When I was seven, my family put on an Easter Egg hunt for all the kids on our street. Most of them were 10 and up. My sister and I didn't get baskets that year, because we were having the hunt instead.

I didn't find a single thing until our housemate showed me where he had hidden one hard boiled egg. I remember feeling miserable and watching all the other kids crowing about their loot. I spent most of the afternoon crying in my room. And my Easter consisted of a hard boiled egg, which I didn't even like back then.

I never ever EVER put on a neighborhood hunt for my kids because I'll be damned if one of my kids would ever feel the way I felt that day. 

We did baskets and inside the house egg hunts, just for our kids, and each kid got one room to search, so they would each get a fair share.

The Weight of Forty Years

Forty plus years ago, I spent one spring and summer where I had no job and couldn't find one. I was stripping one night a week and paid $25 for that, plus any tips customers stuffed in my g-string, which was usually about $10-15 a night. So my income was no more than $40 a week. I had to eat, and I needed cigarettes, which I considered a priority.

During that time, I ate nothing but one  $1 hot dog a day, loaded down with ketchup, mustard, relish, onion, and kraut, because toppings were free. I ended up losing over 90 pounds. I was emaciated, I was weak, and jesus FUCK was I hungry.

When I finally got a job, working in a diner/ice cream parlor, with a 50% food discount, I ate everything in sight. I worked 7-2, and would eat breakfast during my 15 minute break, lunch during my half hour, and then another meal after work.

This was all fried food, burgers, fish and chips, fries, chicken fingers, and oh, yeah, frappes and sundaes. Fully half my paycheck was deducted to pay for all this, and I was bringing home $100 or so a week, including tips.

I gained back everything I'd lost. And the weight kept coming. I got bigger and bigger as my eating got out of control.

Bigger and bigger and bigger over the course of forty years. It affected my health, my mobility, my self-esteem, my mental state. Don't let anyone tell you "healthy at any size", because that weight inevitably catches up with you and overwhelms your physical state.

I finally topped out last year at 370 pounds. At that point, I knew shit had to change. I went to my doctor and got on Ozempic.

Since I've been on the full dose, I have lost more than 40 pounds. My goal is to get to at least as low as 250. I think at 250 I'll be able to walk to the damn bathroom again, at least.

I am addressing my very complex and fucked up food issues with my therapist, because it is time. Time to take control and time to put the damn fork down.

Time to reclaim my life.

Beyond the Lip Service

 

I remember the first time I saw Boy George. It was 1981 or 82, I honestly forget which. I was in a bar with my guy, Scott, having a beer, and they had MTV on. Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me came on, and I saw Boy George and my jaw hit the fucking floor and I started laughing in hysterics.

I was utterly astounded that this queer looking guy had the sheer guts to be on TV dressed like a woman. I was amazed that MTV allowed it on their programming. I was too caught up in staring at him and being half amazed, half grossed out, to notice that that motherfucker could SING. I think back now to how I felt, how I was kind of horrified and freaked out, and I think...

Jumping the Shark: The Fonz’s Funeral and Henry Winkler’s Last Laugh

It's a classic case of a show becoming a victim of its own success. What started as a grounded, nostalgic look at 1950s Milwaukee - centered on the Cunningham family - eventually morphed into the "The Fonzie Show," and that’s where the wheels started to come off.

The Holy Trinity: Why I Keep Buying These Same Three Records

 

Most six-year-olds in 1971 were vibrating to "The Wheels on the Bus" or whatever upbeat nonsense was playing on the radio, but not me. No, I was already deep in the trenches of acoustic melancholy. I was sitting there in my kindergarten class, probably staring at a pile of blocks, while the haunting melodies of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, the earthy warmth of Carole King’s Tapestry, and the gentle drawl of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James played on a loop in my head. 

I’ve owned these albums on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD, and every digital format known to man; at this point, the only thing missing is a reel-to-reel copy, and frankly, my wallet is grateful for that one omission. 

And now, the albums.

The Voice I Thought I Lost

 

Me, 17 years old

All my childhood and teens I sang, sang all the time. Played guitar. Music was the thing that brought me to life, and I wanted nothing more than to buy a PA system and join a band. The singers I listened to shaped my style. Grace Slick, Tina Turner, Ann Wilson, Janis Joplin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell.

My dad always encouraged me in my music, always asked me to play and sing for him, always got happy when I learned a new song or wrote one. He especially loved that. He gifted me my Harmony Sovereign for Christmas when I was twelve and paid for guitar lessons twice a week for several years. He was my biggest fan.

When I was fourteen I won a school wide talent show singing the 59th Street Bridge Song by Simon and Garfunkel and accompanying myself on my Harmony Sovereign guitar. That was the kind of kid I was. Music was where I lived...

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

Clickety Clackety!

I have never been good at saving up my money for purchases. But there was one time, when I was about six years old...

Back in the late 60s or early 70s, I collected returnable bottles and turned them in for the 5 cent bounty, and saved my 25 cent a week allowance. I busted tail to buy a pair of clackers, and after several weeks of hard work and no penny candy from Max's Smoke Shop, I had the $1.49 I needed to buy my clackers. I knew which pair I wanted, too, gorgeous royal blue with gold glitter inside the balls.

So I trotted off to Woolworth's to buy my clackers.

And the shelf was filled with Nerf balls.

I asked the clerk where the clackers were, and was told that they had all been recalled, because they would shatter and glass would fly and hurt people.

Man, was I PISSED.

Ever since then, I have wanted a pair of clackers.

Looks like they're back, but with an acrylic ball instead of glass. So I ordered some.

Because the inner child MUST be placated.

Adolescent Adoration and Adult Music Taste

Eric Faulkner of the Bay City Rollers was such a handsome man in the 70s, and still is, really. 

Even when I was ten and had just discovered boys, I leaned toward older boys who had a more MAN look to them than that pretty adolescent boy stage where they could just as easily be a girl. For instance, all my friends wanted to marry Luke Skywalker. I wanted me some Han Solo. Han looks like a MAN, not a teenage girl.

Arachnophobia

I am a major arachnophobe. Show me a spider, I show you a woman having a panic attack, whimpering and staying in the center of the bed for safety from spider fangs. I am particularly terrified of tarantulas, the big hairy bastards.

Here in north Texas out in the boonies, we get one sneaking in the house occasionally. I generally freak out until my husband catches it and removes it from my house. But they're NOTHING compared to the opossum who somehow got in and spread our full trashcan all over the place. But the worst was that fucking giant white and yellow snake, about four feet long and rather girthy that it took two healthy teenage boys to lift from the top shelf of my pantry, and then carry out of the house.

I do not like living in a place where the wildlife just feels like it can come in and set up housekeeping. I fully expect to wake up one day and see a damn coyote curled up on the big dog bed. Or maybe a bobcat snoring on the couch.

Well, at least its not giant flying cockroaches, like in San Antonio.

My Fucking Sister Is A Piece Of Shit

When you plan to give somebody a simple gift of a book that you know they would love, and they spit in your face and say "Keep it, I'm trying to get rid of stuff." Like a fucking BOOK takes up a ton of space. 

Guaranteed she's buying some damn ugly piece of 1950s furniture this week, or some tacky green opaque glassware to fill her cabinets with and feel like she's so fucking bougie.

Fuck her and her pretentious, phony, all about appearances, bullshit self.

(Note: A LOT of anger inside, proceed at your own risk.)

Question on Quora: What’s one small habit that helped you become better with money?

Question on Quora: What’s one small habit that helped you become better with money?

It is time to shout out the truth.

 

Thank you, Deb Colburn, owner of Nomad, Cambridge and pretentiousl;y fake 79 year old hipster with the screaming fire engine red hair, the stupid glasses, and the designer dogs, for showing me a complete tour of your naked vagina, clitoris included, when I was five and you were 21, and encouraging me to hold and rub your boyfriend's penis and testicles when I was seven and you were 23 or 24. For breaking wooden spoons on my ass. For telling everybody I was a crazy liar so that they didn't believe me when I told them what you were doing to me.

For driving a wedge between me and my sister, and my father. For driving my mother away, then abandoning us when you had your own kid.

I hope you die bleeding painfully from your asshole.

I think I'll send this letter to the Cambridge Chronicle, Boston Globe, and WBZ news.

Bet you voted for Trump, too. Cunt.

Shit is going to get real, Deb. I won't hurt you or encourage people to. I'll just drive you batshit crazy.

Discovering the News of the Day and Ditching the TV

Apollo 11 takeoff

As a kid, I didn't pay a lot of attention to the news, even though it was the sixties and seventies, and a hell of a lot of history was happening.

The first major event I remember was the moon shot. Not the landing, the takeoff. My Dad told me to pay attention and remember this, because it was history. I didn't even know what history was. I was four and a half. The smoke and speed of it all amazed me. We watched it on our neighbor's big black and white TV. Looking at color photos now, I think that that would have absolutely blown my preschool mind!

Book Review: The Outsiders, by SE Hinton

The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Have you ever read a book that changed your life?

For me, it was this book, which I first read when I was fourteen years old, over forty years ago.

Ponyboy Curtis lives with his two brothers, Darry and Sodapop, in Oklahoma, on the wrong side of the tracks. Their parents died in a car accident some time prior to the events of the book, and Darry is struggling to hold what's left of the family together, while working as a roofer.

One year stroke survivor!

An important anniversary passed and I didn't even notice.

One year and thirty days ago, on October 1 of 2024, I had a stroke. Luckily, it was VERY minor and I have had no residual issues. I have been absolutely RIGID about taking my blood thinners and all that, and seeing my cardiologist about my atrial fibrillation, to ensure that doesn't get any worse, which can cause strokes.

Yay for minor strokes and surviving!

I'm pasting in common signs of stroke. Watch for these in yourself and in your loved ones. For me, it was the fact that I couldn't type accurately with my left hand that made me think I best go to the ER.

If you experience any of these signs, get your ass to the hospital, PRONTO! Early and fast treatment is key to surviving with minimal lingering and disabling problems.

Common Signs:

• FAST:
  • Face: Facial drooping on one side
  • Arms: Weakness or numbness in one arm
  • Speech: Difficulty speaking, slurred speech, or inability to understand speech
  • Time: Act quickly! Call 911 immediately
Sudden numbness or weakness in one side of the body
Sudden loss of vision in one or both eyes
Sudden severe headache
Dizziness or loss of balance
Confusion or difficulty understanding speech
Nausea or vomiting
Double vision 

Other Possible Signs: 

Seizures
Chest pain
Shortness of breath
Difficulty swallowing
Loss of coordination
Sudden changes in mood or behavior

Remember: 

Stroke symptoms can vary depending on the affected area of the brain. 
Some symptoms may only last a few minutes, while others can last for hours or days. 
Even if symptoms resolve on their own, it's important to seek medical attention to rule out a stroke and prevent future complications. 

We're on the eve of destruction...

From CNN. Y'all, start practicing hiding under your desks again:

Trump in a post on social media said, “The United States has more Nuclear Weapons than any other country,” naming Russia as second and China “a distant third, but will be even within 5 years.”

“Because of other countries testing programs, I have instructed the Department of War to start testing our Nuclear Weapons on an equal basis. That process will begin immediately,” Trump said on the final leg of his trip to Asia.

 

Keoni's Mele

Uncle Jack and Auntie Cathe

I wrote this piece around 2K, about my Uncle Jack. He has been a huge influence in my life, and is one of the people I love most on this planet. He's a musician, philosopher, student of life, and he is my beloved uncle and Godfather...

Casualties of War - A Poem

I wrote this poem 20 years ago about being a survivor of pretty intense child abuse at the hands of my stepmother, and clawing my way out of that shit. Trigger Warning: Child Abuse, Trauma...

Childhood Memories: The Atrocities of 60s Fashions

 

My big sister and I were hippie kids of a single parent hippie father. We wore blue jeans and tee shirts and tie dye, and funky clothes his girlfriend made for us. Pretty much everything that was not made for us was purchased at Salvation Army (or lifted out of the donation bins after dark)...