Mustard vs. Mayo

I love mustard. I’ll put it on anything. The tangy, twang that makes my face perspire simply cannot be matched by any other condiment–not even mayo. Now I’m not saying that mayo isn’t good stuff, it is. I’m just saying that I rather have mustard on all my sandwiches. Is that a crime? Well, it seems to be around this neck of the woods. Where I come from, mayo rules. The people I know put mayo on everything–from scrambled eggs to steak sandwiches. I mean, really. That’s just gross. The heat from cooked eggs makes mayo a runny and nasty mess.

I had a male friend who put mayo on oatmeal. Can you imagine? Okay. So what’s with me talking about mayo and mustard today? There was a big thing around my house last night about which is better. I know. We’re pretty pathetic, right? But you see, the boyfriend was making a late night snack, and he put heaping spoonfuls of mayo on his sandwich. I was completely grossed out and told him so. But did he care? Nooo. He looked me right in my face as he gleefully took a monster bite of his sandwich and then laughed when the mayo squirted out from his bread and landed all over the table. AND it was all over his mouth. I don’t have to tell you what it looked like. And he knew it bothered me so he began chewing with his mouth open, displaying the most grotesque mess one could witness.

Gosh, I have so much writing to do, but I couldn’t let this go without an honorable mention–kind of like when I keep talking about nose pickers . . . Oops. Did I mention that again??

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I Lived Two Centuries Ago

I could see from where I was standing that the sun was just peeking over the water’s horizon. It looked as though a blaze of orange was emerging from the ocean; almost as if God was pulling it up by invisible strings. 
The smell of the salty, warm sea air, as I breathed in deeply, reminded me of when I was a little girl, when my family used to have picnics on the shores of Long Island. No memory could compare to those days of freedom; nothing could come close to the feeling of the security that I felt when I was with my mother and father. 

I poured myself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and let the screen door slam behind me as I proceeded to walk onto the beach. There wasn’t anyone around but me; the silence was welcomed, even in spite of the ocean’s roar. It was as if it was saying something to me; taunting me with each rush it made to the shoreline. I took a sip of my coffee and reveled in its hazelnut sweetness, and thanked God to be having the experience that I was having at that precise moment.

The sky was violet; I say violet to emphasize the clarity of its blueness. White formations floated above, making me think that something as beautiful as this could only be appreciated when you appreciate life—when you step away and let yourself be. My dreams are like the clouds—forever and ethereal, and they remind me that I am more than this space that I occupy.


Closing my eyes, and letting myself be, allows me to align with Him; my thoughts are of pureness and deep revelation; a contentment which goes deeper than any gratification could offer. It’s a freedom from this world. It’s a flight of my senses that goes beyond fleshly recognition.

I began to walk; my feet sinking deeply with each step I took. Seashells stared up at me, begging for my attention. The tiny, white ones were the ones that I picked up because the sun had made them glisten, like tiny diamonds. Nowhere in my world is there a place as perfect as this. A lifetime ago made itself known, just as it always does. The memory never leaves me when I set my imagination and soul free from these prison walls called now. 

A black and yellow butterfly graciously floats past me, and then lands on the sand a few feet ahead. And as I get closer to it, it lifts off in slow motion and gently brushes against my arm. Seagulls fly above; their cries bring me back to that time, and again, I can’t remember when that was. I only know that I was there and that I would never forget it.

My soul will never be complete. It hungers for yesterday and begs for tomorrow. It searches for newness, yet seeks the comfort of familiarity. Gin Lane is where I once lived over two centuries ago.

 

Fridays and Why Do Straight Chicks Act Gay

Somebody wake me, please! With the world in total chaos and our economy in a mess, wouldn’t it make sense if we, as a nation, would stop and take stock at what is happening to our society? Let’s be honest. This society is out of control. It lacks morals and integrity. We’ve become a nation gone wild. Look at our young adults. Okay. Now this might get me a verbal ass whoopin’, but here I go. Since when did it become the norm for girls to act gay? Somebody tell me, please? There appears to be an epidemic of teenaged girls and young women who feel the need to kiss and feel each other up in clubs, parties, Spring break–any place where there is a camera. When did this become acceptable? Did I fall asleep in a field of poppies for a hundred years and miss a revolution or something? Seriously. If you’re gay, then you’re gay. Period. Who cares? But why pretend to be gay? Does it make you cool? Do you attract more guys by acting like lesbians? When did it become chic for young women to act like horney gay chicks in public?

Girls and ladies? A piece of advice. Be who you are, and stop trying to fit in. What I respect about all gays is that they are who they are. They aren’t pretending to BE what they aren’t. They stand tall, and they act proud. So all you straight chicks . . . if you want to follow the gays then follow their integrity and values. Don’t pretend to be what you’re not in order to get attention or to attract guys. Take pride. If you really need that much attention then grab an accordian, one monkey wearing a hat, and stroll up and down Broadway.

All righty then. Moving on. Telemarketers . . . good heavens, give me a break. Will ya? Has this happened to you? You get a call asking if you would like to subscribe to your local paper. You tell them that you are a subscriber. They tell you that they appreciate your business and then hang up. The next day, you receive another call from a telemarketer asking if you would like to subscribe to your local paper. You tell them in a nice way that you are a subscriber, and that someone called the day before, and would they please take your name off their mailing list. The following day, you get another call asking if you would like to subscribe to your local paper, and now you are about to explode! What the heck is wrong with these people? Listen up telemarketers. The next time you call, I’m going to talk in a thick Hindu accent and make you believe that you have dialed Citi Corp. So there! Which leads me to my next gripe. What is up with people leaving their dog poop in the street?

I don’t know about where you live, but here in New York, picking up after your dog is a law. So here I was, out for my morning speed walk, when I spotted this lady walking her Pug. The Pug was doing his thing right at the edge of the curb, unaware that he was committing a crime. The owner, who obviously isn’t smarter than the Pug or a fifth-grader, left the doodoo where it was. I was pissed. I was really pissed. Did I mention that I was pissed? What kind of person leaves their dog’s mess on a city street, knowing that it’s against the law and that someone will likely step in it? I tell ya, this world has gone to the dogs, damn it. And speaking of poop, here’s another little diddy that makes me squint . . . infomercials.

You know when you watch an infomercial and they say at the end, “Order yours now and we’ll double your order for the same price”? I’d like to know how they can afford to do that? For only 4 easy payments of $49.99, you can have two Magic Bullets, but you have to act fast. YOU HAVE TO CALL NOW. Holy torpedo! Two Magic Bullets for only 4 easy payments of $49.99? I better hurry and call before I lose out on that great offer. Geeze.

So remember. Your day can go a lot smoother if you . . .

1– Learn to speak Hindu
2– If you wear rubbers over your shoes
3– If you order a Magic Bullet right now!

Oh, and here is a great read and a good holiday gift ( shameless self promotion )

Master of the Realm. If you never believed in life after death, this just might change your mind.

Okay. That’s a wrap. Wake me when this is all over.

To order, just go to any major online store or Barnesandnoble or Amazon or Authorhouse my publisher or Valentinedefrancis
master-of-the-realm-book-cover1

Fridays blogs and Christmas ?

I’m sitting here in sweat pants and a sweat shirt, sweating my bunns off. It’s almost 65 degrees here in Staten Island, New York, and I’m thinking this is so weird. Outside, my neighbors’ homes are fully adorned in Christmas lights and Santas. I mean really! It was only Halloween one week ago. Aren’t we skipping a holiday somewhere–like T h a n k s g i v i n g? Helloooo? We are going way too fast, folks! I am not ready for Christmas, people. I am not even ready for Thanksgiving. Heck, I’m still recovering from Labor Day. Is there a reason why we are rushing into all of this? Is Christmas going to disintergrate into space, never to be celebrated again?
I don’t want to think about Christmas in the beginning of November, and I don’t want to hum Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, and I don’t want to deal with going into the mall to conquer crowds of moms toting their screaming kids. I don’t want to! Does that make me a scrooge? Can’t a girl bask in the warm weather and ponder the days of summer, just for a little while?

Okay. So I used to own an Acura. I loved that car. It was luxurious, smooth, but most of all, soundproof. Acura makes a nice car, but alas, after ten years it went bye-bye, and I had to get a new car. Taking into consideration that I don’t have a garage to store an expensive luxury car, and taking into consideration that a luxury car gets less miles to the gallon, I decided that for my money, I would get a car that gets great gas mileage and one that I wouldn’t have to worry about–so I got a 2009 Toyota Corolla.
This little car has just about every feature that a fancy-smancy car has, except for one minor detail. Well, it’s not exactly a minor detail. OK! It’s a big detail. It’s made like doodoo. Don’t take this wrong. It’s a great car to drive. It drives fantastically, gets 34.5 miles to the gallon, has all the cool features of an expensive car, but it’s made of plastic–from bumper to bumper. What this means is that you kind of hear more shakin’, rattlin’, and rollin’ then you would normally hear in your leading luxury car. Which leads me to this little diddy.

*deep breath*  Yesterday, I was out driving, and I kept hearing a little thumping on the right side. It was driving me nuts, so in the rain, I took every single thing, including my jack, out of the trunk. The noise was still there. From there, I opened the hood and checked to make sure that the engine hadn’t fallen out–and it didn’t. My only choice was to go to the dealer, so I called.

“Come on down, we can take you right now,” the service writer says.

“Cool,” I say back, and I go.

Thirty minutes later, I pull into the service department, and they give me a ticket. “The service writer will be with you in a minute,” the guys says.

“Cool,” I say.

Ten minutes later, I hear, “G165,” being called out. I look at my ticket and yell, “Bingo!”

The writer smiles. “I get that every time,” he boasts.

So I walk into his office and sit down, and explain to him what I am hearing. He writes me up and gives the repair order to the next mechanic, who 15 minutes later comes over to me and says, “I don’t hear a thing. Take a ride with me.”

We get into the car and drive up and down quiet streets. I have my head cocked to the extreme right of the passenger side, saying “There it is again. You hear it, you hear it?”

He gives me a shifty glare. “No, I can’t hear it,” he says.

Finally, after driving around for ten minutes, we go back to the dealership, where he tells me that if it gets worse to come back. Ah, hello?

I proceed to the cashier where I am handed a bill which says $94.00 for labor. At the bottom it says $0.00. Of course, I don’t have to pay for anything as the car is only two months old, but I questioned the labor charge. After all, I found it to be more than expensive, especially since the mechanic only had the car for under a half an hour. The cashier cracks her gum and giggles, and then says, “I don’t know. I only work here.”
I turned my head and rolled my eyes, thinking . . . of course you do.

So my lovelies, I am giving all of you some advice. Don’t rush time, take a deep pause before you react, and get a really good headset that blocks out noise.

Oh, and check out these really good blogs. Blamin’ Palin by Fox News and this weeks Margaret and Helen’s blowing off steam

Seeya next time.

Valentine

Friday’s Blog Browsing and Other Noteable Stuff

So good morning my lovelies. Yes, today is October 31, 2008, or also known as Halloween.  This isn’t going to be about Halloween, so don’t get crazy and roll your eyes. In fact, this isn’t going to be another blog about Hollywood gossip or about McCain and Palin and Obama. Heck, I think the internet and the media have overkilled the crap out of that. Even SNL, which by the way is absolutely hysterical with Tina Faye playing Sarah, will not get mentioned. And 30Rock . . . which is just about the funniest show on national television, won’t get mentioned, either. No, today’s column is about plain ole stuff. Real stuff. Everyday in your life, stuff. So on with the stuff.

I would like to kick off this column with something that may gross you out, but I believe it deserves an honorable mention — and then I won’t bring it up again . . . what’s with the nose picking? I’ve mentioned this before and swore that I wouldn’t mention it again, but I can’t resist. I’ve seen more people picking their noses in the last week than I have in my life. And what gets me is that they think they aren’t being watched. What kind of enjoyment are these people getting? Can someone please write me here on this column and explain this.  And I won’t mention this again. Okay. Moving on.

So I’ve been talking to some friends who say that this is going to be a really cold winter here in New York. And I’m thinking that I cannot do another really cold winter. I simply cannot do another snowy, wet, gray winter. Know what I mean? I need warm and soothing, with blue skies and white, fluffy clouds rolling by–with the green ocean waves swirling around my ankles. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Oh, sorry. Got carried away. So what does a person do when they can’t afford to pack it all up and move to the west coast or a tropical island? You go and get a portable heater, a DVD about the Caribbean, one bottle of Jack Daniels–with a tiny red umbrella, and a CD of visualization exercises. Okay. Moving forward.

Mimi, a really good friend of mine, is having boyfriend troubles. She was in his apartment the other night, waiting for him to come out of the shower, when his cell phone went off. Of course, she did what any normal, intelligent chick would do–she picked it up. Turns out that the caller was another woman, but not just any other woman, his ex-girlfriend. She listened to make sure that he was still actively engaged in his shower and then played the message. It wasn’t good. The ex wanted to know if she could meet up with him at a different time for their date on the following night. Uttt ohhh. Stay tuned for this.

I have two friends who live in Florida who are roomies. One friend called me the other day to complain that the other friend is driving her crazy with her non-stop chattering. This friend talks when she gets up, while she’s eating, while she’s dumping, and even while she’s sleeping. What is a roomie supposed to do?

And guys . . . whatever you do, don’t lie to your boss. Once, twice, three times, and the ad goes into the Sunday newspaper to replace you–behind your back. And if you have a secret, keep it a secret. The fastest way to get your business around the work place is to tell a friend.

Oh, and here are a couple of groovy blogs to check out. Click here for Margaret and Helen, and Click Here for Who is Joe the Plumber?

So have a great Friday people and remember this: If you think someone is talking about you, they are.

Valentine

You’ve Used me–Now I’m Done With You

What was I thinking? Perhaps I wasn’t thinking. Perhaps I thought too much or too highly of myself. I believed that everything I was doing was right. I thought that I was being a good friend. I thought that we had a relationship; we were more than pen and paper communicating. But I just learned that I was wrong. Once again I was wrong. Once again, it was just another lesson that I had to learn… as if I haven’t learned enough. One would think that there could only be so many lessons that could be learned in one lifetime, but I just found out that it never ceases–not in this fleshly existence. Yes, what was I thinking when I thought that I meant something to you?

Maybe it’s me. Maybe my good intentions and advice that you asked me for was all for my own benefit. Maybe subconsciously I wanted to be held on a pedestal in your eyes. Maybe I wanted you to sing my praises loudly for everyone to hear. Perhaps that was my underlying motive of which I was unaware at the time.

 

 

Oh ego, look what you’ve done. You made me a diluted fool. You made me a seeker of gratification to which there is no end. I applaude your divine intelligence, but now I have to laugh. I see through you. I understand how you operate. You can’t get over on me because I’m genius in my own right. Your pathetic attempt to seek out glory and worth has now been recognized; therefore you can no longer win. You’ve been had just like me.

 

 

Go ahead and laugh. You led me to think that I mattered to them. You conjured up the illusion of greatness, yet I was the only one who observed this powerless trick. I hang my head in shame. Where’s my cross?

Oh ego, why? You’ve tricked me into thinking that they cared. So, it was all about me? Was it all about how I wanted to be something wonderful in their eyes? Never mind. I have stumbled upon this brilliant revelation as I write this; one of many revelations that I have had the pleasure of knowing and learning from. This is just another.

 

 

Ego, did you say something? Did I just hear you whisper that they only care about themselves? Did you just snicker that they’ve used me and betrayed me? Or are you telling me this because you feel bruised?

 

I’m a Black Sheep and I Don’t Care by Valentine deFrancis

I don’t fit in. Yep, that’s right. I don’t. I never did. I was always different. I was always the outcast–the quiet one–the one who didn’t have much to say. Yep, that was me and still is. Ask me if I care. Ask me if I ever really cared. Go on. Ask me.

Growing up, I walked to my own beat. I wanted friends but they didn’t want me. I wanted to fit in, but for some reason, I just didn’t. It mattered back then. It mattered most of my life. But I was different you see. There was something about my personality that people backed away from. Maybe it was my independence or my “I can take it or leave it” attitude. But whatever it was, I just didn’t fit in. And it hurt, a little. And I wanted to fit in, but no matter what I did, it didn’t work. I was an outcast. I was the black sheep. But you know what I found out about being the outcast or the black sheep? I stayed true to myself. I remained who I was, in spite of not being a part of the group. Yes, it hurt me, and there were times that I tried to fit in–changing my ways to please the crowd, but it never lasted simply because it wasn’t my real self. And so, I never did fit in. But let me tell you what ultimately became of not fitting in.

I’ve learned, the hard way, that walking to my own beat, and being my weird self, has made me “an example”. People look at me now and are drawn to my unique God-given personality. They are curious at how I can be so free, and they want to know all about how I can walk to my own beat. They admire my ability to dress differently, and they are whispering to each other “how does she do that?” I guess you can say that my uniqueness is now considered edgy and interesting, and therefore, I’m setting the trend. Conceited you think? Nah. Just honest. So did I mention that I’m a black sheep? Yep. I am. And I ain’t changing for anyone.

Look deep and be what you feel comfortable being. You don’t have to fit in to be happy. Most of the world’s greatest artists, muscians, writers and thinkers were considered black sheep. They were considered weird, and yes, people made fun of them and snickered behind their backs. Look at these famous people now. They’ve set the trends that most humans follow. Yep, these black sheep are now icons.

It’s okay to be different. In fact, if you are, you are trendsetters. You are wonderful, loving, specimens of spiritual self. Don’t change. Just be who you really are and then trust me on this . . . you will set the trend!

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