the guys he was with cut the throats of two captives, after misunderstanding an order. Or pretending to misunderstand an order. Either way, it was senseless and disturbing. Bill figured he had killed 200 men himself in combat. Exaggeration?  Who knows? For the SEALs combat could be up close and personal. So maybe he was able to take a count. Most of his group received medals, but other people were designated to accept them, because, based on photos he showed her, they were a pretty scruffy looking bunch.

One of his SEAL buddiescame to visit for the weekend and you could see the bond they had.  His friend took Mrs. Linklater aside to say how important they had been to each other and what it meant to be part of the team. Clearly theirs would be a lifelong bond. Stronger than any woman.

Naval Supply Officer -- Mrs. Linklater's first boyfriend. In college, he told her he had been recruited by the CIA. So, did he join? He said he was going to Viet Nam as a Naval Supply Officer, but in his letters he talked about living in an big house with other guys in Saigon. Aren't Naval supply officers on ships? Mrs. Linklater tried to locate him recently.  She looked up his college alumni book and he wasn't listed.  So she called the alumni office and found out that no listing meant he was dead.  Wow. The school said they weren't supposed to reveal the information but Mrs. Linklater found out he died in 1982.  She has since found his sister, but still hasn't called to find out what she knows. Another entry. Another time.

Navy Fighter Pilot -- A high school classmate of Mrs. Linklater's who graduated from Annapolis and now flies for United. Mr. Straight Arrow.

At one time he was flying A-4's off carriers in Viet Nam. Later, he became the Commander of his reserve squadron at Miramar. By the time he re-connected with Mrs. L at their 20th H.S. reunion he was like the Tom Skerrit character in Top Gun. Only funnier and better looking. He was training the newbies how to be fighter jocks. And his hilarious letters would describe what the old jocks were doing to show the new jocks who was boss.

After they started seeing each other, he would fly in from California to the local Naval Air Station every few weeks, park his plane and they'd go out for dinner. 

When he flew, he wore a WWII bomber jacket with his nickname "Red" sewn on it, next to a bullet hole in the leather that he never planned to fix. He also had a turquoise and silver flecked helmet that made him look more like a biker than a pilot when he put it on.

They dated long distance on and off for three years, meeting in person when they could, until his wife called one morning. His third wife. Nine months pregnantwith their second child. Oh, really!  Was this a war thing or just a complete failure of character?

Navy Swift Boat Skipper -- A friend of Mrs. Linklater's for over thirty years. Through all the ups and downs of marriage, divorce, children, and careers. Early on, Mrs. Linklater went to visit him when he was a recent grad from OCS and about to ship out from San Diego to Viet Nam. 

Last month, thirty some years since their first meeting, they had dinner at the house he shares with his fiance. Nothing new, they've done it many times before. However, after a wonderful meal, he showed her a bunch of pictures she'd never seen. Most were black and white. All were from when he was In Country, riding up and down the Mekong Delta in his boat, like a sitting duck in a shooting gallery. He looked so young. 

He once told her about the time a bullet came whizzing by his right ear.  He moved his head slightly to the right and mused to himself, "Wow, an inch or two and that would have hit me." At that same moment, another bullet whizzed by his left ear. So he knows he was lucky to survive his tour.  And considers every day a gift. 

As Mrs. Linklater was leaving to go home, he brought out a number of Naval commendations he had received. Something she never knew about. After reading a couple for the first time, Mrs. Linklater came to a sudden realization: "Does this one mean that you won the Bronze Star?" "Yes."  "Why didn't you tell me."  "You didn't ask."

That's his picture.

 

Indy .5 Hundred

Answer: Tampax.  Question:  What sponsor would you like to see across the hood of an Indy car?

Looks like the race is delayed. After what, twenty some laps? Rats.

Mrs. Linklater refuses to watch NASCAR.

Anyway, that's enough for today.

Assignment #7 Dream Trip

The list of dream trips Mrs. Linklater would like to take is endless. And no longer available. For reasons that will become apparent.

She would like to take a leisurely ride on the Orient Express as a fabulously wealthy European countess in 1933. The opulent first class railroad cars. The fabulous clothes. The incredible service.  The extraordinary food.  Okay, there's soot from the engine that gets on your clothes and in your hair and makes it hard to breathe.  And there's no air conditioning if it gets hot. And no tampon dispensers. But this is a dream isn't it?

She would like to spend a week sitting next to Dorothy Parker, when she was holding court at the Algonquin Hotel.  Oh to be insulted by one of the legends. A woman Mrs. Linklater could look up to.

She would like to go to the Dartmouth Winter Carnival she missed when she was a freshman in college. With the dead guy who asked her. Well, he was alive then.

She would like to see what it's like to deliver mail as a Pony Express rider back in 18 hundred whatever it was. Can't beat the feeling of riding a horse loping across the open range. After hours and hours of course and being attacked by Indians, it could get old, but there would be those moments that would make it really special.

She'd like to be a member of Ted Turners' crew when he was competing in the America's Cup. Or any other sailboat race he was in. She'd have to have a sex change, too, since those races were with guys only.

But Mrs. Linklater's real dream vacation would start with a trip to a relaxing spa. She would spend a week or two having massages, doing meditation, living in luxurious accommodations and eating fabulous food. Both her daughters and all her girlfriends would join her.

Then she would come home to discover that her house has been completely renovated from the basement to the attic. Inside and out. New appliances.  New furniture. New pets. Everything new. For free. 

Oh, and she would also lose 30 pounds at the spa.

Okay, this is not a really a dream vacation.  It's a total hallucination.

Unless Ty andhis crew read AOL Journals and -- oh, get real, Mrs. Linklater.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fortune Cookies

Answer: You mean like pizza, croissant, quesadilla and strudel fortune cookies?  Question:  Should every kind of ethnic restaurant serve fortune cookies?

One of the perks of working on a movie or commercial set is the food. 

Today, however, was a notable exception.  Instead of the usual catered lunch, including cloth napkins, real plates, real silverware and food prepared by a chef or reasonable facsimile, somebody ordered from a takeout joint.

The table looked like the morning after the night before in a fraternity house. 

Styrofoam plates, little plastic forks, fourteen different boxes and plastic containers of various sizes filled with Chinese carryout food were spread haphazardly across a work table covered in white butcher paper. 

It reminded Mrs. Linklater of her own delicious cooking. Lukewarm and entirely disposable. But plenty of it.  Chop suey. Egg Rolls, Spicy Chicken. Spicy Beef. Buckets of rice to put it on.

And that's not all.

Chinese takeout would not be complete without a fortune cookie for everyone and all their recent ancestors. So Mrs. Linklater took not one, but two of the almond flavored, clam-shaped confections.

She cracked open the first one which said, "Your enthusiasm inspires people." H-m-m-m. Guess that means we can look for Mrs. Linklater to give the next state of the union address. 

The second one said, "No challenge is too big for you."  Odd, since Mrs. Linklater has been overwhelmed numerous times when she discovers that the toilet paper roll is emtpy.

The fortunes sounded like kindergarten platitudes. What happened to the good old days when the fortune in fortune cookies was closer to the truth?  When they had a little edge.  A little piss.  A little vinegar. 

"Your extra effort will go nowhere and you shall remain unrewarded."

Or "Your pet cat will endure great suffering before a lingering death." 

Those were Mrs. Linklater's kinda fortunes. The ones that smacked of downhome, homespun unpleasant truths.

"This day, which you may think is one of luck, is not."

They were seldom uplifting and always read like they had been badly translated from the original Chinese.

Of course, that was before someone sued, yes sued, for getting a bad fortune in their fortune cookie.

And ever since those little kernels of truth have been bland as vanilla yogurt. With nary a nattering nabob of negativity.

Too bad.

 

Artsy Fartsy Water

Answer: No.  Question:  Can you believe the lengths people will go to for their favorite water?

Mrs. Linklater has decided to fly to California when she's thirsty. She is always looking for new products.  And she has found the bottled water of her dreams at her friends' house in LA.

The kind of water in the bottle doesn't matter so much, as long as it's clear. Unlike beer, dark water doesn't have much appeal. The packaging is all that matters to Mrs. Linklater. The shape.  The cap. The label.

Although you can't believe anything they say on the label about where the water is from. Most of it is made at a factory by some reverse osmosis process anyway. 

Probably the purest water in the world is the melt off the glaciers in Iceland.  No air pollution to leave droppings. 

Real spring water probably has exotic bacteria that are immune to everything. Artesian water has been compromised for years in the US.

The stuff out of your tap is most likely too high in lead. Rain water? Good for your hair.  Bad for your insides. Anyway, it's all marketing. 

So for quite some time Mrs. Linklater has opted to choose her water based on style points alone rather than worry about substance.

Needless to say, she was thrilled to be introduced to an especially fashionable new bottle of water on her last trip to LA. The timing was right.

Lately, Evian seems so 90's, And that benzine thing with Perrier left a bad taste in all our mouths, no matter how they tried to make a comeback. 

Pelegrino has a certain cache for you fizzy water folks, but Mrs. Linklater was ready for something she couldn't buy at the grocery store.

From Norway, via LA, comes Voss water. In a sleek, almost elegant glass bottle, captured above in repose by Mrs. Linklater in the studio of her friends' house. 

Here's what the website [www.vosswater.com] says:

"We would like to introduce Voss Bottled Water from Norway, the first ultra-premium bottled water from Norway available in America. Voss is packaged in custom-designed sleek, cylindrical decanters, which are as appealing to the eye as they are smooth and cool to the touch"

Note how the shape of the bottle reveals the clarity of the water.Where have you ever seen water so beautifully expressed in such an achingly simple container.  With no aftertaste. And, remember, you can't get it at your local grocery.

As you can see from the picture, the bottle looks very nice next to the dumbbells. Think how it will look on your table.  

Mr. Linklater would also like to point out that there is enough room in her friends' studio for some serious exercise equipment, and, [what you can't see] a media system that could blow the roof off an SUV. Or the roof off the house, she supposes, if they really cranked it.

But she digresses.

Aside from the elegant simplicity of the Voss bottle, using glass is such a nice change of pace from plastic. So modernand yet so retro. Although, sorry to say, you can get Voss in plastic, too.

Regardless, Mrs. L thinks you can't beat glass for capturing water's refreshingly good taste. Because, as anyone who cares about the taste of water knows, glass helps to keep the flavor in. Or maybe it just keeps the PCBs in the plastic out. Something like that.

Voss water in glass bottles is available by the case for about $25.00.  Add $20 for shipping.  Add more for Hawaii and someplace else.

Be the first in your neighborhood.

WARNING: The case is very heavy.

 

 

r u a rock star?

Answer: To find out if Mrs. Linklater was a rock star. Question: Why did the dirt biker IM you this morning? 

Mrs. Linklater can't emphasize enough the importance of careful reading.  And not making assumptions.

This morning she was IM'd by a dirt biker who saw her picture posted at AOL Music Talk -- http://music.channel.aol.com/musictalk/main.adp -- one of these days Mrs. Linklater will read the instructions on how to do journal links. 

"r u a rock star? it says so at AOL."  Needless to say, Mrs. Linklater was confused. She can't sing on key.  She doesn't have roadies. And her drug supply is limited to Arthritis Tylenol.

Deciding it was a porn IM, Mrs. Linklater blew it off. Meanwhile, she checked Music Talk.

They had contacted her earlier in the week about posting her johnscalzi celebrity encounter.

She didn't realize that her way flattering picture [the one above] had already been posted, along with a link to her story about the near food fight she had with Don Henley in produce years ago. She's been asked by the editors at AOL for her picture before and nothing has ever come of it.  Surprise. .

But the caption didn't say Mrs. Linklater was a rock star; it said she had met a rock star.  Big dif.

So when a second IM came though with the same screen name, Mrs. L decided to chat with him. She just assumed was some guy with a reading disability.

After all, HIS screen name had dirt biker in it. HE also said he thought she looked like she was in her thirities.  LOL  [Easy mistake if you squint at Mrs. Linklater's picture from across the room.].

Must be someone really young. Are you in high school? Mrs. L IM'd, still thinking she was talking to a boy.

Nope.  Middle school. Turns out Mrs. Linklater's assumptions weren't just off, they were way off. She was IMing with a sixth grade girl. Who thought Mrs. Linklater was a rock star because she had read the caption wrong.  .

Cut her some slack and she's a cool kid. She's already an experienced dirt biker whose dad is getting her a new ride soon. She wants to grow up be a vet or an actor, even though she can't be in any plays yet, because her school won't let the sixth graders participate. She's got three dogs, a hamster and a fish, and she's really good at math -- in an advanced class already. She also has an eight year old sister who has a lemonade stand. 

And she was very impressed with how fast Mrs. Linklater could type.

After about 1/2 hour of chatting, she got called to breakfast.

Mrs. Linklater realized she could be her grandmother. 

Excellent.

 

 

Assignment #6 Best Friend in 2nd Grade

Answer: No thanks. Question: Do you feel like looking up your best friend from second grade?

Patsy Hartman was my best friend from first grade through sixth grade. Everyone thought we were sisters. We were inseparable. Riding bikes. Climbing the neighborhood tree. Playing heel, toe, stomp, and over. Chasing Ralphie Regabuto so we could kiss him. Then one summer day she moved to Hempstead, New York, and the very next day I moved to Chicago's North Shore.

I talked to her on the phone exactly once after we moved.

Then I saw her one final time in person, when the old neighborhood gathered for a reunion ten years later, after we graduated from college.  Everyone from the old days was there. They had all kept in touch with each other. But no one had kept in touch with me. Thanks guys.

Except for me, the old group looked exactly the same -- sensible clothes and shoes. No make up for the women. Most of their parents were still college professors, so the dress code was very Hyde Park -- our old neighborhood where the University of Chicago is located.

As far as they were concerned, I had turned into a North Shore Swell -- fur coat [it didn't help that it was fake], a dress from Saks, three inch heels, plenty o' makeup and worst of all, I was driving my graduation present -- a Mustang. Culture shock. Oops, sorry.  I should have taken the bus.

I felt like Patty Hearst at a Symbionese Liberation Army barbecue.

I spent the afternoon apologizing for living. Mostly for having a dad who was a doctor, and made more money than their fathers did. Not my fault.

So, getting together with my best friend in second grade is not on my list of favorite things to do.

Finding out why my first boyfriend died in 1982 -- now there's something I do intend to do.

Mrs. Linklater

More Troot or Dare

The inquisitive quroboros decided to take a chance on asking Mrs. Linklater the three questions -- all good ones.

1.)  When did you begin referring to yourself in the third person?

Many years ago, Mrs. Linklater [who feels the need to say she was divorced and not sneaking out on her husband] had a boyfriend who was six years younger than she. He started calling her Mrs. Linklater [i.e., Mrs. Robinson] for fun. Also the name just sounded funny to him. It sounds funny to Mrs. Linklater, too. [That old boyfriend had such a fine-tuned funny bone, he went on to write for the Simpsons.] His best friend, to this day, still calls her by that name. 

Soon Mrs. Linklater's girlfriends picked up on it. Finally, Mrs. Linklater even started calling herself Mrs. Linklater. It's somewhat eccentric. Slightly askew. Offbeat. Pretty much who she is. When she starting writing this journal in March, referring to herself in the third person seemed like an ownable affectation she could assume as her own. An old fashioned and gentle way to encourage respect from people who stop by, since she is MUCH older than everyone. Although it seems like she's just scaring the poop out of people. 

2.)  What popular movie star or celebrity do you absolutely hate and why?

Hate is such a strong word.  Mrs. Linklater doesn't have the energy to hate. Movie stars and celebrities aren't worth the effort. Most of the star types Mrs. Linklater has met or worked with have not only been all right, they've been extraordinary -- talented, funny, or smart.

Perhaps disdain is more accurate. Mrs. Linklater has never met the following celebrities. But she doesn't think well of them. Michael Jackson is one. Where there's smoke there's fire. Our prisons and priesthoods are filled with victims of physical and sexual abuse. He may not get out alive if he's convicted.

O.J. is another. Mrs. Linklater is a trained battered women's advocate. He had 23 or the 25 markers of a batterer who murdered his wife.  Kobe -- he's the tip of the pro jock iceberg when it comes to raping women. We should take bets on how long his wife sticks around after the trial is over. 

3.)  If you could go back in time & change things, what other career or occupation wouldyou have chosen?

Mrs. Linklater has had a chance to do a lot of things. She was in the touring company of Second City, she has been a model, an advertising creative director, and a photographer for friends' weddings. She's also a mom -- which she has enjoyed more than all the other occupations. She doesn't feel like she's missed much. If she could do it all over, she might have wanted to be a professional or Olympic athlete -- softball, volleyball, racket sports or cycling. Sports have always been a passion. Ooops, too late.  On reflection, race car driving and flying airplanes would have been fun. Love those jumpsuits.

Do This Or Else

Answer: Never.  Question:  How many times have you been to Las Vegas?

Forget that she has never been to Las Vegas and does not have any plans to go for the next 100 years -- Mrs. Linklater wants you to check out these sites. Do not even think about going to Las Vegas until you have.  

www.cheapovegas.com  This is a travel site with hilarious reviews of places to stay in sin city.

SAMPLE REVIEW:
Bellagio 1-888-987-6667
3400 Las Vegas Blvd. South, Las Vegas, NV 89109

Review:   When people talk about how sophisticated Vegas has become, the Bellagio is usually their first example. Well, they're right. This joint is nothing if not sophisticated. But with that come two things we're not particularly fond of: high prices and a low tolerance for rowdiness. Call us crazy, but we like our gambling resorts tacky, noisy and just a little spooky. If you feel otherwise, this might be the place for you.

Okay -- that's not fall down funny, but it's just an itty bitty taste of the wild and wacko stuff you'll find.

www.bigempire.com/vegas/  Las Vegas on 25 cents a day -- an eclectic selection of everything you ever wanted to know about the strip, from Freebies to things Mrs. Linklater can't begin to describe. Don't miss the Filthy Critic's movie reviews. There's a Mrs. Filthy, too.

 

 

 

Birthday Cake

Answer: I can't remember. Question: When was the last time you baked a cake?

Mrs. Linklater has a friend who bakes delicious cakes and breads. As easily as the rest of us make sandwiches. They are things of beauty. And very delicious. The cake in the picture was baked for Mrs. Linklater's older daughter to celebrate her birthday.  Clearly this was not something from a Duncan Hines box. With frosting from a can and "Happy Birthday" dripped badly across the top.

Every time Mrs. Linklater looks at the picture, she still can't believe it wasn't baked by some Martha Stewart wannabe. Nope. It was baked by a guy. A straight guy. It gets worse. He's not a chef -- baking is his avocation, not his vocation.  Some guys whittle or work on their cars. He bakes cakes. And loaves of bread.

Okay, now you think he's got a hyperactive feminine side. Mrs. Linklater begs to differ. He studied marshall arts for years. When he dresses for business he's usually wearing a tool belt and jeans. He thinks orienteering is a really fun way to spend an afternoon.  Unless he has time to go to a specialty hardware store. He's a published author. He can juggle too.

Mrs. Linklater has to take a break. This guy is too good to be true. Now he's just annoying her.

 

 

 

 

 

Questions and Answers

Well, lwhitewave had the courage to ask three questions. Thank you for stopping by. Mrs. Linklater is flattered and hopes she can summon up some good answers.

1)What, if anything, is one topic you would love to blog on, but don't dare to because you are afraid of public opinion? Mrs. Linklater would probably write about anything, as long as she could give it a humorous, satiric, or cynical spin. She's willing to take on the heavy stuff in a light way. Politics, religion, which way the toilet paper goes. The only public opinion she truly fears is her daughters'.

2)What is the craziest thing you've ever told someone (or wished you had told)when they asked your opinion?  Over the decades, Mrs. Linklater has said a lot of crazy things. Her mouth is rarely in check.

She was in a Sears meeting years ago, as one of the representatives of their ad agency.  There were at least ten men and one Mrs. Linklater. 

The Research & Development GUYS at Sears wanted to introduce a new iron that was so loaded with excess hardware, bells and whistles, all it needed was headlights. They were wetting their pants about this iron.

The Sears honcho turned to her and said, "So, you're a woman.  What do you think of this iron?" And Mrs. Linklater said, "I think you've got an Edsel." Silence.

Women don't care about  turbo-charged irons. Men do. Most women need one setting. And some steam. As far as Mrs. Linklater knows, they never launched that iron. 

[FYI: When the Edsel was introduced by Ford, it bombed so badly, it became the symbol of bad marketing.] 

3) Do you really dislike dogs and their people??  Cats are great, but I don't want someone to dislike ME because I have and love dogs....
Mrs. Linklater loves dogs and cats. And people, too, with a few exceptions. 

The Cat Leash Law journal entry may have left the wrong impression. It's stupid pet owners she has problems with. And dumb municipal laws.

She grew up with two collies and a kitty. She even held the kitty by her side all night when it was dying. She also helped any number of puppies to be born. Her daughters have grown up with three cats. There was a gerbil somewhere in there, too.

Actually she misses having dogs and cats so much, she often visits her friends and family who have dogs and cats just to spend time with their pets.

 

 

Well, now, that wasn't too hard. Mrs. Linklater doesn't need to lie down and take a nap or anything.

 

Troot or Dare

Answer: Hit me with your best stuff. Question: Are you comfortable giving people permission to ask you questions that you HAVE to answer?

<< There has been a little game going on around j-land that can be best be summed up by "Ask me three questions (absolutely anything)"

The game goes:

I want everyone who reads this to ask me 3 questions, no more no less. Ask me anything you want and I will answer it.

Then, I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste this allowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything. >> 

[Entry in jeffcomedy's journal, "What the hell. . .?"]

That's what happens when you visit other people's journals; they may ask you to do things you don't want to do.

Since I decided to ask him some questions [which he answered] I thought it was only fair to honor his request.

Other people asked much better/tougher questions than I did. Hm-m-m. This could get ugly.

The good news is that very few people stop by my journal to comment. Lurk maybe.  Comment no. So this could also be very easy. And short. Okay, I'm waiting. [I hope forever.]

Mrs. Linklater

 

Before and After

Answer: 34. Question:  Given the life you've lived so far -- you can't make any changes -- what age would you want to be? 

For today's contemplation of her navel, Mrs. Linklater has provided visual aids.

The first two photos are old pictures of Mrs. Linklater before she was Mrs. Linklater.  She was twenty-five.  [The photos were sent last week by her old boyfriend in picture 2; that's his brother in picture 1]

As people get older -- way older -- they tend to bring out old photos to prove that they really weren't so bad looking.  See, I could get a date! 

Mrs. Linklater is no exception. At the time the first two photos were taken, she didn't feel like either one of those shots was very flattering.

What was she thinking? Now she would kill to look like that. 

The third picture, for comparison, is the current Mrs. Linklater a couple of weeks ago. It's the best one of a whole bunch she took. The rest sucked. 

She pretty much never looks like that. Especially her hair. 

She attempted several times to get her whole body in the photo, but it wouldn't fit. Did we mention that Mrs. Linklater is now way over 50?

This photo trip down memory lane is to remind people that black tights, short skirts, big hair, women wearing ties, and false eyelashes are timeless expressions.

Everything old is new.

Low riders are just another incarnation of hip huggers. Flares = bell bottoms. Micros = minis. And Aqua Net has never changed.

The other thing is that it's easier to go blond when your hair starts to turn gray.

 

 

 

.

 

 

Assignment #5 Celebrity Encounter

Answer: The Eagles. Not one of those guys is more than 5'8" max. Question:  What is the shortest group of rockers you can think of?

Mrs. Linklater eschews rock concerts. She prefers the safety of her earphones. Or the privacy of her car where she can sing along as badly as she wants while she plays her favorite songs again and again and again.

At rock concerts nuance is nonexistent. Amplifiers rule. Sound comes in two speeds -- loud and louder.

There are endless lines at the toilet paper free bathrooms. 

And the venue menu tends to be carbo loaded -- hot dogs in soggy buns, nachos with lip searingly hot melted cheese, chips and candy bars left over from the original Stones tour. And, of course, beer, beer, beer, more beer and tasteless, watery soft drinks 

Having said all that, Mrs. Linklater was invited to an Eagles concert last night. She went. With traffic and weather, the commute alone took eight hours there and back.

Yes, she had a hotdog in a soggy bun. Yes, the amps were ramped up. Yes, the place was soaked in beer. Yes, everybody flicked their Bics. Yes, it was a great concert.

All of which, in a somewhat ironic way, brings us around to her celebrity encounter.

About twelve years ago she was in Aspen staying at an old boyfriend's house for a week or so over New Year's.

Not wanting to starve during her visit Mrs. Linklater suggested shopping for groceries. At the local market he headed for the libation area, and she went to produce. 

Soon, she found herself trying to figure out how to open up a strangely configured plastic bag so it could be filled up with vegetables.

She noticed two other people having the same difficulty -- a lady with a kid in her cart on her left and a short, apparently homeless man on her right.

Perhaps "homeless" isn't fair. Maybe he just hadn't had time to comb his hair or shave that morning. And it was easier to put on a ratty old coat over the clothes he must have slept in, since he was only going to the grocery store. 

But even if he wasn't really homeless, he was still short.

So there they were, all three of them, lined up in produce, struggling with their stupid plastic bags.

Soon opening the bags became a sport, with ribald, running commentary from Mrs. Linklater. The lady with the kid was amused by the unexpected entertainment.

However, the scruffy, short guy kept looking at Mrs. Linklater like he wanted to kill her.

Hm-m-m-m, are we a little edgy today? Clearly he did not like having someone make fun of his produce skills

Finally Mrs. Linklater got an artichoke into her bag in triumph -- and promptly pricked her finger on a leaf. "Serves you right!" the short, scruffy, homeless-looking man said gleefully. After which he smiled proudly at his tepid insult.

Undaunted, Mrs. Linklater wished everyone luck and took her hard-won bag of artichokes to the check out line where her old boyfriend was waiting at the counter.

He leaned over and whispered, "Do you know who that was?"   "No, who?" replied Mrs. Linklater. 

"Don Henley."

"Who's Don Henley?" 

 

 

Is it just me?

Answer: A female soldier. Question: Who should we blame for the atrocious American behavior against the prisoners held in the Iraqi prison?

Is Mrs. Linklater the only person who is shaking her head in disbelief that the focus of the charges for torturing captured Iraqi insurgents is a pregnant 5'2" female guard?

Has PMS come this far?

But, wait. Let's consider the upside -- after all these years of telling women they were the weaker sex, perhaps the truth has finally reared its pixie hairdo head. 

No longer will the cry, "Boys will be boys" be a males only badge of honor attached to  flagrant behavior.

Now women can proudly raise their fists and shout "Girls will be girls!!" knowing that it carries some real weight behind it. 

Finally whining isn't our only weapon. We have mastered the art of cruel and unusual punishment -- pointing at the private parts of a naked man and smiling for the camera.  You go girl!

Mrs. Linklater is feeling better about this whole thing already. 

Spring has Sprung

Answer: Bare toes. Question: How can you tell it's spring?

Mrs. Linklater knows that the first sign of spring is supposed to be flowers. A field of dandelions, a bed of daffodils, and a bouquet of tulips -- all harbingers of spring.

But how many times have you seen a bunch of naive little crocuses sticking their purple, white and yellow heads up through a cold chunk of snow? Making all the other flowers think it's time to bloom. Ha!! Fooled you!

So, as much as we like flowers, they can't really be trusted when it comes to deciding when spring has sprung.

Which begs the question -- how do you know when it's spring, Mrs. Linklater? 

Why, thanks for asking.

Mrs. Linklater believes that the only legitimate sign of spring is when toes come out. Yep, toes. Not just any toes, mind you. Sorry, guys. 

It may seem sexist, but Mrs. Linklater is not talking about male toes -- with all due respect to the many fine male feet out there. Well, both of them.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Linklater has seen far too many male toes out in the arctic windchills of January and February, to consider them signs of spring.

Usually they are signs that a sock drawer is empty.  Reduced to lint.

In fact, so frequent are these sightings that no one even blinks at a male college student dressed as a homeless person, mainlining coffee at a White Hen Pantry, in a pair of wrinkled shorts, a hooded sweatshirt and sandals.

Without socks. Walking through snowdrifts. Against the wind.

No, the real signs of spring are when women's toes make their appearance.

Freed from the bonds of boots, female feet come out to play. With toes accessorized in fabulous colors not found in nature, but often seen on "Pimp My Ride." 

No longer content with mere pinks and reds, toe plummage has evolved to include blues, greens, yellows, lavenders, and even browns.  

Mrs. Linklater's current favorite is "Kinky in Helsinki," an O.P.I. creation that isn't quite purple, isn't quite mauve and isn't quite fuschia. 

It does remind her of her brother's old Triumph motorcycle, which was painted with seventeen coats of Candy Apple Red. 

Other colors she's keeping on tap for June and the rest of the summer include a batch from O.P.I.'s Greek Isles collection -- their toenail polish homage to the Olympics, which may actually take place this summer.

Thus the names, "Greece Just Blue Me Away,"  "Melon of Troy," "Ti Tan Your Toga," and "Your Villa or Mine."

Mrs. Linklater wonders how many people stayed up nights coming up with these monikers.  

"Fee Fi Fo Plum" and  "London Bridges Falling Brown" are two more that make her smile in admiration for all their efforts.

Mrs. Linklater's fantastically unfettered feet are out and about as of last weekend, when the thermometer broke eighty for more than just a couple of hours. And stopped plunging to thirty-five at night.

She's flashing her freshly lacquered toes like a neon sign in Las Vegas, letting the sun catch the color so her pinkies look as pretty as a 1958 Cadillac Eldorado. 

Yo, her feet are phat.

 

 

No calorie chocolate and marshmallow dip

Answer:  Only if it has no taste.  Question:  Is there such a thing as no calorie chocolate?

Mrs. Linklater clicked her heels today at the grocery store. She almost yelled, "Yahoo!!"  No, not the internet yahoo. The original one.

There, on the shelf, was a jar of calorie free Chocolate Dip. And right next to it was a jar of calorie free Marshmallow Dip.  Ohboyohboyohboyohboy!!!!

The side of both labels said "Fat Free, Sugar Free, Calorie Free, Cholesterol Free, Carbohydrate Free and Guaranteed Delicious! [Italics Mrs. Linklater's].  She bought them both. Five bucks apiece.  Not cheap.

Mrs. Linklater was about to land in pig out heaven. Thoughts of everything she could dip in the dips danced in her head. Maraschino cherries. Marshmallows. Pound cake. Car parts.

Now, if only the dips actually taste good.  Of course they will.  It says "guaranteed delicious" right on the side doesn't it?  Mrs. Linklater is so pathetic.

She crossed her fingers and toes in hope. Making it hard to open the jars. So she uncrossed them.

Mrs. Linklater is also -- apparently -- a cockeyed optimist. Even though she has never liked the taste of anything sugar free. Or fat free. [And never seems to learn.] But somehow, for some reason, this time felt -- different.

Well, she just opened them for a taste.  First the marshmallow. Now, even as she writes in this journal she is tasting the chocolate.

EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! PTUI!!!

The taste gives new meaning to gag me with a spoon!!!

The marshmallow tastes like reconstituted powdered egg whites. But there are no egg whites in it. Not that they would have helped any.

The chocolate just tastes awful even though cocoa is listed as an ingredient.

The first thing listed in both of them is tripled filtered water. Environmentally PC, but lacking a certain je ne sais quoi.  Such as -- TASTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, she knew this would happen.  She just hoped it wouldn't. Ten dollars totally down the drain.

She notices there's a web site on the side of the jars. WaldenFarms.com for more calorie free specialties. 

This stuff comes from a FARM?!!!

Maybe they have a contact button so Mrs. Linklater can whine about this terribleexperience.

*sigh*

Day After Mother's Day Thoughts

Answer: Mother's Day.  Queston: What can be the hardest day of the year?

 

Mrs. Linklater wonders how many women celebrated Mother’s Day without their mothers, because they died of breast cancer? 

 

Her own mother died from breast cancer at fifty. 

 

Since then, Mrs. Linklater has noticed that every woman she knows who was diagnosed with breast cancer, except one, was on birth control pills, HRT, smoked cigarettes, or, unfortunately, combined two or more of these. Not to mention some other risk factors you don't hear much about.

 

Mrs. Linklater's mother was raised on a farm and was an avid, accomplished gardener. She could make anything grow.  And she often used a big metal sprayer to control garden pests and weeds.  She also cleaned it out religiously every time she finished using it. Without gloves, without a mask. Exposing herself to poisons which, it has been determined, become estrogen-like compounds in the body. The longer the exposure to excess estrogen, the higher the risk for cancer.

 

She also drank lots of coffee. Caffeine in coffee doesn't cause cancer; it exacerabates cystic breasts, which makes the breasts dense and lumpy, so it's difficult to discern growths manually or visualize them on a mammogram.

 

At 44, her mother started using a body cream that had estrogen in it -- a recommendation from her Beauty Counselor cosmetic rep. This new cream was the latest thing for women of a certain age who were about to embark on the adventure called menopause. The cream would help keep the skin soft and supple, help prevent wrinkles, the usual b.s.

 

Mrs. Linklater, who was seventeen at the time, tried some of the cream with her mother's encouragement. She put a dab on her finger and smoothed it on her face.  Immediately her face turned an angry red where her finger had wiped it across her skin.  Wow, this stuff is strong, she said to her mother. Well, I guess it's too strong for teenagers, her mother replied.

 

Over the years, Mrs. Linklater has come to the realization that the cream was so loaded with estrogen, it was too strong for any woman who used it. [After years of anecdotal evidence and now hard studies, estrogen is finally listed as a cause of cancer.]

 

You can't buy estrogen-loaded body cream over the counter anymore. That should make you wonder why they took it off the market. And what happened to all the women who used it? 

 

[NOTE: There is currently a topical estrogen cream for "dryness." By prescription.  Mrs. Linklater thinks any woman who uses it should reconsider. Especially if she smokes.]

 

For some reason, around two years later, Mrs. Linklater's mother, an accomplished tennis player, began smoking again. At forty-eight, having trained several months for a championship tennis match, she found a lump in her breast a week before the tournament.  She had a radical mastectomy the next day.  The lump was diagnosed as a very aggressive cancer, which had already metastasized. 

 

Still, even after missing the tournament, she was out playing tennis two weeks after she had surgery -- with a drain in her arm. Very sadly, she died two years later.  Pesticide exposure, estrogen cream, smoking.

 

Mrs. Linklater has never smoked, doesn't drink coffee, always hires a lawn crew, quit birth control pills after three months, nursed her babies [which provides protection] and will never join the ranks of the hormone replacement babes who were dropping like flies until the latest government warning that HRT isn't all it was cracked up to be. [NOTE: After 15-20 years on the HRT, you can pretty much count on getting breast cancer, even with no family history, not to mention the opportunities for uterine cancer and gall bladder problems. Don't go by Mrs. Linklater, start asking women who have had breast cancer.]

 

Years ago, Mrs. Linklater had a friend in her forties whose doctor prescribed birth control pills for symptoms of menopause. Birth control pills in her forties? Why not HRT? Regardless, her friend also smoked.  The alarm bells went off and Mrs. Linklater warned her friend not to combine the two. "Stop smoking.  Stop the hormones. Especially stop doing both of them. You could get breast cancer."  Unfortunately, her friend ignored her.  She was diagnosed with breast cancer two years later.

 

When Mrs. Linklater went to visit her friend with a basket of flowers, prior to her surgery, her friend was clearly not happy to see the person who had predicted her cancer.  That old "kill the messenger" thing. Mrs. Linklater saw her now former friend once more at a restaurant with a scarf over her bald head because of chemo. Mrs. Linklater said hello. The former friend just glared back.  Did she survive?  Don't know.

 

Shortly after she turned fifty, Mrs. Linklater was invited to a menopause seminar for women in the area, sponsored by a local hospital.  Hundreds attended. Baby boomers. There was a panel of doctors.  And a lot of literature.  All of the literature was from Premarin, makers of HRT, Mrs. Linklater noticed.  All of the doctors on the panel were pushing HRT. She smelled a pharmaceutical plot to make a lot of money off women afraid to grow old. All in collusion with the doctors, because the docs seem to listen to the good news pushed by the drug reps without reading the fine print and deciding for themselves. Plus they often get paid by the pharmaceuticals to do "studies."  

 

Mrs. Linklater is also cynical about all these Komen and Y-Me races that raise money to help find a cure for breast cancer.

 

Why not just prevent it in the first place? She doesn't think it's a mystery why women are getting breast cancer in record numbers. Just track the introduction of pesticides in the forties, followed by the introduction of birth control pills in the sixties followed by HRT in the eighties.

 

The pharmaceutical companies continue to be audacious. They advertise birth control to young women as a pill that helps to reduce acne. That's like dropping an atom bomb on a fly. Which reminds Mrs. Linklater that there was once a time when radiation was touted as the hot new cure for acne. You gotta watch these pharmaceutical people. They missed the memo on integrity. 

 

Which brings up some questions: What is the percentage of young women getting breast cancer after 10 years on birth control? Can't find it. You could ask a nurse at an oncology clinic what she thinks. Also watch for new warnings about breast cancer on birth control pills.

 

What is the REAL percentage of women on HRT who get breast cancer versus women who have never been on it?  You never see those stats. Most statistics for breast cancer have been based on the entire female population, not just those who were on HRT.  The elevation in breast cancer seems very small that way.

 

Even after the recent studies, the pharmaceuticals still tell older women that HRT can reduce menopause symptoms. It's a tradeoff.  You could very well get breast cancer, but you won't have menopause symptoms. 

 

But that's not why women are on HRT. Mrs. Linklater took a poll of friends and everyone really counted on HRT to reduce their wrinkles and keep them sexually active. Breast cancer wasn't on their radar. Marketing.

 

The early testing that said HRT was good for your heart, and helps prevent osteoporosis [yet another story], etc., was paid for by the pharmaceutical companies.

 

The new study that said HRT wasn't such a miracle after all was done by a government agency. Ooops, all that extra estrogen isn't protection for your heart and there's a lot of evidence it causes breast cancer, sorry about that.

 

Sadly, Mrs. Linklater discovered all this for herself a long time ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weekend Assignment #4

The most memorable birthday present I ever got? Hm-m-m. Was it the year I got a motorcycle helmet from my [former] spouse? Memorable, but like a woman who remembers getting a vacuum cleaner -- not in a good way. Was it last year's gift when one of my brothers presented me with a beautiful blue topaz pendant the size of a bowling ball for a mileSTONE birthday? Close.

But there is one that has stood the test of time. The most memorable was also the most meaningful.  And it wasn't even a birthday present. It was a surprise party thrown by my older daughter. She planned it from start to finish by herself. From hand-delivering the invitations -- women only, she specified -- to getting a cake and figuring out a way to get me out of the house so the guests could sneak in. She worked so hard to make it so much fun for everyone. I loved every minute.

And the thing that still brings a smile to my face more than twenty years later is that she did it all when she was only ten years old.

Cat Leash Law

Answer: LOL!  Question: Have you ever tried to walk a cat on a leash?

Mrs. Linklater wants to refer to herself in the first person today.  Sometimes that happens, she just has to deal with it.

The town I live in is a cottage cheese suburb. White and very average. Maybe a little more religiously diversified than some -- we have our own Muslim mosque, along with both Catholic AND Jewish parochial schools. A Korean protestant church, too. 

We also have the required White Hen Pantry and a sub-par 7-11, not to mention Dunkin Donuts, Subway, Domino's, Target, Kohl's, Kinko's, FedEx, Michael's, and a HUGE Shop till You Drop, Eat till You Burst, then Go to One of our Sixteen Movie Theaters Mall, along with a number of regular sized and eensey weensey malls scattered all over town.

Crate and Barrel's corporate headquarters are here.  So are All State, Underwriter's Labs, Culligan, Accenture, Jim Beam, the list goes on.

From the evidence I've provided, my town would seem to have all the trappings of civilization.

So what were the Village Trustees thinking when they enacted a cat leash law? In a nutshell, if you want to let your cat outside in my town, it has to be on a leash. Or you can be fined.

This could leave cat owners up a tree -- literally. Actually anyone who has ever tried to walk a cat has no doubt discovered the real problem immediately. They simply lie down and refuse to move.

On the other hand, a dog leash law makes sense, mainly because only the long arm of the law could pressure a dog owner to remove Fido's droppings from my lawn.  Cats, for some reason, have always had a built-in clean up mechanism -- they instinctively know how to bury their leave behinds -- usually under a bush, where you will never know it existed. [I wonder how you write DNA code for something like that?]

Over the years, before dog leash laws, I've experienced snarling AKC pedigreed canines up close and personal as they jump up, chase, knock down, attack, and bark at just about everything: Cars, cyclists, joggers, mail carriers, delivery people, me, my children, neighbors and friends. Leashes are to dogs as handcuffs are to criminals. Very appropriate.

In contrast, when was the last time you saw a cat trying to tear the hubcaps off your tires? Or come running at you, unprovoked, mewling and puking -- oh, sorry, I got sidetracked, I meant to say: Meowing and hissing like a jungle animal? When have you watched a kitty knock down your kid to get at her ice cream cone? Or, for that matter, stop to take a pee on your leg?  Leashes are to cats as forks are to ice cream.  Not useful.

When the leash law was enacted for dogs here, there was an enormous hue and cry from the local dogowners. Boy, were they were ticked off.  Now they had to actually walk their dogs instead of just letting them run free and leave dead yellow or bright green stains all over my lawn. And, to add to their humiliation, the owners were also expected to pick up their beloved doggies' poop and "dispose of it properly". They were outraged. That's why I was mildly amused to read that they were determined to get a cat leash law enacted, too.  It'll never happen, I thought.  Cooler heads will prevail. But I'll go to the meeting and make sure.

I was out of town and missed the meeting.

That was a few years ago.  And I've been so busy raising kids and working that I haven't had time to deal with this stupdity. But now the kids are on their own and I don't have to carpool to school, make lunches, chaperone dances, or be a soccer and basketball mom,

Maybe I have enough time to get that idiotic ordinance repealed.  Hm-m-m-m-m. Stay tuned.

Those Wacky Germans

Answer:  Very carefully. Question: How do people have sex 2.2 times a week?

NEWS FLASH:

Berlin - BMW drivers have more sex than owners of any other cars and are much more active than Porsche drivers, a new German car magazine has found.

The German magazine Men's Car found in a survey of 2 253 motorists aged 20 to 50 published in its inaugural May issue that male BMW drivers say they have sex on average 2,2 times each week while Porsche drivers have sex 1,4 times per week.

Following BMW drivers were Audi (2,1), Volkswagen (1,9), Ford (1,7) and Mercedes (1,6). Drivers of foreign car makes were also behind BMW with Italian cars (2,0), French (1,9), Japanese (1,8), Swedish (1,6) and Korean cars (1,5) trailing after.

Among women, French car drivers were top with 2,1 times per week followed by Audi (2,0), Italian (2,0), and BMW (1,9) with Porsche again at the bottom of the scale at 1,2 times per week.

[NOTE: The Europeans have a habit of using commas for decimal points, which, aside from being annoying, never fails to look like a freaking typo no matter how often one sees it.]

Mrs. Linklater notices that this definitive study of cars and sex was done in Germany, where precision is everything.  Thus, it makes complete sense for the German scientists who conducted this survey to list the number of times people have sex EXACTLY, so there is no confusion at all for anyone.  Except Mrs. Linklater.

Clearly, because these people are scientists, having sex 2.2 times a week is somehow MEANINGFUL. What Mrs. Linklater would like to know is how does a couple, any couple, have sex .2 times? Are there degrees of sex for which a number is assigned?  So that a mere invitation to "do it in the road" is worth say, only a .1, but unzipping one's trousers is .4, and having someone else unzip them is worth .6, etc.?  And who decides these relative values?  At this point Mrs. Linklater has a well-founded concern that the people in charge of determining what sex is worth might be one or more of the German scientists. Not a pretty picture.

But that brings us to the most pressing issue on her mind -- were the people in the survey having sex IN THE CARS? H-m-m-m. She notices that this important point is avoided in the cleverly worded report. Doing it in the cars, as it were, might explain why the BMW, which is comfortable enough to house a family of five, was rated highest and the Porsche, which can barely carry a bag of groceries, was rated lowest. Not to mention where the German scientists were standing in their white lab coats with their clipboards during the survey. 

Most people probably didn't give any of this a second thought. But somebody has to ask the tough questions.

No need to thank her, Mrs. Linklater is here to help.

 

Oh Well

Answer: Shut up, yer bugging me. Question: Do people think you're old and cranky?

Some guy took exception to a reply Mrs. Linklater wrote in someone's journal entry.  Called her old and cranky. Yeah, and your point is?  Actually she thought she was performing a public service.  Because the person who wrote the entry handed out some misguided reproductive information that could seriously affect the birth rate in nine months. And we know that could lead to more garbage dumps filling up with diapers, which could lead to global warming or thermal blankets or thermos bottles, at the very least.  Mrs. Linklater is feeling somewhat defensive about telling some young whippersnapper she didn't know do-dah about how NOT to make babies.  Okay, she's old and cranky.

Since it's late and Mrs. Linklater is too lazy to email these people:

Note to BAD -- if you remember how to find my journal and stop in to read this, Phi Beta Kappa Boy, tell me what's going on with all the career stuff we talked about a week ago. Selling oranges at an intersection is not a resume builder.

Note to ANT-KNEE -- funny commercial.  Surprised me actually, that it wasn't full frontal. I couldn't tell what the product was, because there were French words I've never seen. And, given the astonishing payoff, just what the freak were they advertising?  

Note to RAGS -- As soon as I can figure out how to make your Nancy Boy pictures bigger -- they are going to loom LARGE on the Pop Tarts entry.  Only a big check will stop me.

Time on my hands

Answer: Apparently.  Question: Mrs. Linklater, you keep an online journal -- do you have too much time on your hands?

A friend of hers read some of these journal entries and decided Mrs. Linklater has too much time on her hands.

So in the fifteen minutes it takes her to write this entry, she will try to think of other things she could be doing instead. G-rated things. And let's skip saving the world, helping her neighbors, performing random acts of kindness and cut to the chase. 

She could be sleeping. But fifteen minutes of sleep is like one bite of chocolate.  Not going to happen. 

A shower might be more productive. But that leads to wet hair which leads to styling products, hair dryers, hot rollers, curling irons -- you do the math.

Can't read a whole book, but she could read a couple of New York Times reviews and pretend she did. But that means going out to purchase a Times which would use up time. No time to get the Times.  Ah, the irony. 

She could check to see if the Cubs and Sox won. Wait, she already did. 

She can always Google people she knew from high school. Like she cares about high school anymore. 

She could call her Aunt Genie. Just did, she's out. 

She could work on her novel. LOL.

She could start a load of dishes or clothes. Oh, stop with the guilt trip.  

She could get a bowl of cereal, eat it and be back in time to finish this entry. Or not come back at all. She likes that one.

Later.