Monday, March 30, 2015

Can you get me some Pop Tarts?

Just call me Florence!  As in Nightingale!  Flying to Buffalo in the middle of a late March blizzard to help my sweet sister-in-law in her valiant fight against lung cancer.

Better yet, call me Maria!  As in The Sound of Music!  I would sing to Evie as I helped: "Doe a deer, a female deer.."

I was full of enthusiasm and up for the task. Twenty degrees at the end of March?  Who cares?  I was like Alice in The Brady Bunch!  I could handle anything.

I awoke bright and early at 8 AM, ready, willing and able to help. I was a well oiled machine: get dressed, brush teeth, take Synthroid pill, comb hair, take dogs out.  Check! Check! Check! Check!

And Check!

The phone rang.  My brother Jim had locked himself out of his truck.  No problem!  That's what I'm here for.  Check!

It was only 8:45 and I had already saved the day!

Next on my list was to drive Evie to her 9:00 Radiation treatment.  Jim wanted to drive but I told him no.  I would drive my rental car.  It would be easier for Evie to get in and out of, compared to his truck.

I know what you're thinking.  How every thoughtful.  Thank you.

The clinic was about 10 minutes away and I have to say that Jim was a way worse back-seat driver than I remembered him to be.  

Here is a sampling of what I had to endure: "You're in the wrong lane", "Watch our for that bush!" and "You just drove over the curb."

I was beginning to feel unappreciated.

The three of us walked into the clinic, but in all honesty I don't remember much about it.

Apparently, I had begun to stagger.  Like a drunk. Jim, who up until this point had been focusing all of his attention on Evie, began to suspect something was wrong with me.

"Lou, are you okay?"
he asked.

"I just need a Diet Coke," I told him.  Jim told me to "stay put" while he looked for a soda machine.

He must have been gone a long time because I had to go looking for him. I stumbled around the clinic through a maze of hundreds of hallways and secret doorways  in quest of my Diet Coke,

When Jim returned with my Diet Coke he found the waiting room empty.  "Where'd she go?" he asked the woman behind the desk.  She pointed in the direction he had come from.

So Jim went in search of me, found me wandering in confusion, and escorted me to the waiting room, where my Diet Coke was also waiting.

I took a swig and said, "Can you get me some Pop Tarts?"

Jim said, "Are you okay, Lou?"

"Or Toaster Schhhttttrudels."

At this point Jim asked a nurse to look me over.  He assured her that I was normally quite normal despite my abnormal behavior.  The nurse took my blood pressure, which was, of course, normal.

Still, Jim suspected that something was seriously wrong with me.  Possibly a stroke.

Evie returned from her treatment and Jim took us each by the hand and walked to the car.

He insisted on driving my rental car, even though he wasn't on the rental agreement.  "You better be careful," I told him as he pushed me into the passenger seat.

Jim asked Evie if he thought they should take me to the Emergency Room.

The poor guy was at a breaking point.  Not only did he have to worry about Evie, now it seemed his sister was in the midst of a stroke.

He said, "Lou, did you take any pills this morning?"

"Just my Synthroid."

"Are you sure it was your Synthroid and not something else?"
he asked.

I tried to think.  Yes.  I pulled the pill from my suitcase in the dark.  But the only pills I had in my suitcase were Synthroid and...

Oh no.

My emergency Ambien.  In case I have really bad insomnia.

Florence Nightingale?


Just call me Lindsey.

As in Lohan.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Unleashing Potential

Yesterday I was reminded of an unmet consumer need that has been around since Adam and Eve were in diapers.   

Thankfully, the diaper I removed from sweet baby Kara yesterday was just wet.  Diapers these days are so absorbent that a baby could gain 5 pounds while wearing a wet one and never even notice.

As you all know, that is not the case when the baby goes number two.  Diapers do not absorb poop.

At all.  Instead, the poop finds its way into every nook and cranny beneath the baby's diaper.  And babies have a lot of nooks and crannies.

It's way worse if the baby has diarrhea.  I'm no expert on physics, but depending on the force, I believe that poo can propel  up to several feet.  In every direction. 

So here's my question.  When is someone finally going to get around to inventing a Poo Trap for Toddlers?

The market potential is huge.  There are more than 12 million children under the age of 3 in the U.S. alone. But this product has global potential.

While The PooTrap for Toddlers is obviously optimal for crawling babies, it could also work for walkers.

The product clearly benefits the child, but it's the parents who will really reap the benefits.

And don't forget;  it's the parents who do the shopping.

OMG!  I just had an epiphany.  With the changing demographics, this product may also benefit the fastest growing segment of society.  

I have clearly outdone myself with this one:

The Poo Trap for Aging Baby Boomers

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

The Audition

I arrived for the audition a couple of minutes late. I’d never been to the theater before and had gotten turned around. 

“Sorry I’m late,” I said to the girl sitting behind the table. 

“No problem,” she said, as she handed me an audition form. “What part are you auditioning for?”  

She then handed me another sheet with the character names and descriptions. I looked them over and settled on Grace, who was described as a tired old lady. 

“Grace,” I said, decidedly. 

After all, I played 70 year-old Aunt Ruth in Marvin’s Room last year and won all kinds of accolades for the visible panty lines on my polyester pants. 

Yes. I could easily play a tired old lady. In fact, I could even wear the same polyester pants!  They were very comfortable. 

“Perfect,” she said as she handed me the monologue I would be performing for my audition. 

I located a spot on the floor, got comfortable and began to read the monoloue. 

After a few minutes I realized that Grace was Black. 

“O…KAY”, I thought. And kept reading. 

And noticed that Grace was an old Black woman with a deep Southern accent. Now, I can pogo stick and jump rope on stage. And roller skate. But pull off a Southern accent? Not exactly one of my talents. 

And Grace said things like, “My God say ain’t gone be no cuttin.” 

"O…KAY", I thought. And kept reading. 

Then I got to the part about how her doctor wanted her to have breast reduction surgery because her “titties” were so large. I looked down at my modest pair.

"O…KAY", I thought. And kept reading. 

I flipped the page over only to discover that poor Grace had injured her back because her “titties” were so monstrous. And giving birth to 5 children resulted in 180 pounds resting on her 5’2” frame. 

O…KAY. I may have lost count by then, but I think that was the 5th strike against me. Most people would have walked away at this point. 

But I’m not most people. 

So what if I didn’t have the perfect look for the role of an elderly obese Black women with a deep Southern accent and tremendously large “titties”. I was Lou Clyde, damn it. I could do this! 

I walked into the audition room overflowing with confidence. Until I noticed that they were filming the auditions. 

The humorless director instructed me to look into the camera, say my name and the part I was auditioning for. 

“My name is Lou Clyde, and I am auditioning for the part of Grace.” 

“Good”, she said. “You can start at any time.”  

So I took a deep breath, and had the best audition you could ever expect from a skinny flat small  medium-ish chested White woman from Buffalo. 

When I was finished I looked up from my paper and the director said with a straight face, “We’ll be in touch.” 

 I thought about saying, “Thank ya’ll. And have a blessed night.” 

But I realize that I would have been pushing my luck. So I just hauled my Black ass out the door and drove home as fast I could. 

To get started on this blog.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Designer Bags

You’ve all been there.  Something you ate isn't sitting well.  And you are about to give the janitor something to sprinkle sawdust on.

It would be nice if there was a toilet nearby.  Or at least some privacy.

But you can't always count on that.

And admit it.  There’s no attractive way to barf. 


You have a designer barf bag.

I was at a meeting the other day and someone, let's call her "Francine", had to run from the table so fast she barely got to the bathroom before doing the backwards bungee.

Just think how much easier it would have been for her to just open her purse and pull out a specialty barf bag. 

Rather than wondering where Francine had run off to, we all would have been marveling at her barf bag.  

Francine could have finished her launch, quickly sealed the leak resistant bag shut, and said, "Now, where were we?"

Think of the time she wasted running to the bathroom and back.

The barf bags come in all kinds of attractive styles.  They are sold on

Barfboutique has such a comprehensive inventory of cool and fun barf bags, I would have a difficult time choosing one.  

I'm completely torn between:

And this:

But then again, you walk a fine line when your designer barf bags are too fashionable.

I can just hear it now.  "Francine, that is the cutest barf bag I've ever seen!" 

"Gee, thanks!"

"Where did you get it?  Pass it over.  Is that a taco on the outside?"

"Yep.  On the inside, too."

Sunday, March 8, 2015


I have no one to blame but myself.

I was joking around with Debbie, one of my cast mates in Funny Little Thing Called Love.  She told me that she was going to take a break from theater after our show closed.

Except she said, "Thee – A – Ter".  With the emphasis on the A. 

“Debbie,” I teased.  “You are not taking a break from
Thee – A – Ter.  It’s thee-uh-ter.  Soft A.

We debated for a few minutes the correct Northern versus incorrect Southern pronunciation of the word.  

I then asked her how she pronounced the word i-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e and she, of course said "INsurance".  And I informed her that the correct pronunciation is "inSURance".

I continued.  “And how do you pronounce the word c-e-m-e-n-t?”  I was enjoying myself.

“It is SEEment,” Debbie said, beginning to get annoyed at my cockiness.

“Si-ment,” I corrected. "Unless, of course, you're Elly May Clampett."

“WAIT A MINUTE,” Debbie said.  “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you pronounce “realtor” wrong on stage EVERY NIGHT.”

 “No I don’t!”  I replied, defensively.

 “You put an extra A in it!!!” she said.  “You say, realator.”

 “That’s how it’s pronounced,” I said.  “Realator.”

“But it’s spelled r-e-a-l-t-o-r.”  Debbie said, smugly.


I’ve been saying "realator" all my life.  Is it a New York thing?  Or a Wisconsin thing? 

Or just a Lou thing?

Like when I pronounced foreign ‘for-ee-gin’ in 5th grade.

OMG! How humiliating!

I had pronounced the word incorrectly six shows in a row!  And I was just learning of the transgression minutes before our last performance. 

I could fix it.  I WOULD fix it.  Better late than never, right?

As I waited offstage for my cue I repeated the words, “realtor, realtor, realtor” in my head.    Debbie came up behind me and whispered, “realtor.” 

I made my entrance, silently repeating the words “realtor, realtor, realtor”.   

Then came my line:

“I went to a condo open house the other day and guess who the reala..real. turned out to be?”

I said it just like that.


Oh well.  It just proves that anything can happen onstage.

After all, it is live thee-A-ter.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

The Cavity

When Dr. T told me I had a cavity I was dumbfounded.

 “But I thought I was at full cavity occupancy!” I whined.  “What…did someone move out?”

“Yes- Number 14. Mesial distal bicuspid.”


I told Dr. T. I wanted a LOT of novacaine.  I wanted to be drooling for hours.  

I wanted to need a bib.

He administered one teeny little shot and told me he’d be back in a few minutes.

I waited for my mouth to get numb.  I moved my jaw from side to side.  I poked my tongue around my mouth.  I slapped my face.  

It was not working.  I just knew it. 

And I told him so.

Dr. T. disagreed.  “I think you should have enough Novacaine,” he told me.

“You said THINK and SHOULD!” I squeaked.


“You said, ‘I THINK you SHOULD have enough Novacaine.”

“You should!” he insisted.

 He still didn't get it.  “I would rather you tell me, 'I know you have enough Novacaine.”
He growled, “Based on my 30 years of Dentistry, I’m certain you have more than enough Novacaine.”

Then he told me to open up.

“How long will you be drilling?” I asked.

“I’m not drilling.  I’m using a sonic blaster.”


“Relax!  It’s like I’m fracking your tooth.”

“Just don’t fracture my tooth.”

Then he inserted the sonic blaster into my mouth.  It sounded like an angry witch screaming her lungs out.

Then the witch started judging me, “zzzZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzZZZ She’s been eating jelly beans  ZZZZzzzZZZZZZZZZ!" 

OMG!  How did she know? 

“ZZZZZZZZZzzZZZ and Peeps zzZZZZ!  And peanut brittle!”
Thankfully, the screaming stopped after a few minutes.  And Dr. T said he was done.  

Say what?

Aside from the headache the screeching witch gave me, and the self-inflicted holes in my hands from clenching my fists too tightly, I didn’t feel a thing.

Whew.  That was nothing!

Absolutely nothing.

I grabbed a fresh baked cookie on the way out of Dr. T’s office.  (He knows how to grow his business.)  And I headed into work.  

But not before turning on the sign.