It's a Blog Eat Blog World

Let's Be Honest

2009-07-08T12:52:00.004-04:00

Al Sharpton speaking directly to Michael Jackson's children at his memorial service:

"Wasn't nothing strange about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with."

Oh really?

You don't think it was strange that his skin had changed from black to white?
You don't think it was strange that his nose looked like it was plastic?
You don't think it was strange that he always wore eye make-up and lipstick?
You don't think it was strange that he invited little boys over to his house to spend the night...in his bed?
You don't think it was strange that he dangled his baby off of a balcony?

Why not say, "Your daddy could sing and dance like nobody's business, but other than that, wasn't nothing normal about him." That would have been more accurate, Al. An untimely death doesn't change the facts.

No Reason This Can't Be Fun

2009-07-08T06:06:00.005-04:00

We were finished playing tennis Monday night and I was inches from a clean get-away, when I committed the fatal error. What I said was, "Good luck with your son's wedding this week-end." What I should have said was, "see ya next week", because that one passing comment led to an hour-long wedding commentary. The most poignant feeling I detected from the conversation? Dread.
She and her husband are traveling to another city, staying in a luxury hotel, hosting (footing the bill for) a roof-top barbecue (rehearsal dinner) for ninety-five essential people (essential, according to the bride), watching their son join in holy wedlock to a wonderful (I assume) girl, and afterwards, partying like rock stars on the bride's family's tab. What's to dread?
I mean, I get that you're worried that something could go wrong with the one event they've entrusted to you, but it sounds to me like you've covered all your bases. You ordered pork for the masses, vegetarian barbecue for the health-conscious friends and chicken for the Jewish relatives. No one could accuse you of being thoughtless or insensitive. Yes, it could rain, but it probably won't and you have no control there. And as I pointed out, as long as there's alcohol, people will be happy.
And speaking of alcohol.... you're gonna need to start front-loading...now!

Sarah Palin

2009-07-04T09:17:00.004-04:00

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me

Que Sarah, Sarah
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que Sarah, Sarah

When I grew up and became Gov
I asked Todd Palin, what lies ahead?
Will I ruin the chance for McCain to be Pres?
Here's what the bastard said

Que Sarah, Sarah
You let the whole country see
What an idiot you could be
Que Sarah, Sarah

Then I decided on my own
Alaska could bite me, I'm moving on
I could be President, I could be Queen
The sky is the limit for me

Que Sarah, Sarah
Apparently you can't see
Your career is now history
Que Sarah, Sarah
What will be, will be.

I'm Almost There

2009-07-02T14:58:00.006-04:00

Ron and I finally took the plunge. We traded in our dinosaurs for a new Blackberry (him) and a new Smartphone (me). Being the technologically challenged person that I am, getting up and running on my phone was like scaling the side of a rocky cliff wearing a pencil skirt and stilettos. Ron, on the other hand, just carried his Blackberry to work with him and let a tech-savvy co-worker set it up. It probably took the guy all of eighteen seconds. He would have done it faster, but just for sport, he did it blindfolded, using only the fourth toe of his left foot. I, on the other hand, struggled for hours and Josh, from Verizon tech support, will be spending Christmas with us this year. I still haven't seen the top of the mountain yet, but I have a dream...that one day when I'm in the Cash Cab, and I'm stumped, I can phone a friend. Or...I can cheat, by just Binging the answer with my Smartphone.

Here's To Ya!

2009-07-01T14:39:00.003-04:00

OMG! Has it been a whole year since I left the dysmorphic confines of the City County building? Time flies!
So join me in a toast to the CC building and it's wonderful, multi-stalled bathrooms...because, really, who doesn't want to do their business in one of those lovely places? Privacy would have afforded dignity, and dignity was completely against government policy. The only alternative was to hold it 'til you got home and that was just plain unhealthy, and could have resulted in an even greater loss of dignity. Salute!

The Victim and The Abuser

2009-06-30T13:27:00.012-04:00

It Could Always Be Worse

2009-06-27T09:40:00.003-04:00

Just back from a little vacation in Tunica with Ron, where we were able to combine two of our favorite pastimes: gambling and golf. Sure, it was sweltering on those golf courses, but that didn't stop us, just like bad luck didn't stop us from gambling. In other words, we didn't win any jackpots. I did finally cash in one poker tourney, but it was for fifth place and it didn't come close to making me solvent. Oh well. Maybe next time.

I did begin to feel lucky at one point while I was there - lucky just to be alive after hearing about those three celebrity deaths. Every time I walked back into the hotel room and turned on the t.v., someone else had died. What a week! Any one of those people would have gladly traded places with me, so there are worse things than losing money at the poker table. At least that's what I told myself, over and over. I'm alive! I'm broke as shit, but I'm alive!

Not Time To Worry Yet

2009-06-20T16:35:00.004-04:00

The most ominous player at the 2009 U.S. Open at Bethpage Golf Course is the weather. They ("they" being the state of New York, since it's a public course located in a state park) spent the last three years getting the course ready for this spectacular event, only to get upstaged by the weather. On the first day, not long after the first golfers teed off, the skies opened up and drenched the players, the caddies, the spectators (including my friend, Kenny), the officials, the fairways, the greens...anything that wasn't protected by walls and a roof. The unlucky pros who drew the morning rounds and tried to feel their way through the course before the Big Guy blew his proverbial horn to stop play were at a distinct disadvantage from the pros who began their first rounds the next afternoon. By then, the course had dried out considerably and it was birdies and pars all around.
Tiger happens to be my favorite golfer and he also happened to get terribly unlucky this year because he was one of the ones who had to play in the soggy conditions. He may just barely make the cut. He won't cry about it though, at least not on camera, but I'll bet he's more than a little pissed. Especially since his main rival (or is that just in my mind?) Phil Mickelson got the better draw. Phil didn't have to contend with all the crap that Tig and those other boys did. How fair is that? I think they should have tried to even things up by making the afternoon groups play their first rounds wearing snow skis. Then we'd see how many of those sub-par rounds they'd be posting.
I'm still not counting Tiger out. He's just ten or twelve back with two rounds to go. It's not out of his realm of possibility.

No Clients Hurt

2009-06-17T16:18:00.002-04:00

"It wasn't really a hold up. Sure, I was carrying a twelve-gauge shotgun when I walked into that bank, but I didn't actually shoot anybody. Come on!"

"Fuck it, as soon as I get back on my feet, I'll give some of the money back. Alright? Now you assholes get out of here and let me do my job. I'm the god damn Law Director!"

Fabulous Knox Vegas

2009-06-15T09:56:00.005-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I accepted an "invitation" to play in a Sunday afternoon poker tournament at Club LeConte. I use the word "invitation" loosely because anybody willing to pay the twenty-five dollar entry fee could participate. All ninety-nine players who showed up and paid to play had their eyes on the prize - a trip to Vegas and a paid entry into a bigger poker tournament. Actually, there were two such prizes, so the last two people left with chips would win. I didn't. I made it pretty far, but there were still thirteen people left in the tournament when I busted out. That's not the interesting part though. The fact that there's a "free", open to the public, well-run poker tournament at Club LeConte every Sunday afternoon - to me, that's the interesting part.
Apparently, the Club is closed on Sundays. Closed, that is, for regular members-only business. The doors open, however, for the poker players. And from what I observed, it has given a lot of people a chance to enjoy an adult beverage (or not) and take in the magnificent view, while playing the game they love to play. People, who for the most part, would never have gotten that opportunity, if not for these poker tournaments. Normally, there is no entry fee and no prize, except maybe a free meal. Sometimes, the entry fee is a donation - money or food or a toy, depending on which charity is the beneficiary that day. The bartenders seem to like it. The wait-staff seems to like it. The poker players love it. And it brings some people downtown who probably wouldn't normally be there. Definitely a win -win in my book.

Always Glad To Help

2009-06-09T08:42:00.002-04:00

An eight o'clock (a.m.) call from PhillyTwo is a bit out of the ordinary. It's usually a little later...when she's on her way to work. This morning there was a frantic tone.

PhillyTwo: "I think I'm gonna throw up!"
Me: "What's wrong?"
(Me thinking: "God, please don't let her be pregnant!")
PhillyTwo: "I was brushing my teeth and I felt something on my foot. I looked down and it was one of those giant cockroaches! Oh my God, it was huge!"
(Me thinking: "Whew! Better a cockroach than a baby!")
Me: "Oh no! What did you do?"
PhillyTwo: "I killed it! Luckily there was a pair of flip flops in the bathroom because I was barefoot. It ran up the wall and I picked up a flip and started hitting it over and over until it was smushed. I wanna throw up. That sucker was huge! I feel like bugs are crawling all over me now."
Me : "Yeah, there's never just one. There's probably thousands of them in your apartment."
PhillyTwo: "Thanks. That's exactly what I wanted to hear. I feel so much better now."
Me: "Still need to throw up?"
PhillyTwo: "More so. Bye."

I Don't Like The Odds

2009-06-01T12:55:00.004-04:00

Me: "I'd like to buy a round trip ticket to Las Vegas, please."
Travel agent: "Sure thing. Any particular airline?"
Me: "No, ma'am."
Travel agent: "Okay..."
Me: "Wait! Will I be flying over any water between here and Vegas?"
Travel agent: "Well, yes, I'd say you probably will. A river here or there."
Me: "Then make sure that you don't book me on an Airbus."
Travel agent: "I beg your pardon?"
Me: "You know. Airbus. Like the plane that landed in the Hudson? And now, less than four months later, the one that's gone missing over the Atlantic? I mean, I'm a gambler, but I really don't want to take my chances on one of those babies."
Travel agent: "I see your point."
Me: "Wait. Cancel my order. I'm afraid to fly now."
Travel agent: "Well, ma'am, I don't think you need to be afraid. The odds are in your favor...at least until you get to Vegas (little sarcastic laugh)."
Me: "Yeah, I see your point. And that's just another good reason for me to stay home." Click.

Not Gonna Do It

2009-05-29T08:15:00.002-04:00

Did you really think that County Law Director/Admitted Embezzler Bill Lockett had it in him to do the conscionable thing? Step down? Why, he ain't going nowhere. No sirree, bobtail nanny goat. He won that election fair and square and you couldn't pry his pocket-pickin', slime-covered fingers off that government (tit) chair. No way. No how.

Now that it's official, that is, he's admitted to being a crook, all of the decisions that come out of his office will make more sense. Once on the take, always on the take.

Think Janet Jackson..."What have you done for me lately?"

Euphemisms Kill Me

2009-05-27T08:55:00.005-04:00

You know, I've always heard people talk about finding a dream job and I've always thought there was no such thing. But as of this morning I realize I was wrong. I know exactly what job would be my fondest desire. I want to be the HEADLINE WRITER for the News Sentinel. I know I would do a better job than whoever does it now.

"Law director admits he improperly took money"???

How about: "Knox County law director's former employer forces him to admit he embezzled money"
Too long, you say?
Okay, what about: "It turns out Bill Lockett is a fucking thief"

And fellow citizens, the coffers over at Kennerly Montgomery & Finley were nothing compared to the ones he's got access to in Knox county.

Lots of people go through hardships. Some resort to breaking the law. You can visit them on Sundays at the prison. You can visit Bill Lockett on the sixth floor of the City County building in the office with "County Law Director" on the door. Now that's a crime.

Never Leave Me Alone With The Hedge Trimmer

2009-05-21T13:38:00.006-04:00

I might get carried away and turn a couple of evergreens into Ron and Philly. I need to figure out how to give them arms. Decorating for Halloween and Christmas has just reached a whole new level.

Life On Lavinder Lane

2009-05-18T11:41:00.004-04:00

When we were growing up we only had one t.v. and it was located in the living room. Well, that's not exactly true. We only had one working television. The newer one would always be sitting along side of (if it was a console) or on top of (if it was portable) the non-working one. They weren't quick to dispose of anything. When the whole family watched t.v. together, there were only two couches to sit on, so I'd usually opt for the floor to avoid the close quarters. Unless it was Saturday morning or right after school, in which case Priscilla and I owned the couches. That's when we'd stretch out and watch for hours, because we hardly ever met a t.v. show or cartoon we didn't like. Oh, how I longed to be Philly Joe and live in Petticoat Junction.

We actually had a den ,but it was downstairs, and nobody went down there except in the summertime because it wasn't heated. Sometimes DaddyDearest would build a fire for us so we could hang out there, but not often. I really don't remember if there was a t.v. down there, but I know there was a record player and plenty of room for dancing and boy, we loved to dance. It was also the perfect setting for the slow-dancing, belly-rubbing, make-out scenes (we called them parties) that we had in our early teens. There was usually enough drama at one of those to make "It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To" the theme song of the evening.

There was a whole lot of wasted space in our downstairs, and by wasted space, I mean rooms that were never used for anything except to house junk. And we sure as hell had plenty of junk. We never had to get rid of anything. If we weren't using something, we could just "store" it in one of those basement rooms until we needed it again. Most everything there became as long-forgotten as the many piano recital pieces we were forced to memorize.

At different times through the years, at least one or two of us girls used one particular room downstairs as a bedroom. J.C. and Suzanne were sharing it back in 1962, when Suzanne helped J.C. climb up and out of the window to the waiting arms of Romeo, and on to the elopement that sent the family into a complete tizzy. Suzanne won the Oscar that next morning for her performance of the innocent, sleeping sister who hadn't seen or heard a thing. I still to this day burst into spontaneous applause when I think of how superb she was. In time, J.C.'s freedom flight actually turned into more of a prison term, so she had to give Romeo the boot a few years down the road.

And the accumulation of junk we left in those downstairs rooms? MommyDearest tapped into that stuff for years. She had more garage sells than Uncle Joe had excuses for not helping out at the Shady Rest.

Pass The Corn Bread

2009-05-15T12:24:00.003-04:00

COMFORT FOOD is this millennium's classification of everything we ate growing up in the 50's and 60's. It includes meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fried chicken and baked beans, spaghetti and meatballs, and chicken pot pies. It applies to anything reminiscent of the good ol' days and anything that makes you fatter...at least that's how I see it. Hell, when we were growing up, other than hamburgers and hot dogs, COMFORT FOOD was the only thing we ate. Back then, it was just called home cooking. There we were, humming along, minding our own business, when out of the blue, our hamburgers and hot dogs became FAST FOOD. And our precious french fries became taboo because they were fried in saturated fats. Then, a few years later, in order to justify eating anything but salad and sushi, the food editors dubbed all the go-to foods that we had so dutifully learned to cook, COMFORT FOOD. I don't know where they got that. DISCOMFORT FOOD would be more like it. Sit down to the table and eat a big ol' plate of COMFORT FOOD, then tell me how comfortable you are. Better still, stand in the kitchen for an hour, chopping onions and peppers, slapping a meat loaf together, peeling potatoes and carrots and shredding cabbage, and when you're finished cleaning up the mess, would the words COMFORT FOOD come to mind? VERITABLE FEAST would be more like it. One of the reasons that restaurants have started serving this so-called COMFORT FOOD is because nobody is willing to go to all that trouble to make it at home anymore. And few, if any, young people are interested in trying out the old family recipes. They'd rather order pizza. At my grandmother's house there was a pot of pinto beans and a pan of corn bread on the stove at all times. I daresay, it wasn't COMFORT FOOD. It was survival.

Down At The Beau

2009-05-14T13:06:00.007-04:00

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning on Wednesday, a thirty-something woman who had likely spent the last three hours drinking gin and tonics at the bar, squeezed in between me and the stickman at the craps table. "I don't know anything about this game," she slurred. "That's what we're here for," he assured her. She stayed and played for about an hour, during which time she required constant attention from the staff, but they didn't seem to mind. She was, after all, an attractive woman wearing a skimpy top. But she continued to drink while she played, so her condition only worsened. Luckily, she was a pleasant drunk. But she never caught onto any part of the craps game even though she continued to put chips on various spots on the table. If she happened to win on a roll, the stickman would remind her to pick up her winnings. If she lost, and that was most often the case, she always just seemed confused. At one point, she sat down on a stool and took some sips of her drink, then stood back up with her eyes at half-mast and asked, "Now, where am I?" To which a croupier replied, "That would be the Beau Rivage in Biloxi, Mississippi, ma'am." The whole table roared. He knew she was talking about her table bets, but he couldn't resist.

The Junket

2009-05-10T09:30:00.005-04:00

I took a tip from a PRO on how to pack for our junket to Biloxi: EVERYTHING in one bag. No carry-on's.

Here's why: When we land in the airport in Biloxi, they'll immediately load us on a bus to head to the casino/hotel. In this case, that would be the Beau Rivage. We don't fool with no stinkin' baggage claim. No sirree. They'll take care of our gear for us. They'll shuttle us lickety split to the gambling hall, dump us out, hand us our room keys, and point us in the direction of the slot machines (as if we couldn't use our special radar for that). What we don't want: any encumbrances that would prevent us from diving right into action. And when we get tired (in a day or two) we can stagger to our room and walla! Like magic, our luggage will be there, waiting. What it boils down to is this: No time wasted with the petty details. Let them handle those, while we get down to the business at hand: giving them our money.

Have you noticed the over-abundance of colons in this post? I know you have. Don't lie and look away. I did it on purpose. As I get older, I find that I need to shart, I mean share, my daily ups and downs (so to speak) and I needed a segue to my own personal colon, which has been in hyper-active mode for the past three days: I have had what my mother always referred to as "the backdoor trots." I'm hoping that it's cleared itself up by 8 p.m. tonight, 'cause that's when we're boarding the plane for Biloxi, and I'd like for that to be a non-issue, thank you very much.

And it was not without forethought that I just referenced my mother on this day of days. To honor her memory: a picture of my mother, Susie Johnson Webb, when she was a young hottie.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

In Honor of Ron's Birthday...

2009-05-08T14:50:00.004-04:00

A Pictorial History of his Golf Game.

Ron was actually tall and skinny as a limber-backed teen-age golfer, and he was deadly serious about the game.

By his forties, he had taken on the look of a typical week-end duffer, and when all else failed, he simply upgraded his equipment.

But now in his fifties, a round of golf is just an excuse to drink beer, smoke cigars and take an occasional trip with the boys.

Happy Birthday, Ron!

Shut The Box

2009-05-05T19:46:00.005-04:00

I had never even heard of this game until this past week-end with the Yahoo's. There were six of us staying in a two bedroom, two bath villa by the eighteenth fairway, which would have been perfect except that about three hours into our fun (and by fun, I mean massive amounts of alcohol consumption) neither commode was working. Did I mention there were six women and that we were all drinking? No one seemed concerned.

"Oh, just call Ralph. He'll come right over and fix it."

Apparently Ralph was in charge of that sort of thing at this "resort" and the Yahoo's were familiar with his "work".

Sure enough, Ralph and his helper showed up and after thirty minutes of fine-tuning, announced that the toilets were now working...BUT! JUST IN CASE..."the OFFICE is unlocked and you can use the bathroom there if these happen to quit working."

By the time we left the villa to play golf the next morning, we had all made at least one Office visit.

We delivered the bad news to Ralph when we saw him at the clubhouse, and to add insult to injury, we had to tell him that the t.v. wasn't working either. He assured us he'd take care of everything.

Then, there was the GOLF. We were completely and utterly soaked by about the third hole. But we sloshed onward in the rain until we had finished the front nine, then we took a lunch break and returned to the villa for sustenance and dry clothes. By that time, Ralph had fixed the plumbing problem so we were good to go...so to speak.

Like idiots, we all trotted back out after lunch to play the back nine, and I'm not ashamed to admit that on hole number sixteen, when the rain had once again become steady, I had had enough. I picked up my ball and told my team, "I'll be in the bar."

Meanwhile, back at the villa, Ralph had called the cable company, so they came by and powered up our television just in time for us to enjoy the Derby.

On Sunday morning, we watched it rain some more, but when there seemed to be a clearance, we laced up our golf shoes and headed for the first tee. Three of the girls even teed off. But by that time, the rain had started up again, so we said, "No more!" and packed our bags.

Let me just say, it was great to see the Yahoo's. They're a special group of women. Smart. Funny. Compassionate. And, yes, competitive...both in Golf and in Shut the Box.

A Little Too Sarah Bernhardt For This Early In The Morning

2009-04-30T09:30:00.006-04:00

Me: "What are you doing?"
Ron: "Getting ready to go get my hair cut."
Me: "Right now?"
Ron: "Yeah. Why?"
Me: "Let's go play golf."
Ron: "Golf? I can't. I have to get my hair cut. It's like a week overdue."
Me: "Oh yeah. It's at least an inch all over. Come on. You can get your hair cut later. I really want to play."
Ron: "You can't just get up and decide you want to play golf. You have to plan ahead. You have to make a tee time."
Me: "But I didn't know I wanted to play until a just few minutes ago."
Ron: "And God knows I'm only here to cater to your every whim, but I have to get my hair cut at nine o'clock. I could call out there and try to get us on at ten thirty. We could play nine holes."
Me: (with a deep, audible sigh) "No. I wanted to play now. I'll probably never ever want to play again."
Ron: "Good thing you're not dramatic."

It Happened On The Bus

2009-04-28T07:59:00.006-04:00

It was several lifetimes ago, when I was a sophomore in high school, that my Latin class came to Knoxville for a J.C.L. (Junior Classical League) convention. It actually turned out to be more like the Highland Games than a convention, Roman-style of course, which none of us had prepared or, more importantly, dressed for, so we spent our day sitting in the bleachers overlooking the football field at Webb School, sweltering in the sun. After all, it was a school activity; therefore, we were forced to wear school clothes, and by school clothes I mean no shorts and no jeans. God forbid that we could relax and enjoy ourselves, even though it was on a Saturday and was supposed to be "for fun." While the other schools showed up ready to play, we looked like a bunch of misfits who were allergic to fun. I mean, Christ almighty, I had on brand new shoes and my favorite skirt and sweater, so I wasn't going near any dirt. And I'm pretty sure our Latin teacher had failed to read the details on the convention agenda sheet. She, too, was over-dressed for the occasion, in her polyester suit and patent leather high heels. Seriously. There wasn't a shade tree on that campus back then. When we finally boarded the bus for home, we all looked and smelled like wet dogs. No worry about couples making out in the back of the bus. Nobody wanted to get near each other.
But something did happen on that drive home that has stuck with me for...well, forever. The boys - Eddie and Steve and Larry - started this thing where they were making all the girls' names into something "dirty". Of course my name was an easy target - Phyllis became Syphilis. And so it stuck. From that day forward, they called me "S" (they shortened it) and later, "the Big S". Now you'd think I would have hated such an offensive nickname, but I didn't. I laughed about it. They thought they were clever and because I appreciated their humor, I became part of their group. Those very guys became my best friends and my support system throughout high school, and I became "The Big S" to everyone - girls and guys and parents, who had no idea why they were calling me "The Big S".
And those guys? Well, one of them took me to the jr. prom, one of them was my graduation/class-night partner and one of them took me to my first UT football game.
I have to think that on the ride home on the bus that night, if I had reacted in any other way, things would have been very different for me. And I would have missed out on some of the best friends and best times of my life.
Just recently when I found myself at a funeral of a high school friend, and after the service I was standing alone in a long line to speak to the family, I heard a familiar voice booming out over all others.
"It's The Big S!"
And there they were - Eddie and Steve and Larry - still my friends, still as happy to see me as I was to see them, and still calling me the name that started it all.

Horse Sense

2009-04-27T09:56:00.002-04:00

Few things in life are better than a cool breeze coming through the open window on a morning when the sun is shining and the birds are singing. Of course the birds are occasionally drowned out by the sound of the lawn mower. Ron's hard at it this a.m., trying to beat the heat. I think I may have mentioned before that Ron makes no distinction between his presentable golf clothes and his shabbier work-around-the-house clothes. Grass stains be damned! He just doesn't get it and I'm over trying to enlighten him. You can lead a horse to water but you can't keep him from peeing in it.

The Lodge

2009-04-22T15:14:00.008-04:00

When we were growing up DaddyDearest was a card-carrying member of the Bristol, Tennessee chapter of BPOE, better known as the Elks. Mind you, he was no ordinary member. He was as devoted a lodge member as any loyal wapiti that was ever admitted into its benevolent arms. Mainly, though, I think it's where he went to get away. I'm not sure what specifically he was so intent on getting away from; be it the house full of neglected children or the dysfunctional marriage, it really didn't matter. We all grew to loathe the Elks as much as he grew to love it. As soon as he left work in the afternoon, he'd stop by the house to pick up his mail, then head downtown to his home away from home, where he'd usually stay until midnight. If we needed him for anything, we knew where to reach him. Like when MommyDearest went to night school and we were left in charge.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What's up?"
"Someone's trying to break in and we're here by ourselves."
"Where's the warden?"
"She had class tonight."
"Are they still there?"
"I don't think so. Whoever it was ran away when I started screaming."
"Okay, well call me back if anything else happens."

Or, like the time Priscilla "ran away from home."
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What's up?"
"Priscilla's gone. I think she ran away. She may be pregnant."
"How do you know she ran away?" (No reference to the possible pregnancy)
"Her stuff is gone and she didn't come home after class today."
"Okay. Well, if she doesn't show up in a couple of hours, call me back."

Over the years he held every office in his Elks chapter, culminating in the highest of all, the Exalted Ruler, which his offspring so lovingly referred to as the Exhausted Rooster.
The only time we kids ever saw the inside of the Elks Lodge was for the occasional Friday night family bingo events. The stage in the big room would be littered with toys, and if you bingo-ed (and everyone did), you got to run up and pick the one you wanted. It was how the hard-core (i.e. absentee parent) members assuaged their guilty consciences. I once scored a fabulous erector set that gave me literally minutes of fun.
The real fun actually started when the bingo was over and all the other families went home. Except for us and our friend, Sandy. We had daddies who weren't about to let the presence of their kids interfere with their usual routine: staying in the "Gay Nineties Room" (their cleverly disguised name for the drinking hole) until it closed, sometime after 1 a.m. We found ourselves a key position just across the hall from the entrance to the "Room". We were perched in a window seat in an otherwise dark and scary, empty (except for a couple of wheel chairs) room in the old Elks building, our only goal in life - to be where we could see the huge picture of the naked woman hanging over the bar when the bar doors swung open. It was scandalous! As the crowd thinned, we'd steal a glance every few minutes, and in between, we'd entertain ourselves with scary stories, as if the room we were in wasn't scary enough. Our daddy and Sandy's daddy were always the last to leave. Neither one wanted to go home to the mother of their children.
Good times.