After reading sister-friend Stephanie's recent post about the Hollish language, I couldn't help but think about some of our travels.

As I've mentioned before, driving across the country with sister-friend was a real experience.  There were numerous times we would be cruising along, watching the scenery, enjoying each other's company and suddenly, she would wake up, wipe off the window sludge, and yell "Pissarooni!"

Well, that definitely was a clue that we needed to stop ... soon.  Occasionally, it was due to her need for one of those tampoon things but more often than not, it was just the pissarooni.  However it never failed that once we were back in the car, heading back out on the highway, I would look at her and have to give a subtle reminder to hook up that trappy thing.  And after I ran over a few braille bumps, she got the message.

One evening in New Orleans, we were standing in a crowded bar listening to people make fools of themselves singing on a stick, and trying to carry on an intelligent conversation above all of the flabbity-blab.  No sooner had we finally snagged a table than some drunk wobbled over and tried to push his way in.

"Hey! Smally-up!" he warbled, sloshing his beer and spitting something out of his mouth on to the floor.

At this point, we decided it was time to make our exit. As we got up to leave, my left foot decided not to follow the rest of my body! I was adhickled!  The drunken bozo had spit a huge wad on gum right under my left foot!  After much anti-adhickling, I finally managed to remove my shoe, and hobbled outside.

I remember it was a warm, autumn evening and as we made our way back to the hotel, the sound of those outside dongy-things ringing in the air and the fragrant smell of fluffers invading our senses, we both looked at each other and almost in unison, said "Damn! I am so flabberbaffled! Where in the hell are we, anyway?"

Somehow, we actually managed to drive all the way from California to Maine without getting lost once.

It was more like, at least, a dozen times.

"... Had it been a real emergency, you would have been directed to your local ..." okay, I'm only kidding.

It isn't really a test.  I had my test yesterday and after half an hour of listening to a bunch of b.s. and inane excuses, I don't care to repeat it.  At least not for myself. I will however, repeat it for all of you.

Brother Allan (yeah, that again) actually returned a phone call after I sent him a message.  I'm sure he probably thought I was going to tell him when my flight was arriving  - in fact, that was the first thing he asked ... HA! Sure fooled him!  Instead, I began blasting him about not keeping his word on that Trust issue.

See if you can pick the actual excuses he gave me:

• A. "This is different from when Uncle Joel died. He was like a father to us."
• B. "Robin gave us her word that she would share and then she didn't."
• C. "I have to put my kid through four years of college and that's going to cost me $20,000 a year."
• D. "I thought you were living with your boyfriend and he made a lot of money so you didn't need anything."
• E. "Well, we never actually sat down and made any agreement."
• F. "I don't even know how much more I'm going to get."
• G. "I don't know what you want me to do."
• H. "The Trustees told me they gave you $XX,000 so I didn't think you still wanted me to send you anything."
• I. "I don't know how much you want."
• J. "I'm just a selfish asshole and I never planned to actually do anything."
• K. All of the above

If you picked K - "All of the above", you would be wrong.

He never mentioned J.

Know what I really hate? Okay, "Hate" is such a strong word ... Know what I really dislike?

I really dislike anger.  Anger is such a waste of time. It's a waste of energy. Anger makes you unhappy, unpleasant, ugly and just downright mean,

Anger takes up too many brain cells; it creates tension in your muscles; it makes your eyebrows furrow and you lips mush together; it makes your hair follicles stand on end and turns your ears red; Anger makes people look really strange. And ugly.

Not only that, anger can destroy the best relationships in the world.  It can make you retaliate against someone in ways that you would never think of if you weren't angry.  It can make you resentful and, if carried with you for a long time, it can make you loose precious moments ... moments that can never be recaptured.

Moments that will eventually be lost forever.  When suddenly, it's too late to take back the anger, you realize what you've missed.  What you will never be able to regain.

SO ... in the words of the great wizard:

"Drizzle, drazzle, drozzle, drome ... time for this one to come home!"

**POOF**

All gone.

I was sitting outside under the patio cover, the ceiling fan providing just the right amount of cool wind to push the heat back. I was admiring the numerous pots of flowers surrounding the pool, the crystal clear water sparkling in the sun and the bright red cardinals enjoying a snack at the bird feeder,

Life was good. After several months of decorating and planting, the yard was complete.  The interior was also looking good and everything had finally found a place in this new home we had created in our little corner of the world.

When I heard Tom's car pull into the garage and the doors shut, I knew he would be joining me in a few minutes, probably ready for a quick swim  and a little relaxation before dinner.  We had finally settled into this comfortable routine and I saw no reason for anything different.

Which is why it struck me as odd when he opened the back door and asked me to join him in the living room for a moment.

I walked in behind him and came face to face with his ex-wife, sitting on the couch, sipping a glass of wine and smiling like a cat that had eaten the red cardinal I had just seen outside.  As Tom walked over behind the couch, smiled at her and put his hands on her shoulders, I shook my head, trying to clear this image and thinking 'what's wrong with this picture?'

When he looked up at me, he was still smiling.

"We want to thank you for all the time you've spent, decorating the house so nicely for us. "

He then kissed her hand, walked me to the front door, opened it and handed me my suitcase, saying "Keep in touch."

When I woke up this morning, I hit him.  He still has no idea why.

Reading FTS' blog yesterday got me to thinking.

I'm a native Californian.  Actually, I'm fifth generation Californian. My family tree reads like a weeping willow, true, but it also goes back to the time of the Spanish occupation of California.  One of those guys on a limb of the tree, way back there, was a guy named Andres Pico, better known as the last Spanish Governor of the Golden State ... his brother, Pio, was a missionary or some such person.**

There's even a rather large street in Southern California named after these guys: Pico Boulevard.

At least that was the story I heard as a small child.  I found out later that we had no connection to the Pico family but rather to a much more influential family named Moraga.  Someday, I'll find out what that influence was and just how, where and when the family connection to them developed.

Anyway, when I lived in California, being a native was such an oddity that when people asked where I was from and the answer was "Here. Born & raised," they were stunned.  It was as if nobody was actually born in California.  Every body was transplanted from some where else.

FTS' blog pointed out some rather rude behavior from Coloradoans toward people that had made the move to Colorado, Texans in particular.

Now I admit that I used to have a bumper sticker that read "Welcome to California. Now Go Home."  I carried a key chain that said "Native California"; My license plate frame said the same thing (as my license would have as well if the other native hadn't beat me to it); I was thrilled when I found another native. But I was never rude to some one just because they weren't from my state.

The whole point of this exercise in futility is this:  Just how many people out there actually live in their home state?  How many people actually live where they were born?  How many natives are there?

And if anybody knows, who in hell is Moraga??

**I finally Googled Pio and found that he was the Governor guy ... Andres was a General, and neither of them were missionaries (but they are associated with missions).  Which is what I always believed until someone in the family "corrected" me several years ago and switched them ... HA! I was right all along! 

Listen ... Hear that?

It's called silence. Better known as Peace & Quiet.

It's wonderful having kids and grandkids visit.  It's fun to watch little balls of energy run around until they're ready to drop from total exhaustion but unwilling to give up just yet.

Having Tom's son, daughter-in-law and 2-year old grandson here for a few days was quite enjoyable.  Along with having the rest of the family join in the activities, we had a pretty full house and there was not a square inch that wasn't subject to little fingers.  I stood in the living room at one point, looking around at the total chaos and thought 'nope, not gonna touch it. Not until every body is gone.'

My daughter would have been very proud of me, too.  I didn't once follow behind the little ball of energy wiping up crumbs or fingerprints.  I let the dog clean up the crumbs and not until the house was empty yesterday morning, did I grab the Windex and attack the glass-topped tables in the living room.

The only sad part of this visit was that it didn't include Michelle, The Monkey and The Bean.  I watched little Jacob running around, playing with the dog, playing in the pool, eating cookies for breakfast (in our bed, thanks to grandpa) ... and all the while there was a small, empty hole in my heart, wishing there were three other people here with us.

But I'm an optimist and I know that someday ... someday ... there will be a phone call and I'll hear those magical words.

"Hi, mom! We're here ... can we destroy your house?"

Bring it on, baby!

After a long silence, brother-Allan called yesterday.

This is the foster brother that was in constant contact when my mom died and I was the executor of her Will.  During that time, he had to make sure he was going to be receiving his "fair share" of both the Will and the Trust (long story short ... there were two separate parts to the estate, of which he was included in both but I was only in the Will) .... he also made promises to me that he would be sending me a portion of that "fair share" from the Trust because he felt it was so unfair that I wasn't included.

This is also the brother that I helped numerous times when he was broke or couldn't get a cell phone because he managed to screw up his account so badly.  He ended up owing me over $700 for that phone bill and the only way I got him to even return my calls was to shut off the phone ... then it took him about five minutes to call me back. However, he never did pay me everything he owed.

After he received his portion of the proceeds under the Will, I guess he decided I was no longer of any significant use and the contact stopped.  When I reminded him of his promise, he became silent; he wouldn't return phone calls; there was nothing in it for him.

The annoying part is that his sister pulled the exact same thing on him when their uncle died a few years ago ... she promised to share Joel's estate with both Allan and their other brother, Michael.  After she received the money, she denied ever saying that and never gave them a cent.  Needless to say, Allan was rather incensed. And I heard all about it. For a few years.

Now, a phone call. Why? Because his son is graduating from high school in two weeks and he wants me to fly out to California for the graduation.  And if I can't afford it, he's willing to help me.  He even called back a second time to ask if I would call Michelle and see if she could fly out, too.

Sure, Allan.  You make the reservations ... and pay for them up front.

Oh, and I prefer First Class.  On the Concord. Via France.

It was titled “We Regret to Inform You …”