Horriblescopes

You are likely to have a new, exciting and sexually passionate relationship. This is a time for new and exciting things, not the routine. This leads to what will happen if you are already in a relationship. Expect the unexpected! Maybe even a baby or news about pregnancy! – Gemini yearly horoscope for 2017 from Sunsigns.org

On New Year’s Day the first thing I did was read my horoscope for the coming year. I don’t know why I bother. Those darn things are never remotely accurate but I keep hoping.  However, this year they really screwed the pooch. The last thing I need in my life is an affair!  I can barely handle one man. horoscope

My husband thinks it’s silly to read horoscopes (he calls them horriblescopes) however he is neither superstitious nor overly imaginative (he’s an Aries, wouldn’t you know). He’s also quick to point out that due to the shifting of the earth’s axis and numerous other “scientific” facts, I was born under the sign of Taurus and not Gemini. He’s wrong, of course. Here’s a description of the typical Gemini (from Serendipity Astro-lovers):

The eyes [of a Gemini] aren’t big, but they are bright and may be blue, gray, hazel or brown in color.

The facial expression is both bright and alive, but subject to change.

I think that describes me to a “T,” don’t you? I have either blue or grey or brown eyes and my facial expressions are alive and change.  Definitive proof that I am indeed a Gemini.

My husband is always trying to prove he’s smarter than I am.  This is because he was born in the Chinese year of the Rooster and they like to strut around with their chests all puffed out bragging.  I’ve forgotten what manner of fowl he is: Metal, Water, Fire or Earth. I was born in the year of the Tiger which means I’m impulsive and fearless but, according to Travel China, definitely not romantic.

“Tigers cannot give sweet love to their partners because they lack a sense of romance.”

So, I guess when that special someone comes along I’ll have to warn him to only expect sex – no sweet love from me.

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Well, here we are heading into the year of the Rooster with a man born in the year of the Dog as our president. If you’ve ever lived on a farm, you know dogs don’t always get along with roosters.  But, looking on the bright side, maybe Donald Trump (who’s also a Gemini) will have a passionate love affair and get pregnant!

 

 

The Demise of Dickey

 

The temp

Chained to the desk… dreaming of becoming Danielle Steele!

Many years ago when I was trapped by fear-of-starvation in a nine-to-five job, I read an article about how filthy rich Danielle Steele was and said to myself “Hey!  I could write those romance novels!  I mean, how hard could it be?  Just follow the same script again and again – boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back again – right?”

So on one particularly quiet day (of which there were many) I sat down at my computer, wrote the following in an email and sent it off to my friend J.


 

DinahThe day her dog Dickey died, Dinah was inconsolable.  She wept like an ice cube on speed, grabbing Trevor’s sturdy shoulders and flinging her warm, wet face into his perfumed chest. After an hour of steady downpour, she began to calm.  Trevor led her gently into the bedroom and set her down on the Austrian goose down comforter that sat atop her Madonna inspired ultra king-size bed.  In the distance the sun set over the Pacific as lights began twinkling to life on the Hollywood Strip lying at their manicured tootsies.

“Now Dinah, remember that Dickey was an old dog. . .”

“Oh Dickey, Dickey,” she sobbed. “there will never be another dog like Dickey.”  She was still in her satin negligee, scented sleep mask on top her head, fluffy slippers on her size nine feet.  When she hadn’t arrived at the studio by three o’clock, her secretary called down to the set.  Luckily Trevor had just wrapped up shooting for the day.

By now his shirt was wringing wet thus the cool evening breeze gave him a chill.  He got up to close the window, stripping off his shirt as he went.

“Oh Trevor, I can’t believe you’re thinking about sex at a time like this!”

“I’m not thinking about sex; I’m dripping wet!” he protested, although, he thought, it’s not such a bad idea.  He could make her forget about Dickey by taking her into his arms and making passionate love to her.  That damned dog was never good for their love life, jumping on his mistress just when Trevor was about to perform at his best.

He closed the window and slowly moved towards her. “Let’s make you comfortable, my love.”

“Oh Dickey, Dickey.  Trevor, will you take care of Dickey? I just couldn’t do it.”

“What do you mean ‘take care of Dickey’?  I thought you said he was dead.”

“He is dead. . . but he’s in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

dog“His little body is lying on the floor; his little legs sticking straight up in the air…”  With that she started sobbing again.

“The floor!  Oh no, what will DePew say?  Why couldn’t you take  Dickey to the vet’s to die? Why let him croak on the Brazilian tiles?”

It was then that the doorbell rang.  At least, he thought it was the doorbell, but perhaps it was her cell phone.  Trevor never excelled at making snap decisions thus he stood wavering back and forth – door or purse, door or purse – until Dinah snarled “Will you please get the damned door?  Can’t you see the condition I’m in?”

He reluctantly started down the hall toward the front door and . . . the kitchen. . . all the while thinking the dog, the dead dog was in the kitchen.

“Who is it?” he yelled through the rustic barn door.

“It’s DePew.  Donald DePew.”

Trevor opened the door a crack and peered out.  Sure enough, it was Donald DePew, the interior designer they had hired from their remodel.  Their famous remodel by the famous DePew.

“Donald, old man!” he said, throwing open the door, “I’m so happy to see you!”  He hugged De Pew with a ferocity that shocked the normally implacable Designer DeJeur.

Hunk

Trevor Lamour, Hollywood honey

“Why Trev, you’re such a brute!”  De Pew squealed with delight. “To what do I owe such an unexpectedly delish welcome?”  He knew that Trevor Lamour, film stud-muffin extraordinaire would come out eventually and now it seemed, he finally had.

Donald’s manicured nails digging into his bare back brought Trevor quickly back to his senses.  “Donald, I have this slight problem in the kitchen which is why Dinah is in hysterics.”  Dinah’s sobs could be heard all the way down the hall.

“You can’t have a problem with the kitchen.  The kitchen is perfection.  Spielberg doesn’t have such a kitchen. Nor does Streisand!”  DePeuw peered around the corner.  He stood for a moment pursing his lips and flicking his fingers against his jaw as though evaluating a piece of art. “No, no, no.  It’s all wrong for the space.  Maybe in the living room but definitely not the kitchen,  It is rather nice, though.  Who’s the artist?”


 

Okay, troops.  Danielle Steele has nothing to worry about from JT Twissel, otherwise known as Jan. My friend J wrote in response:

“Don’t delete this indubitably deliriously, delightful dictation.  Will Dickey be delivered paws downward? Will Dickey’s death make sex a delicate decision?  Will Trevor decide to delay his declaration of love for Donald DePew?  Will Dinah denounce, dismantle and decimate Trevor when finally he declaims? Or will Dinah duplicate Trevor’s behavior and declare her love for Donald?

Tune in. . . and now this . . .

Dog Daze

Girl in hat watching parade.

Girl in hat watching the parade. Pollyanna?

On the Fourth of July we always walk downtown for the parade with our neighbors and their dog.  Our neighbors have the coolest dog in the world.  If he were a human he would be Cary Grant – suave and sexy but with a playful side.  With his golden, slightly curly fur, he charms all the lady dogs and the young studs too but steers clear of German Shepherds.

Dogs

Patriotic dogs posing for a pic. Is the big guy Jimmy Stewart or Mike Tyson?  Cary Grant wants to know.

You can never tell when confronting a German Shepherd – he could be either a Jimmy Stewart or a Mike Tyson.

Like Cary Grant, our neighbor’s dog doesn’t approve of exercising in the heat and often wrapped his silky body at my feet in the shade.

Gaston April '11_035

Gaston aka Cary Grant

Before they fell in love with Cary Grant the neighbors had a black dog, not sure what breed, who they called Toby.  One day Toby came up for a visit.  When I said “Hi Toby!”  he glared at me.  “My name is Jack,” he said.  Well, not in so many words but with that look dogs’ll give you when they think you’re a nitwit. Toby’s human equivalent would have been Humphrey Bogart, mysterious but trustworthy, a hopeless romantic with a cynical shell.

Ducks

Our July 4th festivities always include a petting zoo.

At the time the neighbors had Toby/Jack I had a dog named Berna, short for Bernadette.  She was a shelty-beagle mix I found on the bottom of a heap of pups at the pound.  Her siblings had more energy and looked much more eager to be rescued but I’ve always cheered the underdog and in this case, the bottom of the heap dog.  She puked and pooped all the way home.  She always stank.  She couldn’t be car trained or trained at all for that matter.  She’d run onto freeways, get her head stuck in Costco sized mayonnaise jars and dig up every living thing I tried to plant in the back yard.  But her crowning achievement was a spot on a Channel 7 news story  exposing the water wasters of the East Bay (this is a long story which illustrates the depths of depravity a film crew will go to get a  scoop). Guard dog, she was not.  Bay at the moon dog, she was.  Escape artist, par excellence.  When I put my house on the market the first agent scowled “get rid of the dog.  You’ll never sell this house with her in it.”  I got rid of the agent.

Berna

Who would  Berna’s movie star equivalent be? Angelina Jolie?

Anyway – enough about dogs. When I started blogging I resolved to leave politics, grandchildren and dogs off my list of subjects and here I’ve gone and broken my vows. Nevermore, I swear.

DixieDevils

Can’t have a parade without a jazz band on a flat–bed truck!

The next best thing about the Fourth is how it brings out the rebel in all of us.  Who doesn’t love marching down Main Street in a happy riot of fellow citizens, for a few hours, owning the streets.  What a sense of freedom it is.