beyond the pale

“I just know we’re gonna end up living in that trailer in your parents’ driveway.”

Why is the nightly news revealing the code names of the new first family?

Why??

No, I really want to know. I thought their code names were supposed to be secret.

But again, I cannot remember where my shoes are on a regular basis.

Trader Joe’s Multigrain Crackers

topped with

Trader Joe’s Goat Cheese

topped with …. my latest TJ’s discovery ….

Trader Joe’s Cranberry Apple Butter

Ohhhhhh mmmmmy …….

This year, I didn’t see my first Christmas commercial until November 1st.

I’m not proud of the fact that I keep track of this.

I cannot find my shoes on a regular basis and yet this, this, I remember.

7-Eleven makes sugar-free Slurpees now. They’re a Crystal Light product. And I gotta tell you, when it’s 137 degrees and -43% humidity outside in freeekin’ November already, the only way to cool down your internal organs and revive your shriveled dermis is to get yourself one of them-there cherry limeade sugar-free Slurpees.

Yes. That is the ONLY way.

There is NO OTHER WAY.

You may think well, that’s silly; that can’t be the only way, but, nope, you’d be wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong.

Cherry Limeade Sugar-Free Slurpee is THE ONLY WAY.

ONNNLLY WAAAAAY.

So yes.

I think I’ve made my point.

Okay. So, apparently, some drunken hoodlums jumped out of their car on Halloween and chased after my Younger Nephew and his friends with a knife.

Yeah.

My sister told me this yesterday on the phone while I screamed. Literally. She had to time her words in between my outbursts and screams. It’s hard to be the older sister, I imagine.

Seems Nephew and three friends went up the street to check out the neighbor’s haunted house. This was Halloween night around 9. MB and I had just left to drive back home. This is a suburban area, lots of houses, but one section of the road has no houses for quite a long stretch. That’s where the boys were accosted. A car pulls up, overflowing with rowdy dudes. My nephew thought they were drunk (based on his vast experience with drunkenness.) Whatever. That doesn’t matter. Drunk or not does not matter here. They started taunting Nephew and friends, yelling, “We could kick your asses!” etc. The boys walked faster. These are just junior high school boys. My nephew just turned 14 so he’s a little older and bigger for 8th grade, but the other boys are pretty small. They’re in junior high. And I’ve met them. Good kids. Nice boys. Just wanting to stroll up the street to check out the neighborhood haunted house, for God’s sake.

The boys pick up the pace and the car follows them, then pulls over. The dudes pile out of the car, 4 or 5 of them. One of them pulls a knife. It was NOT part of a costume; they weren’t in costumes. Instantly, one of Nephew’s friends tears off up the street, hides quivering behind a bush, apparently, and calls his mom on his cell phone. God bless him. “Mom, are you coming? Mom, are you here yet?” God bless him. Then another kid runs the other way. Do not ask me why Nephew didn’t run instantly. As Sister was telling me this, I was freaking OUT inside, “Run, Nephew! RUNNNN!!!” My God. I’m having palpitations just writing this story.

Now there are just two boys left. Maybe Nephew underestimated the threat. Maybe he didn’t realize how big they were until they got out of the car. Maybe he doesn’t spook all that easily. Actually, I know that’s true. But in this case, he needed to spook and FAST. As the dudes get closer, Nephew turns to the last friend standing and says, ever the dry dry boy, “Well …. I guess we’re outnumbered,” then FINALLY, “Come on!!”

The two shoot on up the street, running, running past the long empty stretch of road. The hoodlums chase them. My God. They are chasing my nephew and his friend WITH A KNIFE up a long empty stretch of road! Nephew heads straight for the nearest house. He told my sister later, “Mom, I tried to make it look like that’s where we were going all along. Like we knew the people who lived there.” Okay. That’s good. Good strategy. As Nephew and friend ran up the walkway of the house to ring the doorbell, the hoodlums finally began to slink off down the road, back to their car.

It was too dark to identify any of them. Too dark for seeing license plates. Nephew and friend went to find their two other friends who had run off. And in typical Nephew fashion, he didn’t even mention this incident to his parents until a couple of days after the fact when his friend brought it up in carpool. “Hey, did you ever tell your mom what happened on Halloween?”

“Oh, yeaaah ….”

Ever the low-key kid. “Oh, yeah ….. drunken hoodlums chased us with a knife …. maybe they could have killed us …. yeah, no biggie ….”

My God. I want to punch him. I want to hug him.

I think next Halloween will involve helping my sister strap Nephew to a chair for the entire night.

Excuse me. I’ll just be over here, hugging myself, trying to calm my hysterical ass down, okay?

I am very interested in this New First Puppy I keep hearing about.

It’s true. I am. Votes schmotes. I need to hear more about the puppy.

Now I suppose you could say, “Oh, Tracey. You’re always ‘very interested’ in every puppy you see. It’s called covetousness.” Okay. Sure. Fine. Say that if you want. But this is different because this time, I am very very interested. See that? That’s two verys, with one italicized. If there’s another level of interested, I honestly do not know what it is. And, truly? That extra level of interest comes from nothing less than my deep-seated desire to help my fellow man.

See, I’ve been thinking certain things for a long time now. Like all day. Things like: You know, Trace. They would probably need a New First Puppy Wrangler in the White House, right? I mean, Obama and Flobama (uhm, I made that up just now — for First Lady Obama — isn’t it clever and such — also who cares) can’t personally wrangle the New First Puppy. Oh, no. They will be busy-busy changing things. And those little girls of theirs are quite cute, yes, but also clearly ignorant on how to wrangle a puppy based on the fact that I’ve never ever seen them with a puppy. Not once. Whereas puppy wrangling is knowledge I clearly possess in spades based on my experience of not having had a puppy in lo! these vast yawning years since I was eight years old.

Also, let’s not forget that I visited the White House, yes, I did, when I was 13 — you know, back in the days when you could tromp all over that place with impunity and peek into the medicine cabinets in the Millard Fillmore Bathroom and find, say, an old jar of Woodrow Wilson’s hemorrhoid cream and whatnot — so I pretty much know the presidential abode like the back of my dainty white hand. Which I imagine would be used for New First Puppy wrangling in less-than-dainty ways I’d rather not dwell on here.

On top of all this, not to get all dreary on you, but neighborhood mongrels murdered my guinea pigs Cinder and Snowball in cold blood when I was 6 and nothing gives a girl a deep abiding sense of the importance of proper puppy wrangling quite like the brutal murder of her pink-eyed rodent balls at the paws of wandering sociopathic mongrels. Plus, in the aftermath of the carnage, when a girl sees her fuming dad literally fling a canine suspect down the backyard stairs with one strong righteous arm, a girl is kind of inspired and thinks, “Perhaps I, too, can fling a HORRIBLE CONSCIENCE-LESS MUTT down the stairs someday, just like daddy.”

Sighhhh ….. maybe someday.

So Obama. I know you’re hiring. Just who do you want for your New First Puppy Wrangler? The choice is obvious. Blaring.

I mean, duh.

You heard me.

Duh.

Ole!

~ “Hi. Here’s your secret ballot. Uhm …. let’s see ….. all the booths are taken. So just pull up a chair and fill out your ballot.”

Yeah. There were several people sitting in chairs — like a doctor’s waiting room — filling out their ballots. You know, secretly out in the open. On the upside, there was NO wait whatsoever at our polling place to cast your vote secretly out in the open.

~ The tall elderly man, standing on the corner in the rare Southern California rain, with his home-made “Yes on 8” sign. (Yes on 8 means you’re for the traditional definition of marriage.) An hour later, he was still there. Standing still as a statue. He looked like he hadn’t even moved. It was still raining.

~ A group of girls and one guy on another street corner, waving “No on 8” signs to motorists driving by. The guy’s sign said, “2 Girls Kissing Is HOT!” (Yes, because that is germane to the issue.)

~ Starbucks is giving free coffee if you’ve voted today. No, Starbucks is giving free coffee if you just say you’re going to vote. My Beloved went into a Starbucks (whaa???) very early this morning, ordered a coffee, and the girl said, “Are you going to vote today?” MB said yes. “Oh, well, here’s a free one then.” No proof of voting necessary, pippa! No sticker, no nothing! So the point of the policy is what exactly? Basically, the policy really is: “Free Coffee Today Because it’s Election Day and Regardless of Whether You Do Your Civic Duty and Actually Vote, We Will Reward You With a Free Cup of Coffee Because We Don’t Want Anybody to Feel Left Out or For Anyone to Feel We’re Being Unfair or For Anyone to Feel Bad About Themselves if They Haven’t Voted or, God Forbid, For Anyone to Sue Us Because of Our Horrible Discriminatory Business Practices! Room for Cream There, Slappy?”

~ You know, I always cherish my “I Voted” sticker. I frequently leave it on whatever article of clothing I was wearing on election day for as long as I can. When that item goes to the wash, I try to peel the worn sticker off of it in one neat piece so I can save it. It may sound strange, I suppose. It’s just a sticker, Trace. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. I don’t understand people who don’t put the sticker on themselves. I really don’t. It’s a small thing, maybe, but I look for that on election days, for the little sticker on others, for the others who participated and are proud of it, too. And no matter how they may have voted, I feel a kinship with those people. The other sticker people. My heart swells a bit when I see them. Their votes may have been the complete opposite of mine, but I feel almost like I know some small part of them, that I see a tiny sliver of who they are. And maybe I do. Maybe I sense that invisible cord that binds us and holds us all as simply Americans. I pray that it may hold us long and strong.