Thursday, January 31, 2008

Down The Hatch and Up The Wazoo!!

As we know, one of the initiation rites from Yung'unhood to midlifehood is the colonoscopy/endoscopy. You just gotta do it when you turn 50, like opening your first AARP invitation letter. It means you've arrived. Instead of St Peter at the Pearly Gates, it's Dr. Asshole with a long tube and a smile.

It was SalGal's turn this morning, as she's skated past this deadline for SEVEN years. And, this morning's procedure was not the problem as anyone knows who has had a colonoscopy...hehehe. I gotta tell you that I laughed at her every time she jumped up to run to the bathroom last night. Those medical people sure know how to give you stuff that empties the system in a damn hurry. After she swallowed the last 8 oz glass of Miralax mixed with Gatorade (like that makes a difference in the taste (?)), I started singing the old Carol King tune that my girlfriend, Cynthia sang to me after I swallowed my first tab of Acid in 1972...and it goes a little like this, "Well, it's tooooo late, ba-aby, now it's too late......" The rest of the song doesn't matter, and I know those of you who know this song went right into the melody, yes? Hehehe.

Bless her Texas heart, Sal got up early this morning and showered first thing and then put on her Chanel No. 5 lotion so she would smell good during the procedure. When the fragrance wafted into our magic room where I was opening my emails, I put my head down on the table and laughed out loud. She shaved her legs and under her arms too. She said that she didn't want anyone who was going to be that close to her body to feel any stubble. This is how The Ancient One raised us, you see.

On the way to the clinic in the car, Sal just kept heaving these huge sighs like she was the most contented human being on earth, but I looked at her and said, "You're doing that so you can catch a deeper breath, aren't you? Because, you're scared to death, aren't you?" to which she replied, "I've never had a tube with a camera on it moving around inside my body, OKAY?" Bless her heart.

SalGal sailed through the procedure like a champ with no complications and a relatively clean bill of health. I asked the doctor afterward whether he was able to find out why her stomach growls so loud as to stop a conversation in midstream at the dinner table. He actually looked at me and said, "She did not come to me about growling in her stomach. If she wants the answer to THAT question, she can make an appointment and we'll discuss it."

After he awoke in the next cubicle on the gurney where they put him after I knocked him out with a right to the temple, I asked him if he wanted to re-phrase his original answer to me. See? THIS woulda been SUCH a great thing to do, wouldn't it? Of course, I didn't do it, but I almost had ya, didn't I??




I think it is perfectly obvious what a cold, bitch my little sister is. She didn't mention that she went to a 'Tasting party' the night I was 'prepping' for this debacle. Oh, how she delighted in describing the bar-b-que and tacos that were offered at the event. She got such great joy out of my angst. She's right about the actual procedure not being anything to be afraid of though. The drugs they give you are enough to make anyone have a colonoscopy every Tuesday.

It's the so called, 'prep' that's the killer. You wouldn't believe the amount of fluids and laxatives you have to ingest. When they finally kicked in in the late afternoon I started having thoughts about the levees in New Orleans during 'Katrina'. You start feeling like one of those French geese who gets food stuffed down their gullets every day so that the pate fois gras (their livers) is smooth and delicious. And you can't eat any food. Better not or there will be thingies in your lower intestine or bowels or something. I can see my little, measely doctor now; sitting in his metal, folding chair across the room as I sat with my feet dangling off of the tall examination table. "And you'd better do everything the brochure says or the next day in the operating room you will be wasting your money and my time". And he said it like I was a two dollar whore who just asked Bill Gates for a date.

I wish KK had knocked that stupid doctor upside the head. Who do they think they are anyway? Somebody who can have you put to sleep and do as they will to you in your most private and embarrassing areas...well okay whatever.


Tuesday, January 29, 2008

What a Mess!

The construction crew showed up on our street this morning at 7:30 am. The man who works the jackhammer kept looking at his watch and at precisely 7:45 am (like everyone would be awake at that time)...7:44:59...ready? GOOOOOOOO...OOOOO....OOOOO....OOOOO! SalGal and I looked cross-eyed at each other and concurred that we are VERY worried about any and ALL people who choose this line of work! Have you ever watched a guy using a jackhammer? Sheesh! And, women could never do this job because if they did, their bosoms would wind up wrapped around their waists and tied in a bow in the front by the time they were 25! What a mess!

Infrastructure is basically a mess all over town...and I dare say your town too, right? You don't see the potholes until your back right tire is wedged two feet in there. Oh, they'll come and fix the pothole in about six slapping some hot, sticky tar on top of it that oozes back out of the hole like toothpaste gel when the next car drives over the hump.

I would like to thank the city of Austin though for leaving the day-glo warning cones up on our street for over three months because SalGal and I woulda never thought to use them as barrels for our Jazzy Scooter Barrel Race video .

Because the road construction crews work for the city, their ambition quotient is nonexistent. It takes three of them to look in a hole and decide what to do with the hole after thirty minutes of debate, laughter, cigarettes and blank stares. We all know that they're usually not as careful as they might otherwise be if they had an elementary-school education because they ALWAYS seem to cut the wrong phone, water or electricity, but by Gawd the sewer line is complete! What a mess!

I do also owe a debt of gratitude to the crews for spending the last two months tearing up our street because it gives The Ancient One something to talk about and something to look at besides Fox News. Of course, she's deaf so she can't hear the jackhammer, but she can see the workers so we are then privy to a half-hour primer on what SHE thinks about construction crews. It's the same thing we think but we get to hear it again with painful conjecture about the workers private lives and what they might have done with their futures had they entered the country legally.

I can't wait for the paving crew next!



Isn't that just the way things always go? You have to make a mess before you can make things pretty. You have your hair splayed out on layers of tin foil to get that highlighted look, you get your whole body covered in a mud pack to have smooth, soft skin and in order to have a beautiful garden you'd better take numerous trips to the mound of cow shit by the back fence.

It's not just right out in front of our house though. It seems like the whole city of Austin is being torn up and redirected. Lots and lots of people want to move to Austin and who can blame them? And in that case the streets have to be widened, the condos need to rise downtown and small businesses will die away to make room for Mariotts with fake hydrangeas in the lobby.

The kitchen looks like a tornado hit it when I've been cooking gourmet. What a mess. But wow on the acorn squash soup with sage/parmesan croutons. KK's desk at times looks like a whirlwind blew in the door. What a mess. But kudos to the graphic designs in her gorgeous affirmation books. The Ancient One sometimes reminds me of a disheveled mound of laundry. Sort through the lights and darks though and you will find at the core...what a mess!!

The noise goes on outside and the workmen jackhammer and pound the gravel and backhoe the street gutters. At least I know that some day the street will look clean and black and they will all be gone. That's why I can stand it. It's that infernal bird just outside my window and right next to my bed that goes, 'chewey! chewey! chewey! chewey! chewey! chewey!' every morning at 6am for 30 fucking minutes. When will he go away? Will I ever have peace from him? I think not. I think I have a shotgun in the garage. Overkill perhaps and what a mess. nyuck, nyuck nyuck.


Saturday, January 26, 2008


And, speaking of swimming, SalGal and I are literally 'awash' in the gene pool of gambling. We just love it when someone asks us about our ancestry.

Our great grandfather was a rapscallion and scallywag whose destination of disembarkation upon arrival in America in the 1800's was NEW ORLEANS. Need I say more? He didn't figure there was a need to go anywhere else, for pity's sake and had an excellent stake to work off of since he'd won a BUNCH of money from his fellow travelers on the boat over.

The only traveling he ever did was up and down the Mississippi river on a steamboat playing poker. He was always able to handsomely reimburse himself for any business expenses along the way. And, he dressed the part, wearing spats, a derby and swinging a cane as he sashayed on the ship's deck.

Apparently he never saw it coming, but his future bride knew exactly what she wanted. They became 'the' couple of New Orleans (probably more as entertainment at parties rather than a high society pair). Instead of being known as Mr. and Mrs. Martin Lee Kelly (he dropped the O' when he walked off the transatlantic ship)...his moniker was 'Honey Bunch' and she was known as 'Gran Money.'

Although Martin's son and our grandaddy, Edward, tried to buck the gambling gene and become a respectable businessman in Lubbock, Texas during his lifetime, he could beat any oncomers at poker, with his little daughter (The Ancient One disguised as The Yung'n back then) glued to his side soaking up every flush and full house. The woman he married was like every other woman when she saw him drive up to her house in a CAR (a Model T). She liked both 'the good life' and a rascal with a car. We think that his lack of success at being a cotton merchant back in the early 1900's was in direct proportion to her demands that he give up any notion of gambling beyond trying to sell west Texas cotton. He usually lost his shirt.

All I can say now is...NEVER play poker with The Ancient One. She might not be able to remember her own name at times, but she'll bluff you up one side and down the other until you're pissed off and borrowing money from your own children to stay in the game.

I don't even know how to play poker, but I've gambled on dreams and goals and risky ventures my whole life. I can honestly say that so far, I'm well above breaking even, and woulda played the same hand in all but one instance. I never would have married, Number Two, Little BigMan!



Oh, it's so true that life is a gamble. Our daddy, Frank Jackson, gambled big time...on oil wells. He was a Wheeler Dealer alright. He would have loved the movie business too. Producers, directors, studio VIP's etc. often bet their fortunes and houses on a story they are convinced will be a big, honkin' blockbuster. Sometimes they win. Sometimes they end up selling maps to the stars' homes on Sunset Boulevard, serving burgers at Mel's Diner or married to Brittany Spears.

Yep, gambling is in our blood. I remember coming home from school on Wednesdays and there was our beautiful mother and four of her BFF's sitting around her octagonal, green, felt covered poker table. Cigarette smoke swirled in the air and the clay chips clinked on the table as the girls laughed, sipped on Manhattans and cleaned each other out of the milk money. It's no wonder that to KK and I the sounds of ice clinking in Waterford crystal, poker chips on felt and Zippos flicking open flames on Lucky Stikes meant life was good, the equivalent of living in a demented Disney Land. The whole scene had me at my mother's velvety order, 'Five dollar ante'.

I have to gamble. I have to gamble that life always gets better, that KK and I will age gracefully, and that Twin Liquors won't run out of Black Jack.


Thursday, January 24, 2008


SalGal and I were having a nice lunch on the balcony at Fino one fine summer day and across the parking lot came hopping a young man on those high tech stilts that are curved and bouncy. He had long, floppy rabbit ears attached to his head and a big smile of his face. Now, we know Austin is weird and we do see lots of strange people, but this one made us laugh out loud and we decided it was a sign. That's how suggestible and easy we are. We see signs in things that other people might suspect as just insanity.

We are in SEARCH of insanity under otherwise acceptable circumstances. That's our M.O., our raison d'etre and the cream in our tea.

Whenever I see a male red cardinal, I gasp! I know that something wonderful is about to happen to me, no shit...and it does. They're just my lucky birds. The rules of the 'sign' game state that you can't go LOOKING for signs...they have to come to you, and you have to have your eyes and heart wide open enough to be able to see them. They aren't going to knock you on the head...or maybe they will, but I'd be afraid that those kinds of signs are really God saying, "WAKE UP STUPID!"

I"m not sure if omens are the same things as signs, but you have to be aware of those things too. Like when a black cat runs across the road in front of you and you cross its path with your have to stop as soon as possible, get out of the car, turn around three times and spit. The devil spell will then be broken and you may proceed.

Some signs are nothing more than the devil in when you've driven somewhere with directions and on your way back, you think you're making all the correct turns (in reverse, of course, because you're on your way back...this will be confusing to you dyslexics), but you've turned the wrong way more than once and just get lost as shit. That's when you have to pay attention to the actual metal signs on poles.

A few weeks ago I wound up driving behind a man in a small toyota with a casket roped to the top of his car. My friend, Bill, and I decided that this was a sign of some sort, but we couldn't figure it out as we speculated that we'd better pump up our finances in a hurry in case we wound up like that and we couldn't afford a friggin hearse, for Gawd's sake.



I think the crop circles are signs from aliens that they are coming. They assume we understand and are clearing landing strips in anticipation of their arrivals when in actuality, rednecks in England and Ohio are taking credit for these amazing signs.

I think it was Ladybird Johnson who got rid of all the billboards along the sides of the highways in Texas. She thought they were ugly and she wanted to beautify our great state with wildflowers instead of daglo, gigantic posters every 50 feet that gleefully prepare you for impending pancake houses, Mariotts and turquoise sold by Mexicans calling themselves Indians who got the goods from Taiwan.

It's a sign of the times that there are just too many signs everywhere. There are signs behind the counter at the cleaners, in the windows of local grocery stores and plastered on poles in front of every honky tonk on sixth street. There are signs behind bars, over our heads at the street lights and stuck in front of houses. There are so many signs that we don't see them anymore. That's not good because now if there's a sign that says, 'Don't open this door or you will die!', you won't see it.

The parking signs around Austin are so unfair, especially downtown. They usually say, 'You can park here from 5AM to 1PM and 2M to 5PM on Mondays thru Fridays except holidays for 30 minutes and at all other times for two hours except for street cleaning on Saturday mornings form 6am to 8am unless that is a holiday and then it will apply the monday after that.' It's so unfair.

I want to put up signs everywhere that tell everybody to quit putting up signs everywhere but there are so many signs everywhere I know nobody would see them and then people would just cover them up with more signs anyway.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Home Repair

As a woman, and now as three women in the same house who don't know shit about home repair, we've been taken to the cleaners more than once, let me tell you...and we're not stupid!

It's just that electricians KNOW that no one will TOUCH anything electrical for fear of winding up deep fried. And, the plumbers helper is all I got for any plumbing problems. I heard that deep, slow gurgling sound in the toilet this morning and was immediately filled with dread. I don't even want to OPEN that chamber behind the toilet seat because I just don't want to know what's in there. I've heard it's just water...sure!

It's been so long since anyone cleaned the gutters on this house that there are wee trees growing in a row from the actual gutter. I try to sweep (because it's therapeutic for me which requires a whole nuther posting on THAT) but even a gentle breeze blows year's worth of old, decaying leaves onto my beautiful clean porch and deck. It's a no-win situation.

Lest you think we just don't try, we've called people who have come by and said, "Sure, I can fix that," and either never returned, didn't call back or quoted a price that even I knew was out of any reasonable orbit and we declined. When things went wrong in the house, we used to just sit in the living room and stare at each other as if an answer would pop up as a bubble above one of our heads.

We think we have now found our hero, however. We just had to replace our back deck because SalGal was starting to fall through the old, rotten wood whenever she went to water her precious plants and flowers. We found him through trial and error that would be too long to describe here and would probably shock you, but...

He drives a monster truck with a large trailer hitched to it with a sign on the back of the trailer that reads, "Anything I got ain't Worth Your Life." There is a gun barrel pointing at whomever is reading this sign. That's somehow comforting to me.

He is about 6 ft tall and weighs about 135 pounds. He wears a Harley doo rag tied in the back, has an enormous moustache and smokes a dangling Sherlock Holmes pipe. We have finally found our hero!

He built us a beautiful deck and when asked if he would handle any of our other Honey Do's on the list, he replied, "I'm all yours till I win the lottery, and then it's Katy bar the door."

Wonder who Katy is?



God knows I love larry too but he is a character. Here's a man who's job is building decks and the day before yesterday he didn't come because it was 45 degrees outside and he didn't want to catch a cold. He will kill you if you try to steel his hammer but God forbid that he should go outside if it's not hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. In that way he is delicate.

Larry called today to say he is not coming to pick up the lumber from the old deck because it is drizzling outside and he doesn't want to get bronchitis as he is prone to it. You know, I'm okay with this and I understand and this is a typical example of how people deal with each other here in Austin. Can you imagine what a high-powered agent or businessman in Los Angeles would say to such excuses from a contractor? "What?! You don't want to get bronchitis? You hillbilly piece of shit-faced tobacco mouthed fraud - get your ass over here right now or you will never work in this town again!" But here in Austin we love the Larrys and they take care of us, fix our plumbing for fifty dollars cash and only steal a little from the cannabis plant in the back yard.

You stay inside Larry and take care of yourself and we will gladly wait for you to come and finish when the sun is shining and the football games are all over. He had to finish early the other day because as he said, 'Kick off is in an hour and a half and I have to go to the store for some supplies'. We 'A' type women are not helpless but I'm willing to put up with this as long as I'm not the one who has to unclip the dead rats from the traps in the attic.

So let's lift a glass of Shiner beer to the Larrys who's answer to our, 'That deck looks wonderful' is always a hat-tippin', 'It's my pleasure, ma'am'. God luv eem...

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Business Cards

I figured that I needed a business card, but I wasn't sure what to put on it since I really don't have a 'business' per se, and then it came to me!

I used a very ornate ancient script and under my name is simply, "Lunch Enthusiast." Well, that got me thinking about other ideas for business cards. Like if they tell the truth about the holder or maybe even what the future holds for the recipient of their card.

I wish my last sweetheart had just put on his card, "Emotionally Unavailable," or "Not Destined for Greatness...even Mediocrity." I might have thought twice if he had handed me a card that said, "Walk Away Before It's Too Late."

Women who want children could have cards that read, "Have Sperm? Will Incubate." Men who don't want to or can't have children would have cards with, "Shootin Blanks, I Swear!"

If you were applying for a job, you should really give pause if your potential boss hands you a card that says, "Unable to Appreciate Subordinates." Or you might hand the person back your own card, "I buck Authority...Beware."

If I didn't have "Lunch Enthusiast" on my card, it would read, "Movie Slut." I also wish my second husband had given me a card that said, "Short With Napoleonic Complex."

Oh, and I could have used a card given to me that said, "Stop...If You Don't Rescue Me, Someone Else Will."

And, I would keep forever a card from my best friend that reads, "I've Got Your Back."

What would your card say?



I must say, KK, you have outdone yourself on this business card thing. I bet everybody's minds are just racing with this one.

I need a different business card for each thing that I'm doing. For my documentary I need one that says, 'Give me $65,000 dollars and I will get you an Academy Award.'

I need one for acting that says, 'Cast me in this role or I can't promise that your tires won't be slashed tomorrow.'

I should have one that says, 'This is not really my phone number but you won't stop bugging me.'

I like the card that KK and I have for the 'Midlife Gals'. It has our blog, email addresses and phone numbers and I designed it. It's very straight forward and just gives our motto at the end that is, 'Onward through the fog!'

And life is like driving in the fog isn't it? You know there's an asshole or two behind you thinking you could go faster, the guy in front of you doesn't know his left-hand blinker has been on for the last 12 fucking miles and your high beams don't do shit.

Everybody always tries to make their cards look professional. I look at them and they are boring. Two weeks later I find it in my purse and can't even remember them or how or where I got the card. But I can't throw it away. I don't know why that is. All these mysterious, boring cards are in the tray by the door for in case... In case of what?!! I don't know!

So if you've ever given me a card you might want to email me and remind me who you are. Then I can put your card in the 'I know this person' pile. It will stay there for about 6 months until I forget who you are again and then you might want to follow up and send me another card. I'm just telling the truth.

Friday, January 18, 2008


We thought we'd better send this out one more time since it's primary and caucus time. We're sad that soon there will be only two candidates to duke it out!

I’ve made my decision on who to vote for in the next US presidential election. I’m going to vote for ClinBamaGiulCain. There…I’m committed. No turning back now!

I’m confessing, obsessing and thrilled with my choice. It’s a middle-of-the-road choice, I know, but that’s where I am at age 55. Here’s the deal…as a woman, how could I not vote for the potential first woman president? Why wouldn’t I support a possible first black president or the man who gave such comfort to New Yorkers on 9/11? And, who wouldn’t trust a man who spent years at the Hanoi Hilton and even gave up his turn for a fellow prisoner when it was time to be released?

The problem is this…how could I vote for a woman who didn’t have the courage and self respect to leave a cheating husband, one who cheated and lied all over the place and cozied up to every skirt he wanted underneath? And, why would I give my vote to an African American who looks like he’s a seventeen-year-old Eagle Scout with a bright future but who is so green behind the ears that I cringe at the notion of his high-level talks with a nutcase like Putin? With 9/11 a distant, horrible memory, how could I give my precious vote to a man whose son is supporting another candidate, for Criminy’s sake? What does he know that we don’t yet? And, the Vietnam vet is older than Gawd, so how long is he going to last?

I’m from west Texas where all the cowboys live, and they want a ball-bustin’, horse-ridin’ son-of-a-bitch who will do what they want him to. On the other hand, I live in the capital of Texas, an island in the desert sea that is often proclaimed, The People’s Republic of Austin.’ These constituents want every smoker hung, every non-recycler sent to prison and every conservative strung up by her toes. It’s tough around here for a middle-of-the-roader.

I have a confession to make, and I know that if we’re all honest at the end of the day, there are some out there who have sold their votes for love…been converted by a husband, wife, lover or the postal carrier. Yep, that’s happened to me. In my desperate cravings for love, I have been persuaded that my convictions can be switched for a large bottle of Chanel No. 5 or a hand to hold when fears arise, and I’ve sold my soul for a multiple orgasm. There, I’ve said it. I’m not proud, but I just love Chanel N. 5, okay?

When push comes to shove, here is my dilemma. I support every woman’s issue on the planet. I think stem cell research is the answer to all ailments of incurable dimensions. But, I like the way our American economy is going. I am totally on board in the ‘global’ war on terror and think that every terrorist should have to spend a few years in the Hanoi Hilton. On the other hand, I think the US health care system is a nightmare, but I don’t think Canada has the answer there either. I think that we should do away with health insurance all together…make the doctors have to compete with each other and give us service for pay…like whoever has to wait longer than 15 minutes in a waiting room gets their medical care for free.

I’ve worked for the daughter of a democratic President of the United States and that daughter is as much of a megalomaniac as her father. I’ve worked for a media guru who helped elect the same republican President not once, but twice. That person started his own political career as an anarchist, so who do I believe??

And, the television commercials haven’t even started yet! By the time they’re coming at us full speed, I hope there will be a law in place that blocks the ads from being projected on our TV screens the way they sent us all a number we could use to block all the harassing sales pitches at dinnertime. I’m such a middle-of-the-roader that I’ll believe each commercial which will further cement my decision to vote for ClinBamaGuilCain.

Go vote!


I'm gonna vote for Barak Obama. I already know that. Hilary Clinton is fake and I hate her. She does a fake southern accent when she is in the south. KK pointed that out to me and I have hated her ever since.

People say Obama is young and naive. Well, so was Kennedy. If I had been old enough to vote, I would have voted for Kennedy.

If George Clooney ran for president I might vote for him...or Tony Bennett. Maybe Chris Rock would be good because he can find the joke in anything and the State of the Nation speeches would be hilarious.

Ellen DeGeneras would be a great Vice President. We could send her to Iraq or France or anywhere and she would make them laugh.

I would like to be the US Ambassador to Jamaica. Start a petition for me and I'll put you up for a week at Jake's on the south shore of the island.

Being President of the US would be a really hard job and I wouldn't want to do it. Would you?

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

The She room vs The Man Cave

If there is testosterone in your house that comes in the spousal or sig/other two-legged form rather than in a tube as part of your HRT, then you know that they need their caves. It might be a basement or a garage or a den or a home office. They just have to have that space all their own.

And, what they do with it is always interesting, sometimes shocking and a Godsend to get them out of our hair for hours at a time. Women are adaptable enough to use the rest of the house to be creative. We can weave our magic in a bathtub or with headphones on in a meditation chair. We can create in front of Oprah on TV or sitting at the kitchen bar with our day planner.

But, the mens have to have a room, their room, no lace allowed, no questions and no Honey Do lists. They might spend hours doing absolutely nothing but watching golf on TV. They might be tinkering with the latest electronic equipment that they don't understand anymore than we do. They may be napping just because they can.

And, speaking of napping, may I humbly suggest that you put a nice, comfy bed in their man cave so they can sleep in there every night! If you have a snorer, hawker, farter or sleep apnea fella, this is to preserve your own sanity and good health. It will take some finessing to convince him that this was really his idea and that all REAL men have their own rooms. You might Google seperate bedrooms and see what you can come up with as rationale. I'm just speaking from experience. And, it feels good not to have to hold your stomach in underneath your be able to read until the wee hours without hearing sucking, choking sounds next to you in bed. Your cat will love you all the more for this, and you can rest assured that your partner is hibernating in his own comfy, cozy, manly way.

SalGal and I have actually created our own Magic She Room where we create every day. We burn incense and great-smelling candles, we have a bulletin board up with affirmations and successes (like a copy of the MORE magazine article). There is a daybed in this room where our cats, Dammit, Odessa and Buddy can sleep to the sounds of our laughter. Our TV is tuned to the morning news shows and then Ellen Degeneres, not ESPN and after Ellen, we turn off the TV and turn on beautiful classical music. This She room is actually our own man cave away from the Ancient One who is always on the couch watching Fox News. She knows better than to set foot in our Magic room without an invitation. It's the only way we can hold our sanity with her Motherness omnipresent throughout the rest of the house.

I write to you this very morning from the desk in our Magic She room in my jammies with Dammit looking at me from the bed, all curled up and happy. Diane Sawyer is giggling on Good Morning America and SalGal has yet to awaken. Life is good and I am happy and I haven't even brushed my teeth yet.


Well, I'm awake now and in the magic room. That's so true about the man cave. They have to have it. It's good for them.

Wouldn't you love to design your own private 'have fun room'? What would it be like? Mine would have all white walls and KK's idea is that we and anybody who wants to could paint the walls. I would paint monkeys and palm trees and huge, tropical flowers on a pale green background. I have a friend who wants to paint penises and that's okay as long as they are circumcised. I don't think penises are all that pretty but maybe we could turn them into bananas or zucchinis after she leaves.

I would have a full bar with lots Cuervo Gold, rums, Chevis etc. And Pearl beer. I love Pearl beer. And a big fridge filled with lime and salt for the tequila shots, Bries and pates from France, and pork rinds and Doritos. People need sustenance while they are painting.

And of course we would need music. Garth Brooks is good and the Gregorian chants. Show tunes - West Side Story, Les Mis and The Jungle Book. And I would have a small Kareoke stage so we can sing.

See, this is all girl stuff and no mens allowed to ruin our fun. We want to laugh and giggle while we dance to 'Grease'. We want to drink martinis with no thoughts of how we look. We want to scream out the window, 'Fuck you Bill Cinton and all you other cheatin' assholes!'

And then we want to dress up all gorgeous and go out with the boys.

It all evens out,

Monday, January 14, 2008

Women of the Blogosphere ARE HERE!!

We have received our monthly copy of MORE Magazine with our blog featured in what they call a 'charticle.' 30, "Women of the Blogosphere." It's the issue with Va-Va-Voom Vanessa-The-Undressa on the cover.

Run, don't walk to the nearest book store, drug store, grocery store...whereEVER they sell this magazine and pick one up. We're so excited and proud we could SPIT!

What really cracks us up is the title of the article...Women of the Blogosphere. It sounds so lofty, doesn't it? Like we've been doing this for years, when in reality, back in July, neither one of us even knew what a blog was! We thought it sounded cool and young and hip, and if we're about ANYthing, it's being cool and young and hip...NOT!!!!

This blogging thing has created approximately 65 million bloggers so we're pleased as punch that they stumbled onto The Midlife Gals. Lawd knows where this will lead us, but our goal is to have our own sitcom, starring us, of course.

Here's our pitch:


AbFab in Texas / This Decade’s Golden Girls (on mushrooms)

This is the ongoing story of two middle-aged sisters, KK and Sal in Austin, Texas. They host a local access channel program on Sunday mornings with critiques of NetFlix movies. Together they consume Bloody Marys and enjoy appetizers as they discuss their latest Netflix acquisitions.

KK’s control issues are always prevalent as she and Sal interact. SalGal’s fear of conflict, any type of conflict whatsoever (except in the movies) also shows up when talking to KK. When not on the air discussing films, they serve as live-in caregivers for their 85-year-old eccentric mother whom they refer to as ‘The Ancient One.’

In each episode the quirky sisters take on characteristics of the actors’ characters from the latest movie they reviewed. Reality is intertwined with movie plot lines providing all kinds of opportunity for laughter, mayhem, madness or whatever the theme of their latest movie might be.

Sal’s flaw is that she trusts everybody and believes everything anybody says. Her views on movies are often ‘off’ to the point of total misinterpretation, but KK’s observations on films they review border on the insane.

Everyone in Austin knows the fabulous and somewhat eccentric Jackson sisters. They are omnipresent at everything from sophisticated charitable events, galas, upscale bars and expensive restaurants to the likes of Gueros patio, Maria’s Taco Express and Stubb’s Bar-b-que. Austin and her local talent will be showcased in this way.

‘Onward through the fog’ is their motto and ‘because you never know’ gives them reason for all their misdeeds. With delusions of fathomless dramatic talent, the sisters accidentally reek havoc wherever they go, leaving in their wake a trail of confused but love-smitten fans.

So, if you ARE someone or KNOW someone who is in a position to make our dreams come true...LET US KNOW! Clicking on all of our video links on the right side of this site will take you to places of laughter that you never knew existed!



God love us we're good. I have studied sketch comedy at 'The Groundlings' in Hollywood but KK and Pam are just naturally brilliant. They do stuff without thinking that some people take years of study to master. How about when Pam becomes the crowd at the Jazzy Scooter rodeo? She ran over from the Broken Spoke where she and her hubby were drinking and celebrating Elvis's birthday. We told her what we were doing, sat her in the chair and shot the scene in one take. She then ran back to the bar and we continued on with our day.

It's like nothing for KK and Pam to do a skit. Can you believe KK's accent in the rodeo arena? And how about Pam all lit up in the '12 Days of Christmas'? Hahahahaha...she's so funny! And how about KK in the 'Marie Antoinette' Netflix review? Nobody else's lips can physically do that. I'm not kidding. Try it.

I hope you like our videos and blog because we are not going to stop. It's a compulsion. It's like sex, or food or stalking the Wilson brothers. We can't help it.

We love ya and our aim is to make you laugh,

Friday, January 11, 2008

Civil Disobedience

For some reason, it is ingrained in me to disobey but to do it in a civil way because I was raised a good girl, so prison is out of the question.

I like to touch things I'm not supposed to touch, to say things that cause awkward moments and I feel it my civil duty to NOT let anyone get away with acting badly in public.

Now that The Ancient One is more or less our captive, I disobey her all the time. It feels good after having childhood memories of her saying, "don't make me come in there!" Now, I say to her, "Don't make me take your walker away." She's pretty happy to have free live-in help, so she behaves most of the time. She was even on board when we absconded with her jazzy scooter to make the rodeo video

SalGal and I live to tweak! If you give us just a teensy weensy opening, we'll try to make you get real and personal at a cocktail party. When SalGal asks a party goer what their dreams and goals are for the next six months, I just smile standing there next to her because I enjoy seeing how uncomfortable the person gets. We get some pretty amazing answers once they realize that we're relatively harmless. It's like telling your secrets to a stranger. It seems easier sometimes.

I will embarrass a grocery store check-out clerk until they smile and then tell them how beautiful that smile is. I'm waiting to run into the owner of the company I used to work for, because I have a few things to say to him about what a HORRIBLE man he is, but I need to do it in such a way that I won't be arrested for CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE!

I am the Queen of nice when you're nice to me, but civility flies out the window if you're the cable company operator on the phone and I've been on hold for over 2.5 minutes. It's not pretty. I didn't live in New York for 12 years for nothing. I learned just how nasty one has to be to get anything done in Manhattan.

I think this political season promises to provide us all with scads of opportunities to civilly disobey when someone just mentions their favorite candidate. I will just say that I'm voting for Ron Paul and see what happens.



Civil disobedience - so you are disobeying with civility -or-you have civility but you disobey. Yeah, that pretty much describes typical action on a typical day for KK and myself. We hate to be told what to do. We hate authority figures and we scoff at Texas HIghway Patrol ticket givers. By the way can anyone spot us $2,500. for bail? We'll pay you back. Hey it was 90 on a 75 mph highway. Everybody in Texas does that.

Texans love to disobey. That's what the Alamo was all about. The Mexicans wanted us out of there and we said fuck you and then they slaughtered us. But that was because we didn't do it civilly. We got them back though. You don't kill John Wayne and Kirk Douglas and get away with it.

I like to disobey my cat when he demands that I feed him at a specific time, KK when she tells me to do my Yoga and The Ancient One when she wants me to watch 'Housewives of Orange County' with her. I run away and that's the best form of disobedience.

I only disobey when I can get away with it, well, except this one time. The $2,500 would be greatly appreciated and you can overnight it directly to the Austin City Jail on 6th Street. Hurry...


Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Thermostat Wars!

This is not just a gender issue. Unless you live by yourself, you will run into this problem. Since I now live in a house with SalGal and The Ancient One, and SalGal and I have hot flashes on a regular basis, this IS AN ISSUE!

The Ancient One likes to wake up with icicles frozen at the openings of her nose. This Icelandic condition requires that I sleep with the covers completely entombing me, which can be claustrophobic if I let myself go there in my mind.

SalGal tries to mediate and create a room temperature that is closer to room temperature as a compromise. But, when you live in a house full of women, there is a lot of middle-of-the-night action from beds to the bathrooms to tinkle. Each time we make this journey we all change the thermostat to our liking...fuck the others in the house is our sleepy, hazy thought process at these times, and then SalGal gets up and regulates our extremes each time. I like to think of it as sort of a thermostat ballet.

I like it hot. When I lived alone, I wanted the temperature to be such that if I wanted to walk around nekkid, the hardness of my nips would not precede me due to the artic climate. Not that I walk around nekkid ALL the time, but if I wanted to, I could without breaking out in goosebumps.

Because The Ancient One likes to have the front door open so she can see what's happening on our street AT ALL TIMES, we end up heating the porch in the winter and keeping it nice and cool in the summer. The electric bill, as a consequence, has caused involuntary gasps upon its receipt, but if that's what the old broad wants, that's what she gets to pay for.

For Christmas I got a yummy, soft, fleecy shawl to wear when I sit in my chair in the living room as we watch our evening television, but of late, SalGal's cat, Buddy, has decided that the shawl is either his long-dead mother or the girlfriend he wishes he had, so he dry humps a portion of it while keeping the other part in his mouth. It's a little creepy to see him so off base with an inanimate object and I feel like I should wash it every day. So, I'm cold without it as I make my way to the thermostat.

Perhaps this has something to do also with control issues. Since my New Year's resolution list includes as #7 - TRY to relinquish control using breathing techniques or Valium, this thermostat issue is a difficult one for me. I would like to have my own portable thermostat, frankly, so that whenever I even SEE one of those bitches walk toward the box on the wall, I can negate their actions from wherever I happen to be.

Please pray for us.


I'm telling you this whole thing is really ridiculous. If it's 80% degrees outside, The Ancient One lies on the couch like Jabba The Hut with a blanket up to her chin and a hot water bottle at her feet. She likes the temperature at about 30% below zero at night because she likes to snuggle down into her covers and 'be cozy'. Sheesh. And then there's KK. She gets cold if it's not up to 90 degrees because she is a died in the wool Texan. Texans can't stand to be cold you know. They like to be hot, especially the women so they can wear sandals and shorts and everybody can see the pretty new shade of Dragon's Blood Red toenail polish they just bought.

I like 75%. That's perfect. That's the day you turn off the heater and the air conditioner and open the windows. But oh no...That's too cold or too hot for somebody. Bitches. So, Mother says that you can't turn the heater/air conditioner off because then it uses too much energy to fire itself up again so just keep it on heat at 65% and if the temp gets down there then the heat will come on. But KK says no, no put it on air conditioning at 85% and then if it gets over that the cool air will come on. Okay I'm dyslexic and this shit drives me crazy.

Let's all just be grateful - those of us with heaters and air conditioners, that we have climate control in the first place. I lived in Austin in the summer of 1978 without an air conditioner and it was like living in a preheated oven. My hair curled up like a Brillo pad from the sweat on my head, I was as lazy as a dead armadillo and drank and retained enough water to feed Barton Springs.

I'm not touching that damned thermostat any more. I'm just going to let the bitches fight it out and get out my wool gloves, bathing suit or ski parka depending on who was the last one to adjust the wall unit.


Sunday, January 6, 2008

Indigenous Tribes

"Originating where it is found." This definition makes me laugh. Boy hidy, if there was ever an indigenous tribe, it must have started with my generation in west Texas. We're just a different sort of people.

Where women were concerned, you just had to be made of sterner stuff when your brand new husband back in the forties told you that you all would be moving from Connecticut to west Texas. Sounded like quite the adventure if you hadn't seen west Texas yet. "Okay, let's DO it," you might have said. And, by the time you made it all the way west to Dallas, you might have thought, "Well, this could be worse. There appear to be civilized people here, beauty parlors and libraries. It's a lovely and temperate locale, so how much worse could the west of Texas be than this eastern part?"

Then, upon arriving in the tiny, dusty, flat, windblown acreage of tremendously ugly, one-story, ranch-style houses, you might have looked at your husband and said either, "I want a divorce"...or Have you lost your mind?"...or maybe "You'll be paying me back for this for many years, my darling."

Talk about making lemonade out of lemons. First things first..."We have to build a country club and golf course." No problem except getting lumber where there were no trees, but plenty of room for a golf course, except we'll have to bring all the water in to keep the grass growing.

"Now, we'll need future workers and a population to grow this God-forsaken place, and there is nothing else to do anyway, so let's have babies." Done.

Because our town of Midland was thusly named as it was halfway between the civilized, beauty-parlored, libraried Dallas and the REALLY wild town of El Paso, where there were still indians living and Mexicans just across the river...we had to stand out somehow so we discovered oil. And, our new dialect and slang sprang from a Yankee accent mixed with the lilt of the deep south.

Our parents raised new tribes of rapscallions who held debutante cotillions every year...children who were outspoken, brave and accustomed to foolishness because there was nothing else to do. Most of them could ride horses, dance a fox trot and knew the difference between a horned toad and a frog.

In retrospect and with respect, I am blessed to have been produced amongst the tumbleweeds and dust devils. It's lent me good humor, strength and an acceptance for being one hair off plumb. My tribe of west Texans are known throughout the world as amazing women who don't suffer fools or hesitate when given a nod.

I double dog dare you to travel there lest you might think I'm exaggerating, but bring some extra gas and a gallon of water if you're driving. There's a lot of nowhere near there and all the way around!



Ah, yes we are a fabulous tribe, aren't we? We are bred of the flow of the west wind, the strength of the vast plains, the clarity of the clear, blue skies and the frivolity of adventurous, entrepreneurial, young couples drilling wells and copulating in the back seats of Buicks at the Yucca Drive In. Either that or they got all hot and bothered just after a raucous party at the Petroleum Club whereupon always-drunk Claud did his imitation of W. C. Fields and then 9 months later became our Godfather. They were young in the late forties and early fifties and they were beautiful and they were rich. And out we popped already hooked on cigarettes and Black Jack bourbon.

We were cute though. And with a Wheeler-Dealer Daddy and the prettiest and most artistic mother west of the Mississippi, we were both adventurous and gifted. It's in our genes, those desires to see greener back yards and paint them with water colors; those needs to escape the dust and barrenness of the brown cotton-spotted fields and the urges to settle where a flower was not considered a rarity.
Our tribe is matriarchal and all the boys in high school knew that in ninth grade. And now that they are baby boomers, they are the best men around any poker table or VIP box at the race track because they know how to dress, treat the help and avoid flirting with the cocktail waitresses. They know good and damn well what will happen if word gets to the wifey that they were a little too nice to the hatcheck girl at the Country Club. His wife stands there with her hands on her hips and then crooks her finger at him and he obeys because he knows if he doesn't she will make him pay. She is a Goddess and she knows it. He is her servant and it works out quite well in the bed at night.

Watch out for us west Texas women because we tell it like it is, don't put up with bullshit and can drink you under the table. And the ones from Midland know where to buy the best Caviar, hold the most dignified charity events and hold everybody's secrets to the grave.

You interesting and talented in the arts? You got secrets? Join our tribe...

Friday, January 4, 2008

I keep losing things

First it was my virginity when I was 17. Now-a-days it's the car keys or my mind. At this age, I can lose my train of thought in mid-sentence even when I'm dead on track with a very important point to make. First I get a panicked look on my face, then a far-away stare as I try to force my brain to stay with me, to not embarrass me...alas,the little man in the filing department has already taken that thought and walked to the way-back section and filed it under "Will never remember." That file is huge, by the way.

Those middle-aged women who might be my listening audience just fold over and slap their thighs with laughter because they also have this filing system, and they know that I will never regain my train of thought. What is adorable is that they then try to help me..."Okay, now, we were talking about the letter you got yesterday...was it a love letter? Was it an eviction notice? Were you summoned for jury duty?" They keep prodding me to try to remember until I look at them and simply say, "Forget it, it's gone." They know it's already been filed by the little man in my brain, so we laugh and move on.

I've lost my compassion for complainers. I don't know where I put it, but I lost it several years ago. Obviously, I complain on occasion myself, but the 'hope fairy' gives me a good SLAP across the face, and I snap out of it.

I like it when I lose my inhibitions. Alcohol is a help here, but I can lose them with just a triple-dog-dare. I'm sure there are many people out there who know me, and I'll bet you that they are STILL looking for my inhibitions to give back to me, and they would probably say, "KK, please don't lose these again. It's just too embarrassing, and we like you better with inhibitions than without."

I am losing the tightness in my skin. When I rub my eyes, the eyelids stay where I rub them instead of bouncing back to their original position, and forget putting on eye make-up without stretching the skin so tightly that I look oriental. I can lift up the skin on the top of my hands ... it stays there until I pat it back down, and the skin on my neck has developed little mini-crevasses. Let's move on.

Finally, I've lost all sense of what my boundaries should be. Since I now believe that there ARE no boundaries and that we're all just energy waves flowing in, out and around everything else, I'm a little wobbly on what I should and shouldn't do or say. SalGal has been my mentor in this area because the woman will say just about anything to anyone anywhere at anytime. I love that about her. The older I get, the more wobbly I become. I like that about me.

Here are some things not to lose:

Your temper
a sense of humor
a condom at the moment of truth
your diary
your purse in an airport
your health

choose what you'll lose and stick with it!



I'm still trying to lose that last 20 pounds. I've been trying to lose it for about six years now. I lost about forty pounds in the last six years and then lost the ability to lose any more. I lose my good sense every time I go to the movies and smell popcorn, smell garlic near an Italian restaurant or catch the glint of a Black Jack bottle behind a bar.

I lost my marbles in 1968 when I went to the University of Kansas and found marijuana, LSD, shrooms, mescaline and Spanada. That was what we subsisted on at good ole KU. We protested the war we were losing and then we lost our draft cards, bras and weejuns. Remember Weejuns where you put a penny in the front part of your shoes? Hippies only wore Earth shoes or went barefoot.

I have lost many things in my life and I've forgotten what most of them were and so I figure they were not that important so I'm not going to worry about it. I just want to make sure I don't lose my sense of humor, my KK or my recipe for Francis Ford Coppola's spaghetti sauce. And I don't want to lose my eyesight, hearing or psychiatrist's telephone number.

I want to lose myself in a good book and find the time to be a good sister, daughter, friend and cohort in tomfoolery,

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Middle-aged Partying

SalGal and I had intended to be more rebellious on New Year's Eve, but we wound up just being good girls. We were all hat and no cattle with regard to our prediction of raucous behavior. Our evening could have been a funky chapter in a bad book. When we arrived at the Four Seasons after a lovely four-course dinner at a fancy restaurant, we spied two chairs in an area of the lobby lounge with another two chairs across a large table and a love seat at the end.

On the love seat were a couple who were enormously entertaining to watch (in a pathetic kind of way). He was middle-aged AND unattractive, but he'd managed to find himself a whopper of a gal who, although also middle-aged, had had more plastic surgery than you could shake a stick at. Her enormous bosoms were so high on her middle-aged chest that we were sure she might have lost the ability to breathe were she to look down for too long a period of time. The same bosoms were spilling out of a very tight RED dress which she had accented with faux-leopard fuck-me pumps, a leopard clutch and matching leopard shawl. She took the 'let's get drunk on New Year's eve' thingy very seriously and by 11 pm, had her shoes off with one leg sprawled over her partner's lap as her eyelids drooped like she was entering an anesthetic state in preparation for yet another plastic surgery.

We felt obliged to give the man in the middle of all this our cursory double-cheek pump kiss at midnight, because we felt so sorry for him, and he'd bought a bottle of Dom Perignon to share with us. We knew his flashy, trashy girlfriend would pass out in the elevator on the way up to their room...and we figured that he would probably be okay with that at his age.

We also met a couple of gals who were accountants from Illinois who had stuck a pin on a map and Austin came up as their destination for the New Year's weekend. We admired that attitude. We enjoyed our time visiting with them, but let's face it, we were all four scanning the lobby lounge in search of an attractive man with whom we might begin the new year. What SalGal and I didn't know was that there were two of these men specimens directly behind us, so when the accountants were looking at us, smiling, laughing and being what we thought were very attentive listeners, they were really puttin on the Ritz for the guys outside of our peripheral vision.

They made their move in such a way that we never knew what hit us. They simply announced in the middle of one of our very funny stories that they were going to go sit at another table where they thought they might have better luck and gee it was great to meet us, yada, yada, yada. We watched them walk away to the table of cutie patooties and we just smiled at each other, knowing that we woulda done the same damn thing. It was a good move on their part, bold, yet appropriate for the evening.

After retelling each other one of our very funny stories, we kissed at midnight, hugged our friend, the doorman on our way out and went home like the good girls we did not intend to be.

I did feel GREAT on January 1, however.

Happy New Year!


Yes, we were so adult on New Year's eve. The dinner was lovely and we looked really cute. The Four Seasons was beautiful and the drunken whore was fun to watch. We were pretty much sober and we looked dignified even though we were wearing silver, glittered tiaras that declared, "Happy New Year'!

I like noisy, loud rooms of revellers and that's what it was. The people all looked nicely dressed and KK and I had on panty hose. We don't go to that extreme often. Knee-highs usually make a well-turned ankle look nice and hide the spider veins pretty well.

We had lots of red wine, champagne and our lipstick stayed on. Are our days of outrageous partying over? Are we two fabulous midlife women with gracious dignity and the ability to behave ourselves in the face of offers of tokes and tomfoolery?