Powered by Squarespace


I’m sure many of you clean and service your computers on a regular basis. Not only do you have the little vacuum devices and splotch be-gone evaporation techniques, you also plug and launch and secrete and encrypt and do micro-biotic secret surgery to original factory restrictives. I am in awe, and yet, despise the wise and wonderful technologists among you.

Sure, sure, you’ve heard all of this before. I can almost see the grins and nods. You get extra points if you roll your eyes.

Time and time again, I’ve needed help. Help fixed the problem. It suddenly seemed to make sense and I thought I’d remember the clicks and screens and logic. But I didn’t, and I despised admitting I needed help again and again.

So, if you are all feeling even just a bit understanding and cozy, here’s why I needed to coddle you into reading this pathetic blog.

(One) I can’t think of a decent thing to write about right now. I can’t even think of an indecent thing to write about right now.

(Two) I have loaded my computer with junk and need to delete things.

(Three) An e-mail from 2003 found its way in to my Word program/folder, and I have no idea how it got there.

(Four) I read the dang thing and it was funny.

(Five) I copied the best of it and deleted the rest.

(Six) I feel pretty damned proud of myself right now.

(Seven) Take a recycled insanity break. See below:

1. At lunch time, sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a
hair dryer at passing cars. See if they slow down.

2. Page yourself over the intercom. Don't disguise your voice.

3. Every time someone asks you to do something, ask if they want fries
with that.

4. Put your garbage can on your desk and label it "in."

5. Put Decaf in the coffee maker for 3 weeks. Once everyone has gotten
over their caffeine addictions, switch to Espresso.

6. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sexual favors."

7. Finish all your sentences with " accordance with the prophecy."

8. Dont use any punctuation marks

9. As often as possible, skip rather than walk.

10. Ask people what sex they are. Laugh hysterically after they answer.

11. Specify that your drive-through order is to-go.

12. Sing along at the opera.

13. Go to a poetry recital and ask why the poems don't rhyme.

14. Put mosquito netting around your work area. Play a tape of jungle
sounds all day.

15. Five days in advance, tell your friends you can't attend their party
because you're not in the mood.

16. Have your coworkers address you by your wrestling name, Rock-Hard

17. When the money comes out of the ATM, scream "I won! I won! Third
time this week!!!!!"

18. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot, yelling
"Run for your lives, they're loose!!"

19. Tell your children over dinner. "Due to the economy, we are going to
have to let one of you go."

Thanks for joining me for a little fun. We’d all go completely nuts without a little humor.



It's Where My Heart Lives


I sit on a bench

On the beach

On Long Beach Island.


It’s where my heart lives.


This state:

Its beaches

Its highways

Its history


And glorious Autumn colors.


New Jersey




Husbands are such wonderful topics for girl-talk (meow...meow).  My own husband (bless his heart) is an endless treasury of gems.  Okay!  I’m not perfect either; but I have a website, and he does not.  So, grab a cup of coffee and I’ll tattle a bit about why the men we love can drive us crazy and make us laugh all at the same time.

The incident took place in San Antonio, TX around 1978, when some dear friends of ours came for a visit.  They were former residents of San Antonio who moved to the icy climes of a small town in Missouri.  Naturally, the need to re-Texify afflicted them on a somewhat semi-annual basis.  During such visits, Tex-Mex food was always high on the agenda along with the Mariachi Mass celebrated at Mission San Jose.

The day began bright, warm, clear, low humidity.  Since the calendar said Sunday, we arose early, with a well-designed plan to prepare a full breakfast and still have time to do breakfast and clean up four adults and three children to an acceptable level for the Mariachi Mass.  We were joyous and completely confident that we could present sparkling, well-fed faces to God, and born-again appetites to whichever Tex-Mex restaurant we fancied for lunch.

Organization.  Yes, organization would be the key to success!  Assignments would be fairly assessed.  

Kids:  Set the table. 

Adults:  Concentrate on food preparation and presentation to the best of your ability.  The menu for breakfast would be the classic choice:  Scrambled Eggs, Bacon, Sausage, Toast, Coffee, Tea, Juice, and Milk. 

Synchronize movements.  No wasted motion. 

Find and utilize: Coffee Pot, Tea Kettle, Glasses, Mugs, Griddle, Bowl, etc. 

The troops fell-in and the duty roster announced.  All started well.  We proudly proclaimed ourselves a mean, lean breakfast machine. 

It was a sight to behold.  We became a symphonic perfection -- such beautiful, graceful action figures dancing in perfect rhythm to the music of our common goal.

Then I made a perfectly clear, sweet request to my husband. “Honey,” said I, “please put a dozen eggs in this bowl so I can scramble them; and be careful with the shells.” 

Each had their own jobs to attend to, so no one monitored Honey’s was time to scramble the dozen.  I called for the bowl.  The bowl arrived....complete....with 12 eggs beautifully stacked, completely ensconced, in their original shells.

I was at once shell-shocked, and babbled something about ‘lack of competent help.’  All work came to a standstill as the bowl was inspected.   Yes, the eggs were, indeed, inside that bowl.  Yes, the shells were safe and secure.  No, they were not ready to be scrambled.  Then the laughter began. 

Poor HONEY scored one, again, for the hapless husbands of the world. 

“Hey, I did what you said:  Put the eggs in the bowl.  Was careful of the shells.  You never said to break open the eggs.”   He said this with a straight face, and a look of complete innocence. 

Now, I ask you:  “Don’t you just have to LOVE the guy?”

We razzed him all through breakfast.  We broke out in giggles during Mass.  We even thought about offering his food interpretation skills to the nearest House of Omelets.   Many years have passed since then, but every so often, our friends will phone with the question:  “How’s old eggs-in-a-bowl?!”  

And so, we live...we love...we laugh...and keep treasured memories such as this in a very special place in our hearts.  Oh, yes!  There is no doubt in my mind that the HONEYS of this world keep our lives interesting and worthwhile. 




The lure of the open road...

Hmm, that road bit borders on being an oxymoron.  Doesn’t it?  Well, whatever, even a traffic jam won’t stop most of us from pressing on to our destination. 

Vacation trips wear many faces.  Yes, they do.  High-style, simple, rugged, exotic, horror-filled and hilarious masks cover our countenances.  Sometimes we are required to wear several of these masks, because what you think you will get on vacation isn’t always as advertised. 

Buck up folks!  Any time spent away from the ordinary drudgery of our daily existence is better than no time at all.

As the kids say, the bestest vacations are the ones where we have the most fun. 

Fun is foremost, but memories follow and endure way beyond the whoops and hollers of jolly fun. 

When we are young and childless, we occasionally figure that our friends have similar goals for the ideal vacation.  We draw together and bond our ideas into a no-fail itinerary of adventure. 

Pish-tosh!  Have you ever succeeded in getting just one other person to completely agree with your way of thinking?  I thought not. 

Add to that the fact that selecting one of your personal cars to transport you all to the desired destination is fraught with the pits of desperation and despair. 

Automobile machinery doesn’t care about our sweet words of encouragement to make it to the next service station.  When they’re thirsty and tired, they stop.  They know nothing of reservations, or our need to have the best vacation ever. 

Automobiles are not our friends; so don’t waste your words.

Our friends are our true-blue compadres.  And choosing well is the best way to survive when the real meaning of friendship is tested.  To illustrate, I’m going to take you into the distant past, where friendship not only survived -- it grew into the most hilariously grim series of misadventures for two married couples. 

The condensed version is as follows:

1966 did not offer easy interstate travel.  Those lines on the map abruptly ended or dotted their way hither and yon, and service stations and eateries were hit and miss.  You took your chances.

We plotted and planned for a cheap vacation that took us from New Jersey, to Florida, to the Bahamas, and back.  No frills for us.  We would survive on simple sandwiches while driving.  And we anticipated no car worries other than fuel.

Ah!  The wonder of it all -- fun, sun, surf, roulette, the freedom of the open road in a 1959 baby blue Cadillac convertible!  No problem!  No waaaay!!

Alas, we barely crossed the Jersey line before our plans began to unravel. 

The sandwiches languished while we dined in quaint restaurants.  

Rain and fog plagued us. 

The roads...well, the roads were less than great once we left the Jersey Turnpike and went increasingly downward until we reached Florida’s Sunshine Parkway.

In between, our ship-of-fools fed herself whenever she took the notion.  Oh, she was beautiful.  No doubt about that.  But she became an aging damsel in distress, at midnight, in the less than bustling town of Glynco, Georgia.  (Blown generator.)  We thought we were doomed.  (Credit cards were in their infancy.) 

Fate intervened in the form of a real live Cadillac dealer cum service station -- open all night -- with towing services.   Rescued, a little light in the pockets, and armed with a friendly trooper’s radar locations we blasted that blue baby through her newly revived paces.

Hunger and fatigue threatened.  We rotated drivers every two hours, and went back to our original budget.  Come hell or high water, we were going to push straight through to Ft. Lauderdale. 

That blue bombshell of a Caddy caught the excitement and performed at her maximum.  She also looked much prettier than all four of us after the grueling 36 hours of travel (truth) we had all endured.   

We knew she looked prettier because the motel manager smiled at her and carefully inspected us.   It was necessary to burden him with our tale of woe.  He relented and later agreed that we ‘cleaned up pretty good’ after a nap and a shower. 

The Bahamas beckoned the next morning, and the Caddy was left to rest at the airport.

With renewed vigor, we boarded what best can be described as an island-hopping wreck.  For ninety air miles, we shook and rattled our way to Freeport, Grand Bahama Island.

The hotel was lovely, and we were sure our hearing was restored when we heard the prices the food and drinks cost us.  (!Groan and impending poverty!)  Visions of hitting a gambling jackpot were hampered because our drachmas were dwindling.

Okay, cut out lunch.  Breakfast would become our main meal.  We could do this for a few days.  So, so wrong!   

We immediately turned snappish and grumpy from lack of food.  I drafted a new plan.  Ready, set, go to the room with breakfast leftovers.  My companions were appalled.  That is, until I whipped out the food at lunchtime and we all pounced upon it.

Just as we were ready to congratulate ourselves, one fell under the influence of a virus, requiring a taxing Taxi trip to the doctor -- more misery in paradise.

Finally, we said ‘good-bye’ to the Bahamas, and  ‘hello, Miami’.  I’m not kidding when I say we were glad to spot the glimmering blue of the Caddy, as we endured the landing of the same wreck that took us to the island of our near downfall.

Miami gave us, all-inclusive, three meals per day.  Such a deal!  Yeah, until you realize that the elevator shaft uses the walls of your rooms to rumble against -- day and night. 

We endured and took advantage of free sunburn.

The quest for home found us determined to become the biggest cheapskates on the planet.   We fueled ourselves on sandwiches.  (Oh, how the mighty did fall.)  Her blue Caddiness choked on cheap, so we were forced to feed her hi-test.

Keep going, boys and girls.  We know the way.  Let’s go straight to Jersey.  Wrong!  Capt. Jack’s Motel beckoned in Yulee, Fla.

“Aye, me hearties!  Don’t worry about the bugs.  Just turn on that there window fan.  She’ll suck the bugs right out of the room."

Aye yourself, Jack!  Just tell those poker-playing, party-hearty mates next door that we’ll pass.

Further up the road, we did find a cute cottage complete with a garage and beds with Magic Fingers. (Oooh, give me a quarter.)

Our trip progressed.  We barely had twelve dollars left -- total.  But the good cousin in Virginia Beach was about to find squatters on his doorstep. 

Yep, our pride had given way to necessity.  Bless his heart, he put us up in the driveway, in his unbalanced travel trailer, and fed us breakfast before slipping us an emergency loan.

Somewhat misty-eyed, we plunged forward to Jersey.  What a wonderful sight it was to cross over into the Garden State.  We fought the good fight.  We survived.  We all shared an experience never to be forgotten.  Most of all, we were then, and still remain, the dearest of friends.






MEMO TO:      Dr. Uriah Rexford Artemis Drake

FROM:              Ignatius Moore Verde

DATE:               August 10, 2000

SUBJECT:       Dissolution of Permission to Treat


Please consider this memo to be official notice of my desire to cease any and all treatment programs.


Whilst under your care, certain bizarre recommendations, fostered by you to cure me of my many phobias, have resulted in the creation of additional phobic episodes.


My most recent episode has been a most frightening, realistic, yet delightful, encounter with the specter of a lovely lady.


The tale is as follows:


On Tuesday last, I awoke with a start, caused by the thick aroma of citrus within my bed chamber.  This cloying scent appeared to be emanating from a shimmering glow, which I observed hovering at the foot of my four-poster.


I arose, and, as my mind and vision cleared away the cobwebs of sleep, the glow transmuted itself into the form of a stunningly beautiful and, might I add, well-stacked young woman.


She was the color of Lime, from her long curly tresses to her delicate toes.  She undulated before my eyes in a manner that suggested both substance and transparency.  Her intoxicating perfume, most definitely of citrus origin, caused me to long for another slice of Key Lime Pie.


Her intense green glow cast its light even into the darkest corners of my vast room.


She beckoned me to approach.  She reached out to tickle the stubble on my chin.  A giggle passed through her lips and her entire personage trembled in a very attractive manner.  I guess a better description would be that she giggled...then jiggled.


She sort of ‘gave me the eye’ and crooked a jiggling finger in a signal for me to follow her beyond my chamber door.  She cast a deeply hypnotic spell, and I followed her every move.


After a thorough inspection of the most important rooms in my 19th century brownstone, she led me into the spacious bath suite.  You might recall that this suite was the last part of the extensive renovation performed upon the brownstone property that I have been restoring with utmost care.  You might also recall that I indicated to you, more than once, that I often felt I was not alone within the walls of this three-story townhouse.


Once inside the bathroom suite, my Emerald Lady (for that is the endearing name I have since given her) found it necessary to gently caress each fixture and appliance.  She even dawdled with the handle on the loo. 


She must have been especially fond of the Jacuzzi tub, for she cautiously lifted her long, flowing skirt and demurely stepped into its confines.  When she settled herself comfortably into its depths, she turned her head upon her shoulder, flashed me a seductive smile, and extended her arms towards me in a most brazen display of carnal intent. 


In my pounding desire to see my Emerald Lady more clearly, I hit the massive lighting control panel and flooded the suite with blinding wattage.  It took just mere seconds to blink and adjust my eyes.  But, alas, in just that tiny sliver of time, I found that she had vanished.


With a heavy heart, I slapped the switches of the panel.  The suite plunged into the deepest darkness, and the deepest sadness I have ever encountered.


I dragged myself towards the kitchen upon the strength provided by my ravenous desire for Key Lime Pie. 


There was no longer the greenish glow of the Emerald Lady to light my way.  I was forced to engage every light switch.  The journey was torture, but my quest for the procurement of the pie drove me far beyond human endurance. 


I set the pie upon the table and devoured it with relish.  My mind fought to accept the reality of the night’s encounter.  Thus, I realized that I could not return to restful sleep unless I returned to my lady’s vanishing point.


I re-entered the bath suite and embraced the darkness.  I willed the Emerald Lady to return.  She did not.


I, once again, flooded the suite with mega-wattage and walked to the Jacuzzi.  To my utter delight, I found it brimming with green Jell-O.  My Emerald Lady was real!  My Emerald Lady had left me a sign of her existence. 


I am not crazy.  I am more sane than you can ever hope to be. 


You, sir, are a QUACK!  U. R. A. Drake, indeed!


Please rid your files of my records. 


My Emerald Lady and I will rendezvous as often as she permits.  And if, as I suspect, my phobic episodes have been caused by food allergies; then so be it. 


I will pick and choose and diagnose myself, but my refrigerator will necessarily contain a never ending supply of Key Lime Pie.  And that is why my bathtub is full of green Jell-O.



I. M. Verde, Esq.