Wednesday, May 20, 2009


Once again, I have been blessed with the unexpected arrival of a Dawg. Kind of like waking up after a long night only to discover you've been locked up.

Too many times our lovely home has been the haven for Doggie Dumpers. In one instance, seven puppies dropped at our gate on a very cold New Year's Day morning. Found homes for all of them. Happily ever after.

Yesterday, at the shank of my evening, I'm in my pajamas and bathrobe and my loving husband inquires,"Where'd you get that new Dawg?". "What new Dawg?", I replied. He said, "The one sleeping out there in front of the tack room".

A cute little Dawg, white with little brown spots and sporting a blue collar with a tag. So, I went out to see what I could do. My dear husband helped entice the Dawg into a crate by use of a hot-dog. Okay, now I have sticker-burrs in my bathrobe. Unpleasant.
As responsible animal owner, I did the right thing. I contacted the Vet and asked if she could run the tag ID# to see if the Dawg had been lost. She complied, even though it was a Sunday, (one of the perks of being Mayor, I guess).
When the Vet called back, she reported that this Dawg was a black Chihuahua and the purported owner's phone had been disconnected. Unless the Dawg has been sharing performance enhancing drugs with Roger Clemens and a bleaching booth with Michael Jackson, he's definitely wearing stolen plates and is not a Chihuahua. Another case of Doggie-Dumping.
Being fairly well full-up here, I enlisted the help and assistance of a neighbor; the proprietor of a beautiful Estate, complete with an available kennel. least for overnight until I could make arrangements for the Dawg.
My husband reminded me this morning that the Dawg matched the description of a "dream Dawg" a sweet friend of mine has been pining for and in need of since the demise of her loving pet.
I contacted the spouse of my sweet friend, a powerful man of substantial prominence. He seemed interested. I then contacted the Heroic Estate owner to give him the news of a possible ideal placement for the Dawg.
When I rang the estate owner and inquired about the Dawg, there was a pregnant pause. "What's wrong?", I asked. He replied, "I've LOST THE DOG"! She jumped the fence and was gone. Now, this esteemed gentleman has a robust and colorful past when it comes to Dawgs, and several times I have been dispatched to help him find his LOST DOGS who have "jumped the fence(s)". I asked, "What happened?, I thought you were going to put the Dawg in your kennel overnight!!".
He replied, "No I didn't want to put the Dawg in the kennel because she would "defile" it and aggravate MY Dawg".
The good news is the Dawg was found and hopefully on the way home to a nice place where it is not apt to defile, at least not to another Dawg.
A most noted resident remarked to me that because of the economy, this really is becoming a big problem, this Doggie Dumping, and while cat-napping is in decline, doggie dumping seems to be on the "up-tick".

As Mayor, I intend to bring this issue before City Council and recommend that we need a "Bone-a-Fido" Dawgcatcher and heavy fines for the dumpers.
Oh, wait, right...we don't have a City Council, we don't really even have a Mayor, not to mention a Dawg catcher. Maybe this is all just going to my head.
But think about it folks...we're standing up for chickens, we should stand up for the four-legged ones as well.

Okay, gotta go..its a sticker-burr thing.


Da Mayor

Monday, May 18, 2009


Wrong email address for me. If you want to contact me, I can be reached at Sorry, kinda new at all this.

copyright pending

copyright pending.

Friday, May 15, 2009


Burgers, Banking and Gas... a trio of life's experiences of which most of us are familiar. If your lucky, first, it is the burger of your choice, ("the way you like it"), second, a strong, steadfast, friendly bank and third, somebody else's gas, which you can quickly move away from at early notice with no penalty for early withdrawal.

Now, we cannot deny the arrival and the periodic convenience of the new Shell station at the corner. You can have a bag of fries in one hand and a deposit slip in the other, all while you get fueled up (so to speak).

Seems easy. Kill three birds with one stone. But since we are speaking of trios, are we aware that this, shall we say, the "strip-center", all purpose site is the brainchild of three men, married to three sisters, one sister of some local import.

One noted resident remarked that when approaching the Village from the east at dusk, the silhouette of the glittering, action-based multi tenant sign at the Shell station reminds one of the Claes Oldenburg sculpture of Mickey Mouse "deposited" in front of the Main Library in Downtown How-Town. Hmmm...of mice and men.

At any rate, it is there. It is permanent and it has forever altered the landscape of our wonderful community. No longer can we roll up the sidewalks at dark-thirty and recede into our quiet privacy and dodge, artfully, the exact type of intrusion many sought to escape from the hyper-consumerism of the big towns.

In fact recently, the guest speaker at a recent civic event, an astronaut, mentioned that the intersection of 1155 and 290 has been added to the short list of "visible locations on earth at night" from the orbiting space station. Chappell hill is now in the company of Paris, Rio De Janeiro during Carnival and the gas flares, (pardon the pun) of the Gahwar field in the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia.

Well, anyway, the place seems to be okay. That is if you can curl up to having a big mole on your chin. (Hey!...Cindy Crawford calls hers a "beauty mark"). We should hope the burger spot at the corner will cease and desist allowing their dumpster to illegally serve the teaming millions, a clear misinterpretation of the competitors original slogan, "Over a million served". Even the weekend motorcycle riders had to park away from the over-flowing dumpster to escape the stench.

Sadly, the only place they had to park was blocking the drive through lane at the new bank.

Divine retribution in some minds.

Things tend to pan out the way they're supposed to. We'll just have to wait and see. There will always be a schism between those who want change and progress and those who fervently fight for the preservation of the "The Way We Were" and the respect for actual history. (Just take a look at our Nation's Constitution).

Both views are worth considering. But does it not provide an opportunity to ask yourself important questions, challenge yourself on your beliefs and hopefully emerge with a more defined idea of who and what we want to be, as individuals and as a community? Whether or not you are "Shell Shocked" and disagree with the burger joint's presence, remember, we are neighbors, so don't get mad if your see someone you know slinking out of the burger me, the burger will disagree with your friend better than you can. And as a well respected, small town physician used to say, "Don't worry, the feeling will pass".


Monday, May 11, 2009


As you know, we, the great citizens of our lovely community recently suffered the mysterious loss of our Main Street Chickens. Those chickens were a fixture in our community and as familiar as the wallpaper on the wall. We didn't mind slowing down to allow them to cross the street, little chicks in tow. But, tragically, they were, shall we say, eliminated. We grieved. Being the strong type of folks we are, we have, like the Phoenix, risen and with great pride now are pleased and gladdened by the impending renewel of our friendly flock, sponsored by a long-time neighbor and friend. As one noted resident remarked, It will be "The Changing of the Chickens in Chappell Hill".

Now, I have never as much even changed a diaper on a baby, but I can't help but stand up and admire anyone who is willing to change a chicken. One notable resident remarked that chickens are our friends. (Yeah, tell that to the poor bird before he goes into the oven). The resident also remarked that chickens are protectors against predators and will begin to crow loudly if enchroached upon thus sounding an alarm, of sorts. Could it be that this "predator" was not only demented but hard of hearing as well? Or perhaps the late chickens were familiar and did not regard this evil person or persons as intruding. At any rate, we thankfully will soon have a "CHANGING OF THE CHICKENS" with a tailored amount of pomp and circumstance that would please even the Queen of England.



Sunday, May 10, 2009

Qualifications for the Office of the Mayor

First off:

I hate peaches.
I rarely eat humble pie.
I cry at the drop of a hat.
I cannot go near corn on the cob.
I still haven't learned to shoot a gun.
I have the curse of loving the unlovable in people.
I'm known to tell a bad joke in the wrong company.
I'm too nice to the Mexicans and the underprivileged.
I viciously enforce dinner and movie night on Saturday.
I have a bad Irish temper and a sharp, sarcastic tongue.
I sleep too well at night and do not suffer from low self-esteem.
I am frequently visited by a poetic muse of undetermined origin.
I've been seen with a boom box, outside, dancing to music with my horse.
I spend too much money on fresh cut flowers and can gorge myself on sushi.
I am a member of the Baptist church and at times quite irreverent.
I am guilty of pranks including 200 baby chicks set lose in a cheating boyfriends house in college and a box of manure sent to a sorority sister caught abusing a litter of kittens.
I don't deserve this well paid for honor, but more importantly, you don't deseve the disaster of me as Mayor.

My feet hurt.


Saturday, May 9, 2009

Blog-a-Bitch/ Any political position is for sale if you can pay the price

Big surprises often come in little packages. This year, at the annual fundraiser and auction for the Chappell Hill Volunteer Fire Department, my husband and I attended and marveled at the gallon jars of pickles sold to the highest bidder, somewhere close to $100, the homemade coconut creme cake paraded about by one of the volunteer firefighters. My husband observed the cake was so heavy it had bent the pan it was resting on...It was a diabetic coma waiting for some lucky bidder. It sold.
The beer was warm and the auction was taking a lot of time. The crowd was growing restless.
Sitting next us were a group of huntin' men and their women folk, dressed in matching camouflage, smoking cigarettes and pouring their homemade margaritas. It was beginning to get interesting.

After the pickles and the cakes and the golden hatchet and the all-purpose knives were auctioned off, the big event was about to occur.

The annual auctioning of the coveted "Mayor of Chappell Hill" gimme cap. Now you must understand, there really isn't a mayor in Chappell Hill, as we are unincorporated; no city council...just braggin' rights.

Last year, the honor went to the highest bidder, Jerry, a small man with deep pockets and very tall in virtue and standards. In fact, he is a midget and very well liked, fondly called Little Jerry. He bought the cap for $5,200. There is a rumor that he had a special affection for the fire department because one of his ex-wives had set him on fire and they had to come put him out...after his wife put him out.

Anyway, we were waiting for Mayor Jerry to appear. We knew he was there somewhere because his sidekick, Cadillac, a tall, thin black man with a dachshund, was circling about. For entertainment over at the Second Fiddle Bar and Grill, the patrons would sic that little dog on little Jerry and belly-laugh at the sight of the little dog biting the ankles of the little man.
Little Jerry finally emerged but declined public comment. Even Miss America gives a farewell speech on her final walk down the runway before passing the crown. Not Jerry. Something was amiss.

The bidding opened. Mayor Jerry made a paltry opening bid, perfunctory, I suspect. I glanced at my husband and said, "Now that's just not right" and without thinking I upped the bid.
In full expectation that Little Jerry would not be outdone, the crowd darted their eyes at Jerry. We knew he would come through. After all, he is an heir to that tree cutting company the electric company contracts to cut the trees off the power lines.

The auctioneer was getting nervous and was chirping like a chipmunk. He's looking at me, I'm looking at Jerry. The tension was building.

I want you to know that little midget, ducked under one of the folding tables, bobbed and weaved through the crowd and and flat out 'cut and run'.

The gavel fell and that is how I became the new Mayor of Chappell Hill. My husband glared at me and said "I can't believe you just did that". Quite frankly, neither could I.

The last item up for bid was a 1974 La France fire truck. No pump, no hoses, but plenty of lights and sirens. For a moment, early on, my husband was considering buying it for the local bank. He said, " Think about it, we could park anywhere!" Ultimately, the fire truck sold to the group of huntin' men with the encouragement of the auctioneer that they could strap a BBQ pit on the back of it and go and win any chili cook-off in the state.

The next morning, my husband gigged me a little bit about the Mayor's cap. Now, I will admit to having woken up on occasion with a lampshade on my head...But at least we didn't wake up to find a used fire truck in the yard!