It's been three years since I left New Jersey and headed to CDL Class A trucking school. The adventures have been incredible, and I have made so many friends and memories. I had no idea what I was getting into, but my only regret is not having done it sooner. 

My advice for anyone interested in trucking is this:  Just do it. When fear keeps you from doing what you desire, you are filled with regret. I am happy to say that I will never die with regret. I have lived my life as my sister, Lee, had--- No fear, no regret, no surrender. 

Please take some time to read my past "short & silly" posts. I removed all of the author and book related blog posts, and hope to find the time to continue my short & silly posts.  Finding time to post while driving over the road in a big rig is quite an arduous task, but with some discipline, I'm sure it can be done.

For the past few years, I have been participating on a trucking forum, TruckingTruth.com  As a moderator, I have written a couple dozen blog posts there pertaining to women in trucking and the lifestyle in general.  I encourage you all to take a gander if you are interested in trucking or have ever been curious about the lifestyle. The site has a number of resources including practice tests for the written CDL exam, help on passing the skills exam, and reviews for various companies that will train new drivers. 

Many of my followers know my father died, leaving my mother with five kids -- ages 2, 3, 14, 16, and 17.  Mom tried, she really tried. But sometimes I wonder how none of us were permanently committed to an institution.

Every summer, my mother loaded the station wagon with coolers, sandwiches, beach towels, chairs, her kids and the neighbor's kids and sat in the 70 mile long stretch of traffic headed for the Jersey Shore. In 100 degree weather with no air conditioning in the car, we sat yelling and complaining while my mother made threats we knew she would never keep. "Just keep fighting and I'll turn this car around right now."  Yeah, okay. HOW? There's a thousand cars here and nowhere to go even if you wanted.

I'm still not sure why my mother preferred Brigantine, but us kids loved the haunted castle and pier filled with arcade games and junk food. 

When I was about six years old, I distinctly remember all my siblings and the two neighbor girls standing in the velvet rope line, swatting at "green head flies" to keep them from biting us. We were so anxious, and all so very different in personalities.

My oldest sister, Renee, has always been whimsical, yet somewhat reserved. She's never been loud or aggressive like the rest of us. We talked her into a tour of the castle knowing that even at 20 years old, she was too afraid to go in.  After waiting an hour in line, and walking about thirty feet into the attraction, she grabbed my brother's hand and ran out. She tried to tell us he was scared, but we knew it was her.

Our group was taken into a room with a fireplace, adorned with a portrait of Dracula. While a worker distracted us, the picture slid sideways and a live "Dracula" jumped from behind the picture ... threatening to suck our blood. Abby's response was, "Did you brush those fangs today? How hygienic is blood sucking?" He stomped his foot and threatened us some more before we were led to another room. Lee yelled at him, "You're not so scary!" Abby grabbed her arm, urging her not to push her luck.

This time, a mad scientist produced a fake hypodermic needle and lunged toward me. I hid behind my sister, Lee, who pointed in the woman's face, "You ain't touchin' my baby sister. Go pick on someone else." I think Lee was more terrifying than the "ghosts" in the castle. Our neighbor, Chantel, pushed her sister forward, "Here! You can shoot my sister with a needle. I don't even like her!" The two sisters jostled each other as screams were heard from other parts of the castle.

The next room was an undertaker asking us for our last will and testament in the event we did not survive the castle. We were assured black roses would be delivered to our funerals, then informed of the cause of our impending doom.

"Our pets have not been fed lately. Do you hear them scurrying across the floor? Monster-sized rodents who hate the lights, so we apologize for the darkness in the next hallway. Should you wish to survive, I suggest you repeat our chant:  Ratsy, Ratsy, big and slimey, please bite the person that's behind me."

Abby started mouthing the words right away as we felt along the black painted walls ... until the rats showed themselves. Abby screamed, "Oh my God! I felt one across my leg! I can feel their tails!"

Lee shouted back, "Nah uh! And stop chanting, cause I'M the person behind you. Do you want them biting me? If I get bit, I'm biting you!"

Being so short, I figured out the "tails" they were feeling were rubber hoses glued to the walls. And naturally, I slunk between the girls and wiggled the hoses, making my sisters and the neighbor girls scream and shout.

By the time we got out of the castle, Abby was hyperventilating, Lee was threatening all the workers, I was laughing, and the neighbors were fighting with each other. We teased Renee for being chicken, spent the rest of the day playing games and hanging on the beach ... then headed home ... but with a "passenger" we didn't expect.

Lee found a jellyfish washed ashore and decided to keep it.  A DEAD jellyfish. Unbeknownst to any of us, she scooped it into a soda cup and carried it the whole two hour car ride home. She kept it in her bedroom, and it smelled so badly, my mother finally put it on a paper plate and threw it out the back door on a the patio.

Thanks again for reading another "Short & Silly". And be sure to check out my FREE Kindle books in June! :)

Many of my followers know my writing career started when I published "Goin' Postal: True Stories of a U.S. Postal Worker."  The wild stories in that book seemed indigenous to postal life. But perhaps they are indigenous to MY life.

Last summer I decided I needed some serious changes to my life and found an outstanding trucking company that taught me how to drive big rigs and I have since been driving coast to coast. Along the way, I have found my Jersey Girl attitude has created some serious laughs.

Upon meeting my trainer he said, "I take all my students over this one bridge on their second day. It will make or break you as a truck driver. It's called the GW."

Me: "Uh, forget it. I don't drive over the bridge with my car, I'm not doing it in a 75 foot long, 80,000 pound truck."

Trainer: "I do it will all my students."
Me: "I've never driven a stick before, and I'm not starting by driving that. You're last student was 23 and from California. I'm 42 and from NJ. I KNOW that bridge. Go ahead, try to make me drive it. I'll park that big bitch right on the bridge and walk to Jersey to have my brother pick me up."

Three days later the trainer got us a run to Connecticut. While leaving, the trainer set the GPS for the George Washington Bridge that connects New York and New Jersey. I took a different route.

Trainer: "Where you going? You gotta take I-95 South."
Me: "No I don't. I'm driving and I'm taking the Tappen Zee Bridge." He continued to protest until I told him "I just commandeered your truck. I'm driving and I say this way is better. When we head back to the Midwest where you live, you can tell me where to go. I live here and this is where I want to go."

When he told this story to another trainer friend the guy said, "That is the kind of student I want. One who won't follow the GPS and can make a decision regarding safety."  I thought "Wow... a job where my attitude is a good thing!" hahaha


I realized while riding on my trainer's truck I could in no way ever have a CB on my own truck when I went out solo. Here's why:

One night I was driving through a construction zone with a 55 mph speed limit. The zone had concrete barriers on both sides of a single lane, shifted and curved, and the asphalt was tilted which made me feel I would roll over. I was doing 50 mph.

Driver Behind me on CB:  "Hey driver, you can DO 55 here"
My response:  "Hey Jerk, I can DO 45 here also. So keep talking and see how that works out for you."


On another occasion, I had my hazard lights on while driving through a 5 lane industrial park. I pulled all the way to the right at 15 mph trying to find the correct customer drive way at 3am.  Not only was there a passing lane but also a center turn lane. I was in no one's way.

Driver Behind me on CB:  "Hey, why you have your hazards on? You're in my way."
My response: "Cause I love the blinking lights! It reminds me of Christmas!"

The worst part about trucking is learning to back up. It's hard and takes lots and lots of practice. One day while I was backing into a dock door, a man came shouting "Hey, you almost hit the pole on the other side!"

Me: "Almost, or did?"
Him" "Almost."
Me: "So it's still standing? What is your problem then?"

Thanks for reading today's Short & Silly. Now that I am out of training and in a truck of my own, I'm going to start posting regularly again. I have quite a few books I need to review for other authors, and I thank you all for the support you have shown me over the past year during my career transition.

Goin' Postal and Zodiac Lives will be FREE on Kindle during June, be sure to look for them!

A few of you have written stating you miss my Short & Silly posts, so I'm devising a schedule. Starting next week I will be doing "Short & Silly" on Saturday, Product & Book Reviews on Sundays, Monday, Tuesdays, and filling in the rest of the week with author and self-publishing information. As always, please feel free to write me at any time for requests for information or comments on your Indie Author experience.

Last night, I ventured to a car dealership to consider trading in my car. I love my car, but sometimes life is strange and things happen. Having run an automotive establishment, I am quite familiar with cars and high pressure sales tactics. I scare salespeople, and that is the way I like it.The salesman was fine. I explained to him that I know the numbers: my car's trade-in value, the new car's value, and I'll know if I'm getting screwed. I won't be manipulated. The salesman understood this, but then came "The Closer". After appraising my trade-in, they held my car keys as if trying to keep them hostage. Not smart.

They did low ball the offer for the trade-in, but I had expected that. I told him I would think about it, and then he upped the offer by $1000. I told him I would think about it and call the next day. "It's not like it's the end of the month, it's not going to affect your bonus."

He responded, "Everyday is the end of the month to me."

I laughed, "Good, then you'll offer me the same deal tomorrow. Where are my keys?" He upped the offer another $1000. I the stated, "I'm not a fool. Any car I buy would be seen by a mechanic first."

He handed me the keys to the dealer's car and said "Here, take it home tonight. Drive it, take it to a mechanic. See what you think and buy it."

Again, I asked for my keys. This time his reply was, "Cars this good and low in price do not last on lots for days. You need to put $500 down as a deposit or it won't be here tomorrow."

That did it. My brother looked at the salesman and said, "Ohhhhhh noooo. He did it. It's going to get loud in here."

It did, I went off on this guy. "First, I'm not some stupid woman you can manipulate. That car has already been here for days. How do you think I found it? I saw it on your website last week, alongside a dozen other cars of the same price. Second, I put my car on Craigslist and had three offers in a couple hours. I have options. If this car is gone tomorrow, so be it. I'll find another, and definitely at another dealer. Third, I want my car keys right now or I'm calling 911."

First mistake: After appraising my car, they did not return my keys to me. I asked three times.
Second mistake: Treating me like a moron just because I'm a woman
Third mistake: High pressure sales tactics do not work on me.

I have a history of torturing salesmen. I once crawled under a Mitsubishi Eclipse with low mileage and a good price. It was rusty and I pulled mud and debris from the engine. Then my breasts got stuck under the bumper... not fun, but it happens with 40GG's. I insisted the car was from Hurricane Katrina. The sales rep argued with me, "I have the car fax, there's nothing on it." Uh... look at the registration dude, it was last recorded in Alabama.

When I go car shopping, I go with a three ring binder with the internet ad and the Kelly Blue Book value print out. I also print out the value of my trade in. This scares sneaky sales people. AND warns them. I always take their cards and staple them to the sheets with "JERK", "Nice", "Do NOT BUY FROM THIS GUY" comments.

The first time I went to Ace Ford in Woodbury, NJ the salesman just let me do my thing. I check the entire car for misaligned doors/hoods/trunk lids and paint blends as evidence the car was in an accident. I check out the engine for leaks and frayed wires--I'm not a mechanic, but know the oil belongs on the inside of the tubes. He was really nice and backed off, but was available for questions. Even after I agreed to wanting the car, he insisted I call my insurance company for a quote. He feared my rate would double and I'd be upset. The rate was fine. I got the car and was quite happy.

When I ordered my next car, I went onto Ford.com and "built my car." I walked into the same dealer Ace Ford. "Hi. This is the car I want, nothing more. If you try to pressure me into more options, you'll be wasting your breath. I will then go to that gentleman over there to sell me the vehicle. If he does the same, I'll head to another Ford dealer. Do we have an understanding?"

This guy was cool. I ordered my car and three months later, I was driving my new vehicle built for me. But that is another story.

Bottom line:  Salesmen need to realize not all women are clueless when it comes to cars.  And if you live in the Southern New Jersey area, check out Ace Ford for all your auto needs (No, I have no interest in the company or dealership. I'm just a customer).

I hope you enjoyed this Short & Silly.

Owls hooted and coyotes howled in the blackness surrounding him as the wind rustled through the trees. A lonely dirt road wound through the tall grass, and a car with two young occupants parked near a creek bed.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Son, you have to crouch down like a tiger then pounce.” The man beside him, dressed in black, carried a .45 caliber handgun.

“Now the trick is ta startle 'em. They'll be neckin' and won't see ya comin'. Make a noise to get their attention.” The man handed him the gun, just as he had done in shooting practice with tin cans. But these were not cans, and this was no practice.

He did as he was told and slunk up to the side of the ‘54 Chevy. Shadows inside the car moved about as he peeked in the foggy windows. The older man waved his hand, urging him to continue.

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and tapped the snout of the gun on the window.

“Did you hear something?” asked a female voice from inside the car.

A male voice responded, “Only the beat of my love-filled heart for you.” The people shifted inside the vehicle, rocking the icy steel of the car against his arm.

Louder, she said, “I'm not kiddin'. I heard somethin'. Ya better get out there and take a look, or you better be fixin' to take me home right now, Bobby Joe.”

“Oh c’mon, Suzie. Ain't nothin' out there. You do this every time we get to the good stuff.”

He inched along the side of the car, just below the window.

Snap!

His heart raced as he balled his sweaty palms. The gun in his hand weighed a hundred times more than it did before.

“Shh!” Bobby Joe whispered.

“See, ya heard it, too. I'm not—”

“I said shh!”

He pulled a buck knife out from his back pocket and plunged it deep into the back tire. The air hissed, echoing in the night, as the car's weight shifted to one side.

“Somebody's out there! Do somethin'.”

The car engine tried to turn over, but did not start. It cranked again and again, but nothing. “Help! Do somethin'!”

As he shot through the window, the boom echoed through the night and crackling glass fell everywhere. The recoil knocked him to the ground, twisting his ankle. Screams came from inside the car, as the steel gun slipped in his moist hands. Kneeling on the ground, he squared his shoulders, aimed the gun with two hands, and shot through the window a second time. Claps and cheers came from the man behind him.

As the screams continued, the passenger door opened and a woman in a dark dress came barreling out. Her hands flapped about aimlessly as she ran into the night toward the lake.

“Do it, son. Get her now.”

He hesitated before he stumbled to his feet, peering inside the car. Blood. Everywhere, there was blood. The dark, thick liquid bubbled from the man's head and oozed down in all directions.

His father ran to his side. “A head shot from the outside. I'm proud of ya. Means it's gonna be a great year.”

The woman screamed again, trapped between the lake and the killers. The father leaned into his ear. “Now, finish 'er off. This is yer big day. Yer a man afta today.”

He stared at her and shuffled his feet, limping on his injured ankle. Pain jolted through his body, as adrenaline pumped through him. Even his temples throbbed with anticipation and anxiety.

The woman fell to her knees and clasped her hands, begging. “Please, please don't. I ain't gonna tell nobody. I promise. Just let me go. Please.” The word came out in a three part gasp as tears streamed down her face. Her entire body trembled.

He tilted his head as make-up ran down her face. She looked like a clown and a helpless child at the same time. Leveled with her forehead, the gun wobbled in his hand but edged closer to her.

“That's my boy! Do it ... Do it now,” urged the father.

He looked over his shoulder, with the barrel of the gun pressed into the woman's face. “Do I have to, Papa? She ain't gonna tell no one.” Tears trickled down his face, and his nostrils flared.

The older man stampeded toward them and raised a hand in the air. Something metal hit the side of his head, flinging him to the ground. The man stomped and kicked him over and over, causing him to vomit. The foul taste of acid lingered on his tongue and floated up his nose.

The man's finger pointed in his face. “When I tell ya to do somethin', boy, ya better do it!” Again, the hand came down upon his head and back. Trying to defend himself, he raised his forearms above his head and curled in a fetal position on the ground.

The woman screamed in the distance. They both looked toward the voice, watching as she ran several yards away from them.

Another whack to the head. “Now I gotta go chase her. Yer gonna pay for this one.” The man hustled toward the screams, almost out of sight in the dark.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The screaming stopped.

The man in black skulked toward him. “What's the matter with ya, boy? What ya think I been teachin' ya? This ain't fishin' ya know, this is life.”

His head hung low as he stared at the gun in his hand. It lay flat on his right palm as his left fingers traced the shape of it. Without raising his head, he lifted his eyes and glared at the older man.

The man's evil grin frightened him. “I know what ya thinkin'. And ya might kill me one day. But this ain't that day.”

His shoulders hunched as he dropped the gun on the ground. Do all twelve-year-olds go through this? Is this normal? With one hand holding his stomach, he toddled back to their parked car on the other side of the lake.

He climbed inside and waited. When his father joined him, he looked out the window into the night. The man twisted, putting the guns in the back seat.

“Son, ya gotta learn it's kill or be killed in this world. My Pa taught me this, an' I'm teachin' you. Someday, ya'll teach yer youngin's, and that's the way it is.”

With watery eyes, he turned his head and said, “But they didn't hurt nobody, Pa. Why?”

The man's hands clenched around his throat. “Ya don't ask why, dammit, ya just learn. Pay attention to what I teach ya.”

The boy tried to nod his head in the affirmative, but the man shook the child back and forth by the neck. “Ya see, I'm teachin' ya how to do anythin' ya want without gettin' caught. Don't ya get that?”

The boy's hands reached to break his father's grip. “Can't breathe ... please ... can't breathe.” The man released him by pushing him into the door of the car.

“One of these days yer gonna get it. One of these days yer gonna un'erstand.” The man pulled out a cigarette pack from under the car seat and lit a stick.

After a few puffs, smoke filled the car. “I never told ya about Texarkana, did I?”

The boy refused to answer. Any answer could result in a beating. The stench of the menthol smoke burned his sinuses as he tried to hold back his coughing.

Taking a drag of the cigarette, the man said, “Ya ain't no man 'cause ya can't kill. Hell, ya can't even breathe in smoke. I'll make ya a man one of these days, though. I promise ya that.”

The man looked out the driver's window as he started the car, “Back in '46 I decided to try my Papa's teachin's. Yer mama and me was fightin', and I went to stay wit' a friend for a while. Yer mama made me so mad when she said she wasn't gonna marry me.”

The man turned the wheel, and the car bounced over several rocks and uneven ground before hitting the dirt road. “That mama of yers, she really knows how to drive a man to kill.” Laughing at his own joke, he coasted the car along until they reached a paved street.

“That's when I come up wit' the idea of the sack on my head. That scared the bejesus out of 'em. Remember what I'm tellin' ya, boy. Yer gonna need it someday.”

I'm gonna need it all right, I'm gonna need it for you.

“Ya listenin'? Ya gotta pay attention so ya don't get caught. Anyway, yer mama and me got back together, and we moved to southern Texas after we got married. I been a good husband and provider. I kept my nose clean and stayed away from my games. But now that yer becoming a man, I reckoned it's a good time to play again.”

The father reached over and tousled the boy's hair. “Ya know how many boys wish their daddies spent time with 'em?”

The car weaved and bobbed along the roadway. Still refusing to talk, the boy just sat there, listening to his father and determined to find a weakness and exploit it. Yeah, Papa, keep talking. Teach me.

“I'll show ya the newspaper clippin' from back then. Those damn cops didn't know nothin'. Wasn't no reason to beat the gravel then.”

The boy lifted his ankle across his knee and rubbed it. The swelling throbbed and concentrating on the pain took his mind off his actions, as well as his father's maniacal soliloquy.

“Ya wanna know real power? It ain't even taking the life. It's turning an entire town crazy and against itself. Those people shut the whole town down after dark.” He puffed on the cigarette some more. Then he pulled the car over. The father turned toward the boy and said, “Never leave nothin' behind. Not a weapon, a cigarette, a footprint. Always check the area before and after. Always wear gloves. Keep calm. Even if the cops are around, even if they question you, remember that you belong there. Tell them you saw the killer go off in the other direction. Hell, give 'em a description—a bad one. Blame it on a Negro, that always works.”

The boy nodded.

“Ya gonna remember what I'm tellin' ya?”

Again, the boy nodded.

“Once ya get the thirst for blood, ya never lose it. After ya were born, I got the lust for killing again. It grew and grew. Then Korea called me. I got to slaughter lots of 'em commies,” he huffed. “Some of 'em boys shook in fear. They hesitated and died, a bunch of young boys they never become men. Some cried in the corner, afraid to pick up a weapon. Never understood them. Get the taste for blood boy, and you'll fear nothing. It's crazy to think that I got medals for being a hero, here they'd hang me for the same thing.'

The boy mumbled, “I'll never get the taste for blood.”

He wasn't expecting his father's hand to fly. Pain radiated from his left eye as the force of the blow resonated. His head clunked on the window. “Then taste your own, dammit.”

The warm coppery fluid spread through his mouth and down his chin. With stone cold eyes, he faced his father and proclaimed, “Yer warned. When I do, I'll come for ya.”

The man's hearty laugh flooded the vehicle. “Hell, maybe you'll become a man after all.”

We all know single parents have it tough. The same parent always has to be the bad guy and never has anyone to vent to or ask for support. But how often do we think about one parent doing the "stuff" of the other gender? Now some of what I write here today might sound sexist -- yeah, I think men are more likely to kill bugs or take a fish off a hook (depending on the man of course). And the same parent has to give "the talk" with every kid, both sexes which can be awkward.

Thinking back on my widowed mother with five kids, I can recall plenty of instances where having my father alive would have helped. One very vivid scenario was when she took my brother, his friend, and I to Fortescue, a popular crabbing area. I'm not sure what she was thinking when she took three 10-year-old-ish kids out into what was basically a row boat with a small engine and  a bucket of "chum" which equates to chopped up fish as bait.  

Who did she think was going to take the long needle thing and push it through half a fish with its guts hanging out?
What did she expect to do with the crabs we caught?
Did she not think that three kids could tip a boat?

My guess is that she never thought of any of this. Growing up in South Philadelphia, she only saw grass if it grew between the cracks in the pavement. Expecting her to have a clue in open water was just plain stupid. Still, she tried. Failed, but tried. lol

On the only crabbing trip we ever went on, we all started screaming at each other, we didn't tipped over the boat-- but we DID knock over the cooler of crabs. The crabs were everywhere, we stood on the seats, which again almost turned over the boat. My poor mother scooped up the crabs from the bottom with a bucket. Then the engine died and a larger boat toed us into shore. It took two guys to carry the cooler into the trunk of the car when one said, "Hey lady, how many crabs did you catch? This thing weigh a ton!"

She opened the lid of the cooler, and lo and behold she had the cooler filled with water. "Lady, do you know you aren't supposed to fill the cooler with water? You're going to drown the crabs."

"Drown the crabs? I just took them out of the ocean, you can't drown crabs!" She didn't believe him, and started home. Anyone who has read my "Directionally Challenged Mother" post will understand that a typical one hour ride home took about four hours. By the time we got home, the crabs were floating in the cooler. What she was expecting to do with the crabs had they lived still baffles me. Never in her life did she cook crabs, fish, or most any natural food I can remember. Certainly never something that was alive when she got it.  As I said once before, she swears she used to bake apple pies from the tree in our yard. The problem is that there was NO apple tree in our yard--- and she NEVER baked a pie lol.

Another incident occurred with a boat in our family. We grew up on a creek, and the teen girls would lay out and get tanned. It was the 70's & 80's, and skin cancer was not an issue at the time. What happens when you are around water? The water reflects, creating a stronger and faster tan. So what do you think teen girls decided to do?  That's right, they climbed into a row boat and tied it to the dock then paddled to the center of the creek and laid down for sun. With their eyes closed. During a tide change.

Before they knew it, they were headed to the Delaware River and Philadelphia. Keep in mind, my sisters were born in South Philadelphia and spent most of their upbringing there, so they were not too familiar with how "the great outdoors" worked in New Jersey. You see, when they realized they floated down the creek, they tried to paddle home. That didn't work well, as they both paddled on the same side of the boat, turning it in circles as they drifted further and further from home. They screamed for help, and the neighbors waved, thinking they were saying hello.

At one point they almost made it to shore when a German Sheppard saw them and tried to attack them. This was especially traumatic for Gabby who is terrified of dogs, even tea cup poodles. She tried to hit the dog with a wooden oar, and then she dropped it in the water and it floated away. The girls continued to paddle in circles.

When my mother came home from work, she found the house and yard empty, expecting the girls to be there. The doors of the house were unlocked, the radio blasted in the yard, and a rope was tied to the dock, but that was it. She frantically scoured the neighborhood looking for evidence of the girls when a neighbor said, "Yeah, I saw them floating down the creek. They were waving and playing with a dog on the other side of the creek bed." Mom panicked knowing Gabby would never "play" with a dog.

Now, you might be thinking "What the hell is up with that neighbor? Didn't he realize the girls were in trouble?" But cut the guy a break. When you grow up on the water, rule #1 is paddle on one side then the other. When you grow up in South Philadelphia rule #1 is duck if hear gun shots. The survival tactics are completely different.

Luckily, some of the neighbors got together and pulled the girls to shore. It's a good thing they didn't wind up in the river. I could just imagine the US Coast Guard calling my mother "Uh, ma'am, we found your girls in a row boat, can you come get them?"

Considering Mom never found our town's library even after 40 years of living here, I seriously doubt she could have found the US Coast Guard post.

I'm writing this for my beautiful niece, Caitlin, who's probably never heard this story. I hope she finds it entertaining. Her parents might not know what happened twenty years ago to their car when left in my car, so here's hoping I still have a sister after this post.

Everyone in my family is incredibly unique, and often I wonder how we could possibly be related. We have the biker babe, the Stay at home mom, the computer geek, the yuppie puppy ... and well, me ... the troublemaker. Even when I'm not trying to find trouble, it finds me. Anyone who read my posts about the Secret Service will understand this.

Even in high school I was politically active. I marched in protests, volunteered for campaigns, and signed people up to vote. Who would have thought protests and demonstrating something you believe in could cause trouble?

My sister Renee moved to San Diego when I was in my teens. So at 19, I flew out to visit her and her husband. Although we did a lot of sight seeing together of the typical tourist attractions of Sea World, Balboa Park, and Del Coronado, they left their car for me to drive while they were at work. A BMW. It might have been older, but to a kid it was still a Beemer and I thought I was cool driving it.

While I was cruising around downtown San Diego, I stopped at a traffic light just as a group of demonstrators passed by. I asked someone what the cause was for, and one woman came to the car to convince me to join them. A California woman shot and killed her son's child molester, and the protesters were fighting for her release. It didn't take much convincing for me to realize a dead molester is better than a mom in jail, so I parked the car and joined in. The woman promised to take me back to the corner where the car was parked once the event concluded.

I should have written down the street names, but who would have thought I would lose the woman in a crowd of 20,000 people? After a few hours and lots of screaming and chanting, I decided it was best to try to find the car again. That was a big no-go!  The sky darkened as I rode the streets of San Diego on buses looking for the car. 

What was that? Why didn't I call my sister you ask?

And say what?  "Hi Renee, I don't know where I am, but I lost your husband's car. So pick me up at the corner store so we can join up to comb the city together?"  Yeah, I'm sure that would have gone over quite well.  Luckily, I had $200 in cash on me and found the car before I spent it on bus transfers.

In case you couldn't figure it out, Renee and her hubby are the "Yuppie Puppies" of the family. Sometimes I think back to the first time Andrew visited our family for a holiday dinner. My biker babe sister Lee (who many of you might remember) was quite emotional that year and started a big argument. Just picture five siblings, three husbands, two small children, and my mother ... in a pear tree ... all screaming and yelling.

Gabby's hubby had been with our family for a decade and a half, so he was quite accustomed to our occasional outbursts. When emotions broke loose, he continued eating at the dinner table while the rest of us adjourned to the living room to settle the dispute. Renee's new husband, Andrew, did not know how to react. He was torn between wanting to settle the issue for us and staying out of family business. He turned to Gabby's husband, Sal, and asked, "Should we assist them? What should we do?"

Sal shoveled a fork of pasta in his mouth, took a sip of soda, and responded, "Duck if you see something flying." He continued eating.  I wish I could have seen Andrew's face at that remark, but I was busy in the other room at the time.  I'm sure it is quite similar to the time he was demonstrating his wine tasting abilities. He's quite the connoisseur. He didn't get the reaction from my family he expected when Lee's husband turned and said, "You go to wine tasting events? They used to call me a real Wino too, but since my spinal injury I can't touch the stuff." Something was definitely Lost in Translation there.

I hope you enjoyed today's post. Coming Monday, I will start posting book reviews again. Be sure to look for my FREE promo of Goin' Postal & The Creek. It will be free for a couple days this coming week. :)

Also check out my "Awesome Author" page for some great reads. There are plenty who have their books available FREE on Kindle Unlimited.

Yesterday I introduced you to my sister, Gabby (Gabriella). She's a beautiful and remarkable woman, but she was never meant for the workforce--especially to work with the public. When she was 17, she got a job at the mall. Every kid wants to work in the mall, she was no exception. She had already been dating her future husband for over a year, and she insisted he sit on a bench and wait for her as she started her first day at the cookie factory. 

Her manager trained her to not break the cookies when weighing a pound for the customer. "The proper thing to do is ask the customer if it is permissible to weigh a little more than a pound. They always say yes, and we make a little extra money."

That sounds reasonable, yet nothing is normal in my family.  Gabby's first customer asked for a pound of cookies and when she weighed them and said, "It's a little over a pound, is that okay?" The woman snarled that she wanted a pound. Gabby removed a cookie and stated, "It's a little less than a pound, is that a problem?"

The woman then sunk into a barrage of humiliating statements. "Did I ask for 'about' a pound? I asked for a pound, no more, no less. You do know what a pound is, don't you? Perhaps I should buy cookies from the zoo, the monkeys would understand what a pound means better than you."

Wrong thing to say to Gabriella. "Maybe you'd feel at home at the zoo, perhaps you should go there. Cause even a monkey would know that breaking a cookie just to get a pound makes no sense. Who wants half a cookie? Only someone with half a brain."

Of course the customer demanded the manager, and Gabby was reprimanded. That was another mistake. Gabby started hollering, "You have a problem with me? I have a problem with this place. There's roaches in the kitchen, so many I was afraid to even touch the counter or they might crawl on me. And for what? Frozen cookie dough? You should just put a sign on the entrance that says Pillsbury, cause that store bought dough would make better cookies than these."

When her boyfriend heard her yelling, he ran to the store and pulled her out of there. She had worked only three hours, never received her paycheck, and my mother paid more for the uniform work shirt than she would have made in those three hours anyway.

Gabby and Dominic got married about ten years later, and have since been together almost forty years. A major feat for any relationship, they definitely belong together.  A few years ago, they owned a deli that served hoagies (yes, here they are hoagies, not subs or hero sandwiches). Dominic should have known to keep her from the public, but he released her like an irresponsible dog owner allowing an attack dog to roam the streets.

A customer entered the shop and ordered a six inch hoagie. However, she wanted the roll sliced in half. She didn't want the meat on the sandwich, and wanted each ingredient "on the side". Gabby wrapped the lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and meat separately in wax paper. She also put oil, mayo, and peppers in little plastic cups. To make up for the paper, cups, and tape used, she charged the woman an extra dollar. The woman flipped out yelling, "What the hell is this? You charged me a dollar for what?"

Because I have more respect for the public than she does, I can't tell you what Gabby said to this woman, but believe me, it was bad-- something even I would not say, and I wrote Erotica! I will say that the woman then called the shop later that day. She asked for the owner, and Gabby's adult son got on the phone. The woman demanded Gabby be fired, and of course, that was not going to happen. When Gabby realized it was that customer on the phone, she started yelling again. Her poor son was stuck between the caller and his mother, and he tried to be diplomatic as the woman demanded she be fired. "Ma'am, I understand how you feel. But the woman to whom you are referring is my mother. If you want a free sandwich, I can have one waiting for you."

Gabby continued yelling, "She ain't gettin' nothing!"

The public will be pleased to know that Gabby went back to being a stay-at-home Mom.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's story of how I lost my sister's BMW in a strange city :)

I apologize for being away, but due to some personal issues, I needed to take a break from the blog and book promotion for a bit. I have a couple book reviews to post, including one by A. Green entitled Purple Dragon. I apologize to the authors for the extended delay.  I also want to thank those of you who wrote me asking for more "Short & Silly" posts, so here's a new one for you.

I grew up as a "Jerseydelphian", meaning that my family came from South Philadelphia, but I was born and raised in New Jersey. We went "down the shore" during the summer, and supported the Philly sports teams, not the New York teams. Trenton is considered "North Jersey", and Rocky Balboa is a real person. And like all South Philadelphia Italian families, we either had "Connected Guys" in the family, or we knew some. Most people in South Philly know someone in the Mob, or someone who pretends to be a big shot, wanting to be "connected" and to feel special. And almost everyone's grandparents at least ran numbers decades ago.

I thought it was normal to know every word of The Godfather Saga, to not trust the police (especially the FBI), and to grow up around guys with jewelry, imported shoes, and wads of cash. One memory stands out though. When I was about ten-years-old, one of my cousins had died, and my mother drove someone else's car in the funeral procession. Much of the family who still lived in Philly did not drive, so those who did divided the cars up.  After the Mass, we followed the cars through the neighborhood and someone in the back seat shouted, "Hey, you know Vinnie shot someone last week at the next corner, right? Why are we driving his car here?"

My mother responded, "Oh, yeah, that's right! Kids, if you see bullets start flying, duck!"

To this day, I still don't know how we wound up with Vinnie's car, or whose bright idea it was to drive through that section of the city in the funeral. I just remember lying on the floor of the car, wondering if the window would shatter. My sister Lee was so scared by the time we reached the restaurant, she started screaming bloody murder when the valets tried to open the doors of the car to let us out. Of course, as you know if you have read my blog in the past, Lee was not the world's most refined individual, so she might not have allowed the valet to open the door even if there was no threat of violence.

Rather than bore you with details of arrests, indictments, and trials ... I'll tell you about my sister Gabby, this is one I'll never forget.

Gabby is the perfect stay-at-home-Mom. She's Betty Crocker, Donna Reed, and Martha Stewart rolled into one. But she still has that South Philly Italian Pit Bull attitude, especially when it comes to her family. She often answered her front door to the Mormon Missionaries, offering them coffee and conversation--probably cause the Mormon "elders" who come to the door are usually younger men who then go off to BYU after their missionary work. It's her maternal instinct to care for them, I think.. Although we were raised Catholic, she loves the Mormon's philosophies on family life after death.

So one day when two men knocked on the front door in white dress shirts and black suits, she exchanged pleasantries with them. They discussed her children, as the men saw the kids' bikes in the driveway. They asked about the area and neighbors, and then about her husband. After sitting them at her kitchen table for coffee, one asked where her husband was. When she told them at his place of business, (a name that phonetically sounded like the name of a NJ town), they began questioning her on other issues--which made her suspicious.

Finally she asked them, "Who are you?"
The one man identified himself, "Ma'am, we're with the FBI, and we need to speak with your husband."

Wrong answer. "The FBI? Get the hell outta my house! I thought you were my Mormon friends that stop by from time to time! You freakin' lied to me!"

The agent protested, "No, ma'am. We never lied, you never asked. Why did you think we were Mormons?"

She literally pushed the men out of the house. The FBI then put out an APB for her husband in NJ, not realizing her husband worked in Philly. Eventually the FBI caught up with my bro-in-law and interviewed him about a customer of his. It turned out that there was a guy who was involved with the IRA in Ireland, and he was running bomb materials and money back and forth to/from Ireland. It had nothing to do with the family or business, just a bad customer who had a business card on him when arrested.

After about ten minutes of discussing this with my bro-in-law, the FBI continued to question him as to why my sister thought they were Mormons. "She didn't really mean that did she?"

Her hubby responded, "Yeah, if she said it, that is what she thought."

"Why did she become so outraged when we identified ourselves?"

"Probably because she felt tricked into letting you into our house. She thought you were religious people, but you turned out to be Feds."

For another 30 minutes, they questioned him on the how the FBI could be mistaken for Mormons--apparently that was much more important than catching a terrorist and arms dealer.

Sometimes Gabby takes things to the extreme though. She gets very serious while on airplanes--she hates flying. We were once on a long flight to Vegas, and we were both sitting on the escape hatch aisle. She was dedicated in her responsibility for that hatch, read all the manuals about emergency evacuations, and watched the door closely. Halfway through the flight, a man began pacing back and forth.

Sweat built up along his brows, he fidgeted repeatedly, and he kept looking out the window. After a couple minutes, Gabby hollered, "Don't Jew be openin' dat door, man."  Real classy, as her South Philly attitude came out. He explained he was jones-ing for a smoke, but that didn't matter to her. "You better go Jones somewhere else, cause you go near that door, I'm takin' you down."

All 5ft 3 and 110 pounds of her was going to tackle a six foot tall, 200 pound guy. She'd do it, too.

Hope you got a laugh from today's Short & Silly. :) 

In 2008, my mother had a total knee replacement at 70 years old. Her hospital stay was expected to be four days. However, I went to visit her the next day and she was already in the discharge waiting room, "Take me home."  She only went to two rehab sessions, and had about four visits from the home health aide/therapist before declaring herself recovered.

Flash forward 8 years and I arrived at her apartment at 3 pm, but she did not answer the door. I called the office of her apartment complex demanding they bring a key to open her door. Although I had a key for the inside door, I did not have a key for the outer storm door. The maintenance man arrived then said, "I don't have a key to the storm door either. Maybe I could see if she left a window opened?"

I looked at this man in disbelief, "What do you weigh, about 150 pounds? I could throw you through the French Door. That will get me in." Suddenly he decided to cut a hole in the screen to unlock the storm door. I entered, fearful I was about to find Mom dead. She's 77 now, so anything is possible.

Instead I found a dizzy and disoriented woman. She had been laying on the floor for eight hours and injured herself while trying to climb to her feet. She'd hit her head causing a concussion and had trouble walking. I quickly pulled out the walker from the back of the closet that had not been used since her knee surgery all those years ago.

Upon our arrival at the hospital, we were told her blood pressure was 248/100. Her calcium and kidney levels were too high, she was in renal failure and I was told she most likely had some sort of cancer. Mom began forgetting things such as her kids' birth dates and her own social security number. I was hysterical. Everything about her looked weak and dying. Her hands were wrinkled and dry looking with veins popping out, she could hardly move, and for the first time ever--- Mom was an old lady. She saw how upset I was and told me, "Don't worry. I have no expiration date." What the HELL was that supposed to mean?

After MRIs, Xrays, CAT, Scopes, EEG, EKG and a ton of other tests, it was determined she had no cancer--- just a small cyst, high blood pressure, anemia, and some stomach issues. But no cancer--which is what I expected because of her family history. She was still forgetful and seeing things--such as bugs crawling on the wall and shapes in the curtains--due to a concussion. At one point the nurse asked her who the US President is, she knew... then asked what day of the week it was, she got that wrong-- but that is normal for her! I wanted her to remain in the hospital for a bit, so I convinced the doctors to send her to rehab once she stabilized. I figured this way she could receive 24/7 monitoring in case the blood pressure got out of control again.

A couple days later, she was moved to the rehab floor. I arrived at the hospital with bags full of clothes for the next week. What I found was a feisty and determined young Mom, not the frail, dying one. She kept getting out of bed which caused a horrible alarm to ring, because she was considered a "Fall Risk". She shouted, "Isn't this ridiculous? Every time I move a buzzer goes off like a game show. I want out of here."

An aide came, "You need to stay in bed. You know to call me if you want to go to the bathroom."

Mom did not take kindly to this, "You aren't all the big, I'm not afraid of you." She climbed back into bed, but each time her wait shifted, the alarm sounded. "That's it, I'm going home." There was no point to refuse her.

The doctor came in and I asked what she thought. "I've never seen anyone recover from renal failure so quickly. What is wrong with her can easily be controlled with meds, and she does need rehab for the knee, but if she is willing to have the home rehab, I see nothing wrong with her going home today." That was all she needed to hear. She grabbed her clothes from the bags I brought and shuffled to the bathroom to dress. Once we checked out, she suggested a diner then wanted to walk around CVS--all without a walker.


When bedtime came around, I was concerned about the height of her bed. She normally uses a step stool to get in it--she's really short and it is really high. There is no hand rail on the stool though, so I worried. Before I could adjust the height of her cane to use as support, she hopped up into the bed and huffed, "Oh, how wonderful... my own bed!" She smiled and said, "I told you, I'm not dying... I have no expiration date... I'm going to live forever."


When I told her she isn't allowed to drive for two weeks she responded, "My god, am I on parole? You put me in jail, now I'm on parole and they are going to tell me where I can go and what I can do?" I just shake my head, equating a hospital to jail is something I never considered.  


Of course she'll die eventually. But somehow my vision of her living to be 110 seems more real than before. My nerves are still shot.. my insides still tremble, knowing how dire things had become. She's perfectly happy in her bed asleep.   

My father died in 1977, leaving my mom with five kids, ages 2-17. I don't know how she did it, cause it takes a strong person to get through something like that. 

I guess she got tired of me and my brother asking where Daddy went, and she decided to try to distract us---with a dog. Looking back it's kind of funny, "Daddy's dead, let's get a dog." So Mom loaded up the station wagon with not only my family, but the neighbor and her kids as well. Two adults, two toddlers and three teens loaded in the car and headed to the pound to get our new dog. 

While we were there, the neighbor's daughter decided on a doberman pincher puppy, Dobbie---how original. My brother immediately found an adorable white fluffy puppy who licked his fingers through the cage. It was a bichon frise/poodle mix they named Sinbad. My mother started the paperwork, but there was another little girl there who was crying that she wanted our dog.  Being the typical four year old, I wanted the dog, and I remember giving this poor crying girl the evil eye. I had my back up of siblings, so a rumble would ensue if that chick thought she was getting our dog. With two dogs barking and yapping, snapping and pawing at each other, a bunch of kids screaming, and adult women yelling for us to shut up, we headed to our home thirty minutes away. This was one car ride I will never forget, and still don't know how Mommy didn't crash the car. Thank God her driving skills are better than her navigational skills.  

Our new dog ran like a bullet all through the house as we argued over a name. I wanted Goofy, my brother wanted Pluto, and my older sisters threw out their own ideas. After a few years, the dog responded to the following names: Dog, Mutt, Mutki, Hey You, and my brother-in-law's favorite, Sh!the@d. The funny thing about dog was that he didn't mind the screaming and yelling, he didn't care about the stereo blasting, and he thought he owned the entire house and all in it. It was the perfect dog to compliment our house for the seventeen years he lived there.

Dog was always trying to run out the front door when we opened it, which as a kid I found annoying. Now I realize he was trying to escape an insane asylum. Eventually he settled in and become one of the inmates. One time the ten pound dog grabbed a five pound steak off the table and carried it down the street. Another time he ran out the door and chased two dobermans up the street. He had no fear and even attacked my sister's pit bull when it visited. 

One tragic day, he curled up in a ball on a chair and fell asleep on a round hair brush. When he got down from the chair, the brush was stuck in his tail but he refused to let anyone take it out. As he ran around the house wagging his tail, the brush clanged against the surrounding objects. We all chased him, but he hid. My mom figured she would wait until the next day to try to remove the brush to give him time to calm down.

The dog often slept in the front bay window and waited for us to come home or barked at cars going down the street. All night long we heard CLANG CLANG CLANG as he wagged his tail in the window. The family tried to remove the brush again, but Dog did not want to be touched. He snapped and growled, determined to be left alone. My mother was never one to give up, and was afraid the weight of the brush would hurt his tail. She cut a hole in the crotch of a pair of pantyhose and pushed his head through to make a collar. Then she tied each leg of the hosiery to the legs of the coffee table--making the dog's face point under the table. That didn't stop Dog, he continued to snap and bark. He bit my sister who laughed, "My pit bulls bite me harder when they are playing." 

After trying for some time, Mom decided to give up. It took two months for the hair to grow long enough for Mom it cut the hair out of the brush so the Dog was not injured or whimpering.

Over the years, there have been many crazes where parents battled crowds and stores for Teddy Ruxbin Furby, Elmo, Wii, iphones, Nintendo, and much more.

One of the earliest "kid crazes" a mother had to endure was the Cabbage Patch Kids. Every little girl wanted one, and a parent had to stand in line for hours to get one. Luckily for me, I had sisters who were willing to do so. However, in four separate attempts, my sisters got to the front of the line and the dolls were gone before they received their ticket to get one.

My sister, Abby, had a big argument with an employee at Bradlees department store. Thank God she never got arrested, but that is my sister Lee's forte. My mom did not give up. She called every store in the tri-state area, and finally said, "Let's go! Clover has one." Remember Clover, the discount version of Strawbridge's?

We got to the store and on the shelf were five dolls left--all black. I still remember how excited I was as I looked them over and chose mine carefully. "Gwen Carla.. she's mine," I said and proudly carried my new little girl to the register. I bounced around dancing, waiting to get rung up to make her officially mine.

There was a black female customer in front of us in line who looked at me and snapped, "Don't you know you should stick to your own kind."  Wow. Until that moment, I hadn't realized there was a difference. As an adult, I'm a little mad at the woman who tried to push her racist bull crap attitude upon an eight-year-old kid. I'm also sort of proud at the fact that I saw no difference in the doll, nor did my mother try to talk me out of it. That says a lot for the way my mother raised us.

My brother was the one who tormented me over Gwen... not over the color of the doll, but just him being a little bratty brother and wanting to torture me. He would stand at the top of the stairs and throw Gwen down and scream, "Flight Lessons!" As an adult to get him back, I would occasionally throw something of his and scream the same. 

I still have Gwen Carla, sitting on top of my dresser. Thank God she's just a doll, cause I would never have been able to afford college for a real kid. I sometimes wonder why adults can't rid their prejudices, not just of race, but of religion, social class and more.

My mother requested I post this story, because it shows her way of thinking and brings a smile to her face.

I had a cousin who was close to my age who came to spend the weekend when I was about 12 years old. My mother then invited my brother's friend to also spend the weekend--that was a disaster.

The two of us girls were playing our make-up and hair, teasing it high and frizzy ala 1990's. My brother and his friend kept making fun of us, telling us "It doesn't matter what you do, you'll still be ugly." This of course led to me squirting my brother with the foaming mousse that shot out like silly string.

A huge selection of hair and make-up products flung around the room, landing on whatever and whoever was in the way. Streaks of fuchsia Vidal Sassoon hair gel dripped down my brother, and before I knew it, ketchup and mustard were the new weapons of choice. We looked like gay pride floats with the rainbow of mischief that decorated our clothes, skin, and hair.

Any new mother would have been upset, screaming and yelling. However, my brother and I were kids number 4 & 5, making my mom a veteran. She was happy as long as no one need stitches or casts... to her this was "no big deal". The problem? How do four kids get showered in a one bathroom home with only enough hot water to bathe two?

My mother had the perfect answer, "Lay towels down on the backseat and get your butts in the  car."

"But we're filthy."

"Get in the car, here's some towels." She drove us to the car wash and I thought she wanted us to wash the car. Mom put five dollars of coins into the do-it-yourself wash, then grabbed the water gun and squirted us down. "Here, you want to shoot each other? Then at least clean yourselves off doing it." She got back in the car and waited for us to finish. Four extremely wet kids loaded back into the car and headed back home. 

To this day, I'm extremely thankful that my brother didn't turn on the hot wax. Not only would I be scarred for life, but it probably would have taken my mom forever to find the hospital.


Mom always said:

With one kid, you aren't a parent cause you know who broke the lamp.
With two kids, you aren't a parent cause you can separate two fighting kids.
It's at three kids that you become a parent, because when the kids fight, the third is always jumping in and you only have two hands.
Kids four, five, and six don't really marry cause by number three you are already crazy.

Working in retail can be a wild and dangerous place. Many people outside of retail do not appreciate the things that occur nor the efforts these lower paid employees make to help customers. I will eventually write a book, "Customers Suck", but I have other projects lined up first. However, today's posts is about the THREE times I had a gun in my face while working with the public. 

At 19-years-old, I was an assistant manager of an Eckerd Drugs. I got paid a whole dollar per hour more than the starting employees, but basically had the responsibilities of running and protecting the store. I dealt with 2 am police calls when the alarm would go off, tried to satisfy customer complaints, and dealt with the register balancing.

One day I got paged by the pharmacist to deal with a screaming customer about a prescription for a controlled substance-- I think it was Percocet. The pharmacist told me the prescription was forged and he refused to fill it. As I approached the customer from behind, I could see a shiny metal gun tucked in the of his waistband. Damn! What to do?

I took the nice guy approach, "That pharmacist is a real jerk, the next guy will replace him in a few hours. Come back at the end of the night, and I will make sure it is filled." We chatted as I walked him to the front of the store. He was fidgeting, it was obvious he was a junkie who needed a fix. When we got near the door, but he had no intention of leaving. Now what?

When he start raising his voice again, I figured I had to do something. I pushed him through the opened sliding glass doors, slamming him to the ground. I closed the bullet proof doors as quickly as I could, and prayed they were indeed bullet proof. I had to rely on the company to know what they were talking about. What proof did I have that they were truly bullet proof?

He whipped out the gun as he climbed erect from the ground, "Give me my pills or I'll shoot you! I will!"

I'm a witch and refused to comply. I pulled the fire alarm, hoping to get the attention of customers outside, ordered an employee to call 911, and said, "It's bullet proof. You can't do anything to me."

He decided to change tactics, "I'll shoot my foot off then! Give me those damn pills or I'll shoot."

"Go ahead, what do I care? It's not my foot."

It was at that moment when I realized just how strong an addict's urges are, and just how screwed up their thinking can be. BANG! He did it, he shot his foot, then begged for me to help him. He was arrested and pleaded guilty. I have no idea what kind of sentence he got.

Fast forward a year. I was now 20 and covering another store whose manager took a week long vacation. The Loss Prevention District Manager visited, concerned about suspected employee theft. He said that one of the employees' register counts was short by $5.60. It was the third time in six months this employee was short. The moron waited until the end of the workday which is when the most money was in the store, then ordered me to open the safe. 

He went through all the register accounting paperwork, then asked me my procedure for counting tills. I explained for the third time that I was not the regular manager, and since he was speaking of an incident that happened the previous week, he should return when the manager was back from vacation. Idiot.

As we discussed this, a gunman walked into the store, kicked in the office door and demanded the money in the safe. I looked at the stupid District Manager, "You're Loss Prevention. Prevent this loss." Because Eckerd Drugs was concerned about losing a total of $15 over six months---which could have been a register miscalculating, or an employee unintentionally miscounting..... the store lost $10,000 that night. The man left without shooting. I was smart enough to put a die pack in the bag, so the man was indeed caught. Again, this one pleaded guilty.

The third time a gun was pointed at me, I was older and did not have the feel of invincibility that one does in their youth. I worked in Philadelphia at an auto body shop. It was in a bad part of town, and most business owners carried guns legally. A man came in to retrieve his SUV.... that he rolled over the night before while drunk driving. It was stuck in a ravine, had to be winched and then towed for 15 miles. The bill came to $400, and he refused to pay. It was apparent he was still indeed drunk. From a few yards away, I could smell the vodka on him, and yes--- vodka DOES has a smell to non-drinkers. 

He screamed and yelled, but when he pulled the gun out, I hit a silent alarm under my counter. The police walked the beat in our area and always stopped for coffee in the winter or the air conditioning in the summer. I knew they would come quickly. "Give me my car," he demanded.

He had the gun pointed directly in my face, about three feet from me. His eyes darted around, his hands were shaky and his speech was slurred. My mind raced through hundreds of scenarios but I could not decide on one. I hoped to just talk to him until the police arrived. When he start screaming louder, the gun shook in his hand, which really terrified me. My pulse raced.... I thought I was dead for sure. Until....

I suddenly saw a little red dot on his nose. Laser sighting! One of the other managers had a carrying permit and locked this guy in his sights. I gained my courage, "You have a little red light on your nose right now. You look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. If you shoot me, you're dead. Before my body even falls to the ground, your head will explode. So think long and hard about putting down that gun. The red beam circled around the man's body to be sure that he saw it.

He grabbed his stomach and chest, trying to chase the beam the way a cat would. "What? He's really going to shoot me?"

"You're really going to shoot me. What's the difference?" He screamed, and I dropped to the floor behind the counter. I heard the front door open and close, and he was gone. A few minutes later, the police arrived, but there was no sign of the man. We knew who he was, so an arrest warrant was issued and authorities went to his home.

A couple hours later, his wife arrived, called the police and ordered them to search the business. She told them we killed her husband. Now let's get this straight.. if I ever wound up killing a husband and going to prison... I'm sure it would be for killing my own husband, not someone else'.

After a massive search of our property and every vehicle in it, the man came strolling out of a bar across the street. He still had the gun on him when police picked him up. All the while, he screamed that I made him drink. Guess I have a real effect on people, huh?

My followers know that I don't hold back, not on this blog, and not in my novels. What might surprise people is that I was always like that. Even in Catholic elementary school, I stood my ground and questioned everything.

We all know the story of Adam and Eve and in second grade, Sr. Barbara made the mistake of saying, "The apple is a symbol." Of course I asked her:

"A symbol of what?"
"You are not understanding me. It's a symbol."
"Yes, Sister, and an hour ago you taught us in vocabulary class that a symbol is a reference. A reference to what?"
The woman threw up her hands in frustration.

That same year we visited the natural history museum and toured historical Philadelphia. The following week, in Religion class, Sr. Barbara told us that the planet was only 5000 years old. W H A T????

"Sister, last week you showed us a 65 million year old dinosaur. Now you say that is impossible. Which is it?" This poor woman had me for two years straight. I can recall countless times when I argued... or at least pointed out contradictions. She was chewing a bottle of Tums a day by the end of the school year.

The school pushed the "pro-life" agenda even at that early age. I had no idea how you could get pregnant, but I knew abortions were bad. When she showed us a movie called "The Silent Scream"... to a bunch of seven year olds --- that went too far.(Google it). They even took us on an anti-abortion march, but lied to our parents saying we were taking a field trip to the hospital. People surrounded us with bloody clothes and sheets.. with red painted doll parts.. it was gross.


Sister taught us that Boy George was bad and WHAM! was good. It was the era of Madonna's "Like a Virgin", and I understand there wasn't much choice for them to guide us in a musical sense..... But telling us to listen to WHAM??? They wore "Choose Life" shirts in their video. That was all that was needed. When I asked the nun, "Do you know George Michael is gay?" She nearly flipped her habit. 

When we were told to bring in our "most prized possession for an art project," I brought a picture of my deceased father. I hardly remembered him, and it was one of the few things I still had. The nuns came around collecting our items and I refused to turn it over. How could I trust a woman who didn't know the difference between 5,000 and 65 million? They took the picture anyway.

I was right not to trust them. They lit a bonfire, threw our possession into it, and said we needed to free ourselves from the bonds of idolatry. If you have read this blog at all, then you KNOW I chased the nuns--even at 8 years old--to get my photo back. That was when the fun began. They start playing records backwards and telling us the music we listened to was evil. KISS stood for "Kids in Satan's Service", AC/DC stood for "Anti-Christian Devil Children" and the Beatles were evil on so many levels that you would think Lucifer himself was the lead vocal.

Somehow I survived all that, but my mother insisted on keeping us in that school. Where she came from, Catholic schools were the best, and she wanted the best for us. I had the bride of Beelzebub for fifth and sixth grade, and I cried constantly. I can't image what my mother went through putting up with me.

Then the day of revolution came. My brother forgot his book, so I got a bathroom pass and went to the pay phone to call my mother. After a few minutes, Attilla the Nun approached me, "Excuse me, what are you doing?"

Confidence brewed inside of me. My mom was on the phone, this woman could do nothing to me. "I needed to use the phone." DUH lady... what does it look like?

"That pay phone is for teacher's use only. You don't have permission to use it."
This was it.. today was my independence day.. it was now or never, "I don't really think New Jersey Bell cares whose quarter they get."

This Sasquatch-like six foot tall nun's face turned red and steam blew out of her ears like a cartoon. She stomped her foot and pointed, "Get in that office! I'm calling your mother." I mean, this woman made Meryl Streep's character in Doubt look like Mary Poppins, and I stood up to her.

I laughed so hard, "Lady, who do you think I was calling? All of my friends are here."
Panic spread across her face. Her raised brows explained she was debating that possibility. She tried to rip my fingers from the phone to hang it up as I shouted, "Mom! She's beating me, Mom! Get up here!" Unfortunately for that nun, my mother drove a Pontiac V8 at the time. She got there fast, and didn't get lost. That was a miracle in itself. My mother often got lost, but at least she did so quickly in her American muscle car.  After an hour of arguing, my brother and I were enrolled in public school the same day. 

I found out years later that Sister Barbara left the convent and became a lesbian. I was never quite sure whether she was a hypocrite for her gay bashing to second and third graders, or if she was so traumatized by us kids that any relationship that could produce a child was now horrifying. We'll never know.

When I turned 18, I went back to that school. I wanted to tell them just how cruel and evil they were. None of the nuns (yes, pun intended) still taught there.  It's probably for the best. I'm sure I would have landed in jail. As for Attila the Nun, I search crowds for her, hoping one day I will have the opportunity to get even. That's the Italian in me, what can I say?

Coming from New Jersey, I suspect everyone of wrong doing. People need to earn trust. Cynical, yes, but it keeps me from getting used or scammed. As an author constantly promoting with social media accounts everywhere, I am often contacted by strangers who are up to no good. You all know what I mean, the "I see you profile, you very beautiful I wish to know you more better."  This is how I deal withe them:

Him: Hello pretty lady. I wish to know you more better. Here's my picture, I captain in US Army. Here my picture. What you do as work?

Me: Wow. The army? How interesting!

Him: Yes. It hard. I miss America.

Me: I can understand that. My father is a US Army general. He was gone a lot. You know what would happen? Foreign scammers would use the pictures of his men all over the internet, claiming to be US military looking for girlfriends. It's amazing the extents people will go to scam money.


Him: Yes. This world much bad. Horrible. What you do for work?


Me: I'm a federal employee. I work for a department that analyzing cyber crimes and internet scammers. It's kinda cool work because now we have these computers that trace the IP address, despite how many times the user re-routes. Technology is amazing like that. For instance, I already know the the uniform you are wearing in the picture belongs to a Colonel in the Royal Air Force, not the US Army. Neat huh?


Me: Hello? Are you still there?


One of the funniest was a guy who messaged me on Facebook. I actually enjoyed toying with this guy. After two days he was calling me "Baby". After the fourth day, he professed his love and told me he was coming to visit me---after he got him $100,000.


Him: I have $100,000 coming to me, but I need an account to put it in. Go to www.ira.com and open an IRA, then give me the passwords. I can deposit the money in it, then you and I can split it.


Me: Why would you want to do that? You don't know me. I don't know you.
Him: You know me baby. You're the love of my life. I trust you.
Me: So, if you have all this money coming to you, why don't you come see me this weekend?
Him: Open the account and I will. I'll be there Monday.
Me: I would need money upfront, as a sign of good faith. How about you pay my rent. It's $1,000 due tomorrow. Pay the rent, and I will open the account.
Him: I don't have any money until I can get this worked out. I'll pay your rent once you get me the money.
Me: No. Sorry. Try a family member or friend.
Him: I'll hunt you down and beat your ass if you don't do this!
Me: I'm a postal worker from New Jersey who grew up with 4 siblings. I'm not afraid of anyone. As a matter of fact, YOU should fear me.
Him: I SAID OPEN THAT ACCOUNT!
Me: HAHAHHAHAHAHA!
Facebook BLOCK!


Dealing with Telemarketers and Bill Collectors
Telemarketers are few and far between now that we have caller ID and the National Do Not Call List. However, some of my responses are kinda funny.

Caller:  I'm looking for Rhoda D'Ettore. This is the collection department of Who Knows Who Collecting. 
Me: Really? Do you know where she is? That bitch owes me $10,000!
Caller: This is the last known phone number for her. Can you help me?
Me: No, but if you find her, be sure to call me back with her number. Tell her I'm gonna hunt her down.
CLICK

Caller: Hello, I'm working for XYZ charity. We provide housing and services to low income families. We are currently doing a fundraiser that will help pay for the utility bills for those in need. How much can I put you down for?
Me: Wow! This is great. I just got my electric bill today and it's $458. Anything you can give to assist would be excellent. 
Caller: No, I don't think you understand. I'm collecting money, it's a fundraiser. 
Me: Yeah, I heard that, and you give it to people who can't pay their electric bills. I think that is great. And very timely in my situation. Praise be to God!
CLICK

Caller: This is AT&T Wireless. We have a special offer we'd like to extend to you. A FREE phone with a signed contract of two years.
Me: Do you believe in the Lord?
Caller: Excuse me? Ma'am, I'm calling from AT&T Wireless. I have an offer for phone services
Me: And I asked you if you believe in the Lord Almighty.
Caller hesitates: Yes, I do.
Me: BLASPHEMER! You are an agent of the devil! I'm right handed, and you want to sell me a phone that would be in my write hand... a phone with a number.. the mark of the best! It's in the book of Revelations.
Caller: No, ma'am. I'm just trying to sell you a phone.
Me: Deceiver! A minute ago you said the phone was free. Satan himself twists your tongue with every word. Repent! Repent!
Caller: Ma'am, the phone is free, the service is a monthly service. You would pay for that.
Me: Pay for services? So you are a prostitute as well as an agent of evil? The Whore of Babylon is riding the wild beast! Armageddon is upon us!
CLICK

And this... my all time favorite:

Caller: Hello, this is Madame Cleo of The Psychic Network. I'll like to give you a free reading.
Me: It's 8 o'clock in the morning.
Caller: If it's a bad time, I can call you later this afternoon.
Me: Forget it. You just proved you are fake. I'm a night worker, which means that 8am is my 2am. If you were real, you would have called me three hours ago and I would have given you my life savings for your information. Now I know you are just a fraud trying to scam people.
CLICK.

I hope you enjoyed this edition of "Short & Silly" Be sure to comment and share my posts. I'd love to hear from you.

The milestone of turning 18 years old is celebrated in different way in various cultures. Often in the US, people go to buy a lottery ticket, or even a pack of cigarettes because the person is now an adult.  But since nothing in my life is "normal".... that was not on my agenda on my 18th birthday.

My 75-year-old grandmother and her sister-in-law took me to a male revue. The lights flashed, the music boomed, and the crowd jumped with cheers. My grandmother was the oldest in the crowd, and the men seemed to think it was "cute" she was there-- in a Betty White sort of way. Boy, were they in for a surprise. My Mom-Mom got up there and groped those young guys and was not ashamed to do so. The guys tried to waltz with her out of respect and she pulled them close to bump and grind. The audience and men laughed as the guys each kissed her on the cheek before moving on.

Then she said to me, "You think old ladies can't get gorgeous, young men naked? Watch this."

The men pulled my 76 year old aunt onto the stage, and she insert coins into their g-strings, making sure to do so for every dancer. "Sorry, sonny. My social security check was late this month." She threw her hands in the air and wiggled along with them, smiling and dancing. It all looked so innocent.

I was horrified, "I can give her dollars. I don't want her giving her last penny."
Mom-Mom laughed, "You don't understand, in about ten minutes, she'll have put so much change in the underwear, it will fall down to the floor." I busted out laughing as hips gyrated and pelvises thrust knowing that each minute that passed increased the chances of unexpected nudity.  Unexpected to all but the three of us that is.  


Both of these women are long gone now, but their energy and memories last within me.

Be sure to check out my "My Guzzling Granny" Short & Silly post about this same grandmother.

Picture it--- 1991. George HW Bush was running for his second term as US President, against younger, hipper, Bill Clinton. The Arkansas Democratic candidate was going on talk shows and playing the saxophone, and most of all, smiling. He and his attractive family traveled the country and young people crowded around him.  Compared to him, George "Daddy" Bush looked very old.

In an attempt to counter Clinton's momentum, the Bush campaign came up with the idea of having a luncheon with high school students from across the country. Bush wanted to show people he could connect with young people, and he hoped to "get us early" before we could even vote. It was an honor to be selected as one of these ambassadors of my generation to voice my opinion to the most powerful man in the world.  Those of you who have been following me for a while already know this is not going to end well. For my voice is strong and loud.

I arrived in Washington, D.C. armed with stacks of possible discussion topics for the following day. We were provided press releases on various issues and policies and even provided briefs on topics not permitted for discussion. The documentation was vague, and I suspect they wanted us overwhelmed and unprepared. Nope, wasn't happening. Questions whizzed back and forth across the table as the president asked the teens about hot button topics. Then he got to me.

"Did you have a chance to look over my tax cuts for working families? What kind of feedback can you give me?" President Bush asked. (Please understand, we were live on CSPAN at the time-- he wanted the world to see us there).

I took a deep breath and replied, "I read the proposals, but they were not specific. I did not see any figures, just rhetoric. What kind of tax breaks? How much are we talking about?"

The president held his head high and stuck out his chest as his tapped the table, "A family of four will save seventy-two dollars. What do you think about that?"

My knee bounced as my mouth turned to cotton. So it's no surprise I nearly choked on my water. "Seventy-two dollars? A what? A quarter, a year, a month?"

Again, this man who had lived his life disconnected from the working class, explained, "Seventy-two dollars a year." A smug look spread across his face.

"With all due respect, Mr. President, my mother has five kids and a dead husband. Seventy-two dollars wouldn't pay her cable bill for one month."  He grumbled about me living in some high cost area-- yeah.. I do. New Jersey is expensive, and seventy-two dollars a year was not only nothing to brag about---- it was outrageous. Before I knew it, the television camera was no longer on me, and I was dragged across the floor by my arms. 

If you have been following me for a while, you know my mother is funny, patriotic, an Airforce veteran, and most importantly-- Directionally Challenged. She watched me on CSPAN with her co-workers on a television in the workplace cafeteria. Happy and proud... until I got pulled away by two large men in black, complete with radio earpieces. They summoned my mother to our capitol to retrieve me from the city, as I was deemed a 'National Security Risk" and banned from the city of Washington for one year.

Now just imagine, I wrote a post about how my mother could not find the library in my town---where she lived for 40 years. To this day, I still don't know how she found me a couple states away. It must have been her anger and humiliation that led her in the proper direction. Once I got into the car, she had no problem conveying her feelings. My mother never, ever hit us... but she was smacking me the whole ride home. "You embarrassed the president of the United States.. and me." They weren't "real" smacks. You know, the kind a parent gives you out of frustration, but they don't want to hurt you. I think the whole thing was so traumatic for her that she repressed it and draws a blank.

My response to her was, "It's our responsibility to question our leaders. It's our duty."
She snapped back, "The Constitution doesn't apply to you yet. You're not an adult.. and at this rate, you won't make it to that milestone."

Having Secret Service after me in no way hindered my interest in politics, nor my desire to work on campaigns. At 16 years old, I interviewed the Governor of NJ, Jim Florio and several other politicians for the high school paper---and they took me seriously. I manned the phones to bring in voters, and even worked the polls. After almost two decades of volunteering at political events and attending the rallies and speeches of national candidates of all parties, again I was removed by U.S. Secret Service.  Because I am an equal opportunity offender, this time it was Democratic Presidential hopeful, Hillary Clinton. I'll save that story for the link below. 

I would imagine that for most families, a funeral is a somber event. Organ music, lots of crying, speecches about the person who passed.

When my sister, Lee, died, my mother had already had a blood pressure problem for quite some time. She gave me her checkbook to make the arrangements, then headed to her doctor for a consultation. Concerned she would have a stroke, and I suggested she ask for "something" to get her through the next few days. That "something" turned out to really be something!

My other sister, Abby, and I headed to the funeral home to make the arrangements. Lee's ex-husband with whom she lived refused to go---he was afraid he might be expected to pay for something. We chose the motorcycle theme memorial cards and mourner book and decided to have a service celebrating her life, not mourning her death. We decided on a viewing and cremation then we headed to her home to collect her clothes.

Lee was a leather flaunting, boot wearing biker babe. For that reason, we chose a pair of jeans, her Harley Davidson shirt and a leather vest that had pins of the various bike events they attended over the years. My former brother-in-law's mother was there. She was 75 years old or so. The woman had the nerve to say, "You're not burying her with that vest? That was $150. I'm small enough, it will fit me. Be sure to let me have it after the viewing."

Yep, you read correctly, the woman asked for the vest off my dead sister's body!

So I made some huge picture boards to display and needed a music playlist. I asked my brother for his music collection, and his response was:

 "You're not playing The Who and Black Sabbath at this thing are you? Funerals are supposed to be traditional."
I replied, "She wasn't a traditional person.
"He scoffed, "She'd have a live f@#$ing band there if she could."
"EXACTLY! So why are you arguing with me on this?"

So we created a playlist of everything from The Who and Rolling Stones to Guns N Roses. We played her favorite song, Freebird. Now I kinda regret not getting that band. She would have really liked that. I even went and bought a Guns N Roses concert shirt to wear to the viewing. Lee loved Slash. My mother rolled her eyes at that gesture, but by the end of the night, Mom wouldn't have notice.

The first person other than immediate family to arrive at the viewing was a huge guy with shaved head and a goatee. He must have been six foot seven or so. He wore a leather vest with the word "Shovelhead" on the back.  Abby said, "My god, that guy is huge. They must have used a whole cow to make that guy's vest."  Thoughts drifted through my mind of this guy whacking someone in the head with a shovel and burying them. I didn't know until later that Shovelhead is a motorcycle engine.

People filed in, and as they looked over the pictures they laughed and pointed. They remembered the good times, which is what I wanted. A few of her friends asked me, "Where were these taken? She's wearing dress clothes... we never saw her in dress clothes."  A look of shock stretched across their faces.

I laughed, "That is 'cause she didn't have any. Those belong to our other sister."  Then I scanned the family photos. Christenings, weddings, Communions... ever single picture... 50 different events or so.. and in every picture, Lee was wearing Abby's outfits and my mother's dress shoes.  I heard a rumble outside and looked out the window. Harley Davidson cycles were roaring in the parking lot. Motorists were "doing doughnuts" and tires schreeched. A cloud of pot smoke hovered above the bikes. Again, I smiled, knowing this was exactly what Lee would have wanted.

A nicely dressed man approached me, wiping his hand on his shirt. "Hi, I'm related to her husband. I'd shake your hand, but it smells like pot from all the shaking I've been doing tonight."  He smiled. "I'm a federal officer, and hoping their smoking doesn't get absorbed into my skin. That wouldn't be good."  It was pretty evident this guy was more like my family than the bikers that surrounded us. He explained to me that he washed his hands five times already. I had not noticed, but took a sniff  and realized my hands were encased in pot smell... first their first time ever.

Then the crazy mother-in-law showed up again. Again she asked me for the vest. At this point I must have been upset and waving my hands in the air. My oldest sister, Dina, came running over, "I saw your Italian side coming out with the hand flapping.. so I figured I would come over." She pulled the woman away, and the witch went to talk to my mother. 

My mother was so high on prescribed medication, she was laughing and smiling. Mom never did any sort of drugs or alcohol. In my whole life, I only saw her take two drinks at Dina's wedding in 1989. The Ativan made her so high, and I almost could here Lee laughing, "Rock on, Momma! That stuff's good, isn't it?" Mom asked me at one point if I brought a camera, as if it was a party. In some respects it was a party, just the way Lee would have wanted. 


When the mother-in-law asked my mom for the vest off my dead sister's body, my mom told her, "Aren't you the one who wanted to pull the plug on your son? My daughter did all the things to take care of him that you didn't want to do. You know, bathed him, taught him to walk and talk. Gave him enemas and then cleaned up the blow-outs when he couldn't control his bowels. Since you have the nerve to ask for my daughter's clothes off her back, why don't you just take the casket and flowers home too. Maybe you can plant them in your garden."

At the end of the service, everyone said their last goodbyes, then I waited for all to turn away before searching the casket. I just knew someone would put a bag of pot in there, and I was right. That last touch really put a stamp of approval of what my sister would have wanted. Lee whined in my ear, "Oh come on, I was hoping they would put it in the oven with me. I wanted one last puff! How cool would that be?"

Dead at 47, Lee lived her life without fear. She did what she wanted, went where she wanted, and allowed no one to tell her no. If someone did, she found a way around it, or under it. Or she rid that person from her life and found someone new. She didn't have kids, so she had no one to answer for or to. She refused to be cut into a mold of who people thought she should be. She nursed her husband back to health after his accident out of desire, not out of obligation.

Lee lived every day as if it were her last... and in the end, even her funeral was a party and celebration of life. She finally got my mother high, too. If you take nothing more from any of my writing, then take this:

Live Like You're Dying, because you are.--- Let the people you care about know it. Laugh off stress and bills. Play with your children now. Work to survive, but don't survive to work. Perhaps if you're lucky, people will celebrate your life once you are gone. If you are really lucky, you won't have a sister like me who then posts you life online LOL