Slim Fast Rider

Don’t forget to check out April‘s Domingo Delicioso on Sunday!

Hot and smoggy and me stuck in L.A. traffic on the I-5. The exhaust fumes were so bad I had to roll up the windows. And since I couldn’t run the air conditioner without overheating the car, the air just got thicker.

I turned up the radio but after a few seconds it was drowned out by someone who pulled up beside me, someone with a loud, mufferless engine that made my ribs vibrate like our washing machine on the final spin cycle.

For a moment I wondered if I’d been squished by an 18-wheeler and deposited in a Hell staffed by demons on mufferless Harleys. If so, it looked a heck of a lot like the I-5 on a smoggy summer day in stop-and-go traffic.

But no, I wasn’t in Hell, just the I-5. And as I waited patiently for the chopper to pass so I could more fairly question the owner’s ancestry… I realized the chopper demon wasn’t a HE, but a SHE.

Picture of Woman Riding Harley

She finally pulled up ahead of me and I could breathe again without rattling ribs. The picture is blurry because I was moving and my windshield was dirty (the bees are swarming in Carlsbad) but you can still see what I saw: a woman who waits for nothing and no one.

Me, I’ve spent my life waiting to lose some more weight before I do stuff like go to a pool party and actually go swimming, but I’ll bet this gal goes swimming at ALL her pool parties, and wears the tiniest bikini she can find—maybe even a THONG.

Frankly, she appears to be the kind of woman who told the world the hell with it, I’m gonna get me some tattoos and a tube top and some low-rider jeans and the biggest, baddest Harley sold in America today, and while I’m at it, the hell with the damn muffler, too.

Nobody gets in front of her at in the “9 items or less” line with 32 items and a fistful of expired coupons, nobody whips into the parking space at the mall that she was waiting for, and nobody EVER dings her van when she’s sitting inside it waiting for kids to finish swim team.

And even though I was taking a picture because it would last longer, I knew she could easily poke my eye out with her little finger if she was so inclined—so I didn’t spend any time trying to get the perfect shot. I just put the camera back into the bag and continued my stopping and going on the I-5, all the while wondering how big my butt would look on a Harley.

Sin City needs to pump iron

Reruns, shmee-runs!

When the kids went out yesterday afternoon, Hubby and I locked the doors, turned down the lights, and … put in the DVD of Sin City.

Yowza! I’d heard it was violent and it was, but nobody told me about the Jiggle Factor. Let’s just say Hubby was enthralled. Lots of lucious boobalas and bottoms all over the screen—enough to make a forty-something housewife sigh as she remembers her forgotten resolution to work out regularly.

My favorite lines came from Marv:

Wendy: You could’ve taken my gun away from me any time you wanted to…

Marv: I probably would’ve had to paste you one getting the gun and I don’t hurt dames.

We need more movies that use the term “dames.”

Hubby’s Greatest Moment:

(Carla Gugino makes her appearance as the lesbian probation officer/pharmacist, wearing nothing but a thong and a concerned expression)

Hubby: Hmmm. That girl needs to do some squats.

Stray Cat Struts His Stuff

While I complete a few projects I let slide in the last year, I’m dusting off some of my older posts. You know, just to make the old blog look like somebody’s actually home.


“Lookin’ good, baby,” said the hunk, but not to me.

I hadn’t visited Las Vegas since the 80s. Back then, Duran Duran was hungry like the wolf and this pool-side stud guzzled his bottles as fast as I could hand them to him.

A lot changes in 18 years.

“Baby, c’mere and meet my aunt. She changed my diapers.

Meet my nephew, the Wolf. And that was supposed to be my line, but somehow it didn’t sound as funny as it did when I said it.

Grumbling, I smeared on 50+ sunscreen while Wolfie continued his running commentary on the prospective conquests floating by in rental tubes.

“Oh, yeah! Looking fine, baby. Come to ME, baby!”

It was hard to take him seriously, seeing as how I knew him when he barely came to my kneecap. But this boy wasn’t just talking big. Women were clutching at his trawling line as if it was a life preserver and they were going under for the third time.

“See that sexy older babe over there?” Wolfie sucked his breath through his teeth. “We went out last night. ”

I put on my prescription sunglasses to better examine this cradle-robbing senior. When I focused, I gasped. Older women were supposed to be… older… than me. But this gal was thirty if she was a day, and had a body that qualified her for Baywatch duty.

She smiled and winked at Wolfie.

“She’s twenty-eight,” he said reverently as he waved back. “She knows a lot.

Sipping my mineral water, I carefully noted her leopard-print bikini, her deep, golden tan, her gravity-defying… Thompson Twins… just in case I needed to pick her out of a lineup of child predators.

“Yeah,” Wolfie added meaningfully, doing that breath thing again with his teeth, “I took her back to my room last night.”

The mineral water burst out of my nose. “You what!

He frowned. “But Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me keep her.”

“Well, she’s not a lost kitten, for crying out loud!”

“No, she’s a German kitten. And in Germany, older kittens appreciate younger men.”

If any more kittens appreciated this young man he’d be classified as a Pet Shop Boy. “Do they appreciate getting tossed out of hotel rooms?”

Wolfie sighed, no doubt wishing he could get his money for nothing and his chicks for free. But Mom and Dad were paying for this trip.

“Oh, baby,” he suddenly said, and not to me. “You da bomb! Bomb, baby!”

Bomb Baby whipped around, her hands planted firmly on what couldn’t been more than 33-inch hips as she disdainfully surveyed the dude who dared lay lustful eyes upon her. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and I ducked.

Wolfie intensified his monologue. “Oh, yeah, baby, bomb! You vain, baby. You something else.” Not only was he disposing of all conventional verbs, he was growling. “Come on, baby, turn around! Gimme a look at that prime merchandise.”

“Stop it!” I hissed from under People’s “Where are they now?” section, where my zinc-oxided nose was smearing Boy George’s makeup.

“Oh, yeah, you fine! You bomb!” Wolfie threw back his head and howled.

I grabbed my towel, ready to run.

But Bomb Baby didn’t attack. Her head and shoulders began to bob, like one of those toy dogs in the rear windows of cars. A sly smile spread over her lips.

Wolfie’s head bobbed up and down, too. Bomb Baby bobbed. Wolfie bobbed. For a moment I was confused. Didn’t I just see this on Animal Planet?

Then Bomb Baby slowly turned and began to walk away, all of her bob-bob-bobbing along as she gave Wolfie the requested scenery.

“Oooohhh!” he moaned, “Oh, yeah. Ohhh yea-AAAAAGH!”

He fell back on his chaise lounge, spent.

“Are you through?” I snapped. “Do you want a cigarette?”

He popped up again. “You are so funny, Aunt Bonnie. You know I don’t smoke. But–” he used the tone he used when he was six and wanted a Popsicle from the ice cream truck, “how ’bout a beer?”

I didn’t care if the 80s were long gone. The only bottle I’d let this cub guzzle was root beer.

Warning: I brake for reveries

Don’t forget that tomorrow April Redmon is doing her own version of Super Sabado: Domingo Delicioso!

High school marquee sign that says, Katie, will u go to the prom with me? Eric

It’s a safe bet Eric and Katie were already dating when he put up this sign, and his asking was just a formality.

But sometimes when I drive by I imagine Eric is the bravest, most romantic soul on campus, that he liked Katie from afar and decided to put himself out there for all the world to see.

This is a scary scenario, even for a middle-aged suburban mom light-years away from prom and driving home to a mountain of dirty laundry. What if Katie turned him down?

But then I remind myself that Eric is confident and brave, and this romantic gesture endears him in the hearts of all the other girls, who then ask him to the prom. And so he goes (with at least five girls) and they all have a blast.

And sometimes I imagine Eric was a cad who dumped Katie and broke her heart, and when her best friend heard he was going to ask a girl who wasn’t as nice as Katie, she put this sign up to make the new girl mad at Eric.

And sometimes I think I need to take a different carpool route.

Pink bra bandit bagged

I’m running a few of my older posts as I finish up some projects I let slide in the last year.


Oh, I do so love alliteration.

Remember the Pink Bra Bank Robber?

SAN DIEGO Detectives Thursday arrested a man suspected of carrying out three recent mid-city bank heists while sporting women’s clothing and makeup.

Members of a regional bank robbery task force took 37-year-old Robnay Hosaka into custody, according to the FBI.

Investigators believe Hosaka is the so-called “Cat-Eye Bandit,” who passed demand notes at Union Bank branch offices on Oct. 14, Oct. 19 and Monday.

During the crimes, the robber wore women’s clothing, including a pink bra, and sported lip gloss, pancake makeup and French-manicured fingernails.

After seeing a report on the crimes on a newscast Thursday, a citizen called police to say that Hosaka resembled the suspect, FBI public information officer April Langwell said.

Police arrest cross-dressing robbery suspect,” SignonSanDiego News Services, Nov. 17, 2005.

I looked long and hard for a photo of this guy Hosaka, with no luck. I did find this, though:

Picture of Cillian Murphy in 'Breakfast on Pluto'
How ever he looked in his pink bra and lip gloss, the bank robber Robnay Hosaka (Hey! Get it? “Bank ROB-ber”? “ROB-nay”?) probably had nothing on actor Cillian Murphy, shown here dressed as a woman but not robbing any banks.

Heck, I don’t look as good as Cillian Murphy does here. And what a makeover! The last time I saw Murphy was in Batman Begins, where he played a man whose momma never saw fit to buy him a proper Halloween mask. All she would let him use was this nasty burlap thing, and it ruined his whole life.

Pic of Cillian Murphy as Burlap Boy
Cillian Murphy as Burlap Boy in Batman Begins.

His character ended up consorting with an evil, secretive sect of vigilantes who believed the path to enlightenment was listening to Liam Neeson’s psychological musings as he beat the stuffing out of them. Lots of fun in that Evil, Vigilante Ashram, sure. Bruce Wayne ate it up, but I’d rather find my elightenment at La Costa Resort and Spa, thank you very much.


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On pink bras and robbing banks

I’m running a few of my older posts as I finish up some projects I let slide in the last year.

There has been a little gender confusion in the San Diego crime scene lately.

HILLCREST Police are looking for a man dressed as a woman French manicured nails and a pink bra who held up a bank yesterday.

[SNIP]

Witnesses described the robber as Hispanic. He is 6 foot tall, weighs about 200 pounds and has short brown spiky hair. He was wearing dark pants and a white shirt.

It was at least the third time this year that a man dressed as a woman has robbed a bank in the general vicinity.

Police reported similar robberies Oct. 19 of a Union Bank on Fifth Avenue in Core-Columbia and July 25 of a Washington Mutual bank about five blocks away.

— Mark Arner, “Man dressed as woman robs bank,” San Diego Union-Tribune, Nov. 15, 2005.

How did witnesses know this guy wore a pink bra? Did they see a pink strap peeking out from the neck of his shirt?

Maybe the robber’s shirt was one of those thin polyester tees and people could see right through to his bra — I hate it when this happens to me. It’s hard enough to color coordinate my clothes without worrying about color coordinating my underwear, too.

At any rate, this sounds like it was a very entertaining bank robbery! If I were ever a crime witness, it’d be my luck to witness a boring bank robbery, where the bank robbers only put nylon stockings over their heads. How much more interesting to have a six-foot, 200-pound man flashing a pink bra and manicured nails at us witnesses!

And how do the police know it was a man, exactly? What if it was really a woman? A woman did rob another bank about 2 hours later:

CHULA VISTA A woman wearing hospital scrubs used a demand note to rob a Washington Mutual Bank branch on Telegraph Canyon Road yesterday afternoon, police said.

The woman wore large dark sunglasses and a blond wig when she entered the bank at the Vons shopping center near Interstate 805 shortly after 3 p.m., said Chula Vista police Lt. Gary Ficacci.

No weapon was seen, Ficacci said.

— Brian Hazle, “Woman in hospital scrubs hits bank,” San Diego Union-Tribune, Nov. 15, 2005.

I think these two robbers are the same people! Look at the facts: neither robber is reported to have used weapons, and the second robber wore a wig, which could be covering the “short brown spiky hair” of the first robber. If the second robber was a really tall and hefty Hispanic lady with a French manicure, it’s a sure bet she is the “male” robber in the first report!

Think about it: after her 1 pm bank robbery in Hillcrest, she realizes her scrubs always camouflage her pink bra better than her white shirt, so she goes home to change and stash her loot. She’d have plenty of time to make her 3 pm Chula Vista robbery, even with the afternoon traffic.

I swear, I should have been a cop.


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Norman Bates doesn’t live here anymore, so get your own towels

While I complete a few projects I let slide in the last year, I’m dusting off some of my older posts.


“This better be important!” I hollered. “I’m talking blood! Or fire!”

The door pounding stopped and I resumed my shower.

As usual, I can never shower by myself. If it isn’t a knock at the door, it’s one of those noisy split-personality debates Hubby says I should never tell anybody about.

This particular debate was between the Mother and the Woman.

“What if,” asked the Mother, “the pounding stopped because a psychopathic killer entered the house and the child had to run for it?”

The razor skidded to a halt on my knee as I considered this.

“Ha!” snickered the Woman. “More likely the kid remembered you keep the milk in the refrigerator. Or maybe his brother threatened to feed oatmeal to the dog.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” mused the Mother. “Remember reading about that deranged drug-user who broke into a house with a shovel? Thank goodness the parents were home, heard their kids’ cries for help and saved them before he–”

“Come on!” groaned the Woman. “How many times do we have to stop showering, using the toilet or whatever, just so we can answer a pint-sized door pounder who wants to know ‘which is worse, eating a live scorpion or being attacked by killer bees?'”

The Mother chuckled. “Wasn’t that cute! They’re so imaginative, so young, so… defenseless… If there is a psychopath in the house brandishing a large garden tool, they’ll be –”

“They’ll be toast!” blasted the Woman. “Does Peter and the Wolf ring a bell? I refuse to answer that door! They’ve cried wolf too many times.”

“How cruel you are,” sniffed the Mother. “All you care about is shaving these legs which, by the way, have proven time and time again that they reforest themselves within 24 hours. But the grief and suffering of a bloody aftermath? That lasts FOREVER.”

When the Woman didn’t respond, the Mother pressed on.

“Interrupt our shower and what have we lost? A minute! But what’s a minute to two small boys, clinging to each other in fear, holding up their little arms in one last, brave effort to deflect the blows of a maniac wielding a pick axe?”

The three of us stumbled over each other in a crazed attempt to get out of the shower and throw on a towel.

“I’m coming, boys!” I cried, unlocking the door and rushing into the empty living room.

“Now that’s just great!” swore the Woman. “Just clue Mr. Maniac into the fact that you’re here!”

“No gore on the walls or the carpet,” whispered the Mother. “That’s a good sign.”

I grabbed my son’s chess trophy off the piano and crept up the stairs, my eye on the closed bedroom door.

It was too quiet. Throwing all caution downstairs, I burst through their door.

The boys looked up at me from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

“Yeah, Mom?”

The Mother sighed in relief. The Woman slapped her forehead in disgust.

“Who,” I asked through gritted teeth, “pounded on my door?”

They looked confused. Then the oldest brightened.

“Oh! That was me, Mom. I needed some underwear but then I realized you were taking a shower so I looked in my drawer and found some.”

“Hey, Mom!” said my youngest, poking at my shin with his index finger. “You got shaving cream all over your legs!”

As I embarked upon one of my loudest lectures (entitled, “Why We Save Pounding on a Locked Bathroom Door for Emergencies, Unless We Want to Hear a Lot of French”) the Mother began another internal debate.

“What if–”

“Oh, shut up!” snapped the Woman.

When sitting goes wrong

Hey, there, everyone. Tiger’s taking his SATs today, so I had to drive Squirt to swim practice. I’m in a McDonald’s with WiFi, getting stared down by an irritated senior lady.

SENIOR LADY: (glares)

BONNIE: Would you like me to move?

SENIOR LADY: (glares)

She is really TOUGH, too. I mean, if looks could kill, I’d be in an advanced state of rigor mortis.

Talk about awkward.

At any rate I’m writing you for two reasons:

First, April Redmon of Desperate Writer has offered to do a Domingo Delicioso (“Delicious Sunday!”) to take the place of my Super Sabado. Yay, April! She did a bang-up job last week. Everybody go visit her and cheer her on!

I think this senior lady sent for reinforcements.

SENIOR LADY: (glares)

SENIOR MAN: (glares)

As I was saying: The second reason I’m writing now is because I can’t stand this blog just sitting here, doing nothing, taking up space. There’s something kind of useless about it that sits on me.

Just like the unsettling looks I’m receiving right now. I’m doing something wrong, but I’m not exactly sure what it is.

Now there are 8 or 9 people in the table next to mine. They keep looking at me.

BONNIE: Did I take your meeting place? Would you like me to move?

SENIOR LADY 1: (glares)

SENIOR LADY 2: Oh, no, dear, dear girl! You are fine! Stay right there!

SENIOR GROUP: (general grumbling)

SENIOR MAN: You ARE in our place. Move!

BONNIE: (gulps and starts to stand)

SENIOR LADY 2: No, no, no! You are fine! Please stay! What’s your name?

BONNIE: Bonnie!

SENIOR MAN: Bonnie, MOVE!

SENIOR LADY 3: YES! MOVE!

SENIOR LADY 1: (glares)

SENIOR LADY 2: BONNIE, SIT DOWN.

(Bonnie sits)

SENIOR MAN: (grumbles) Sure. Stay. See if we care.

BONNIE: Really, it’s no problem at all (moves to another table)

SENIORS: (cackle wickedly) We scared her off! (calls out) Sorry, BAHNEEE! Heh, heh! Who brought the cards?

Well. Okay. That was interesting.

Anyway, so for the next two weeks or so (maybe three, we shall see) I’ll just put up some of my old stuff. At least that’ll give new visitors something to read while I get a handle on all the projects I’ve let slide in the last year.

And now I think it’s best to leave before somebody in a walker keys my van.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled program…

Mojo

Gang, I’m having a hard time taking care of all my obligations lately and need to take a break for a bit.

I’m sorry you have to read this instead of my regular Monday Morning Mojo, but I’ve been thinking about doing something like this for a while, now. And then tonight I broke my iBook power cord (when I tripped on it—I’m such a klutz) and I see it as a sign: time to step back, pause and reflect, prioritize and simplify, and also buy a new power cord.

Hopefully this break won’t last too long, but in the meantime you can visit my friends in my blogroll to the right, as I intend to do.