IMG_0665REGGAE. What a totally preposterous name for a dog, but my eight-year-old son was just learning to play guitar and breathed all things Bob Marley, Jamaican, and Rastafarian. When I vetoed the idea of him naming this new puppy Bob (which would cause mucho confusion at family events, with several of his uncles and cousins bearing the name. A shriek of “Stop peeing on the floor Bob!”, would garner all the wrong kind of attention). Marley was rejected also; no need to be reminded of a sad canine film forty times a day. Both Jamaica and Rastafarian had too many syllables, which left Reggae as the only viable name.

Several months ago, at the ripe old age of 13, Reggae began doing something quite disconcerting. She would sit beside me and stare at me for hours at a stretch, like she was trying to memorize every detail of my being on a cellular level. There was such sorrow in her eyes, which really freaked me out and I became convinced that she must be imbued with a secret knowledge that one of us was not long for this world. Since neither of us were spring chickens, I figured there was a 50/50 chance it could be either/or.

When she began needing to go outside a dozen times a day and her back legs could no longer be trusted to keep her upright, her vet warned me to prepare myself to say goodbye, probably no later than Thanksgiving or Christmas. Mr. Adorable and I immediately chucked her diet plan out the window and began spoiling her with every possible treat and tidbit. Want to sniff the same blade of grass for 27 minutes? No problem whatsoever. Want to head to your favorite beach and laze under the huge live oak tree for hours? No problem, my sweet baby girl.

Then suddenly, in a matter of hours, her condition worsened so swiftly and she was in so much distress, I knew her Rainbow Bridge moment had arrived. I’d been fortunate over the years and never had to witness a pet exiting planet earth. On the ranch, there was always a dad, uncle, or grandpa around to administer the merciful gunshot to alleviate their suffering after a snake bite or run in with a vehicle. Then, it became my husband’s sad task to make that final trip to the vet’s office; I knew I couldn’t bear it.

But there was no testosterone in sight on Reggae’s awful final day, so off we went, on my girl’s final “bye bye in the car”. I was crying so hard I have no idea how we navigated the highway in one piece. I had a completely different vision of what was going to occur, one that had no connection to the actual reality. I brought her favorite New Age music on my IPad to play for her because it always made her dreamy and relaxed. My pockets were stuffed with every treat we possessed and I was armed with her favorite lovey. All utterly pointless, as it turned out.

The vet gave her a sedative and within seconds she was deeply asleep, rendering all my preparations moot. Once he administered her Heaven Juice, her heart stopped in under 15 seconds. It all seemed so brutally swift and such an ignoble ending to our long love affair. No pomp, no circumstance, no ceremony, no goodbye rituals.

I’m stunned by the number of tears I’ve shed and the cringing that happens when I enter this empty apartment and realize that goofy face full of constant joy isn’t there to greet me. The silence inside my home is screamingly loud. I’ve decided that this will be my last pet; too much pain comes from loving something so much and I won’t risk that again. I’m sure I made Mr. Adorable nervous when he caught me checking out inhabitants of the local shelter on their website, searching their faces for something intangible. Something that would catch at my heart and make me look closer to see if maybe, just maybe…

It seems incomprehensible that, with the glaring exceptions of Oregon, Washington, Vermont, Montana, and New Mexico, our pets are treated with more compassion than we citizens are. No loving pet owner would allow their precious baby to suffer in agony for months because vets weren’t allowed to perform euthanasia. As humans, if we want the same compassion and swift end to our suffering from a horrible terminal illness, we would have to relocate to one of these five states in order to execute what should be an extremely personal choice. Imagine being violently ill and having to leave behind your family, friends, home, and community to live in a strange and unfamiliar place in order that you might write your own final ending to this adventure called Life. Where is the humanity in that?

Someone suggested to me last week that hospice was almost as good an option as assisted suicide but I disagree. I know my mom, who opted to stop dialysis for her acute renal failure, would certainly disagree. She was told she would have a maximum of 72 hours to live after stopping her treatment and all the sweetie wanted was to get out of the hospital and die in her bed, her home. The allotted 72 hours turned into three weeks and while her hospice care was at a rock-star level, she would have jumped at the chance to NOT have a nurse or companion change her diapers or help her shower and dress when I was at work. Sadly, in North Carolina, you are not allowed the option of speeding up the inevitable.

When  I am elected President of The World, which I expect any minute now, my first executive order will be to stock every soda vending machine with Kevork Kola. Drinking one will be your own personal “Stop the world; I want to get off” beverage. I think that instead of spending time in prison Jack Kevorkian should have been canonized. He should receive every possible humanitarian award posthumously.

So, Governor Jerry Brown, what do you say to signing the Brittany Maynard bill by the October 11 deadline and affording the residents of your state the same dignity and compassion we show our pets?


I bet this title has Mr. Adorable shaking in his boots and scratching his chin. I’m guessing his blood pressure just shot up ten points wondering where his little Parsley Snip might possibly be going with this one? Don’t fret honey; this is just a little family story, all about baby Jesus, his Papa, and all my crazy-assed Texas relatives.

As always, I digress. When I was either five or six, and being raised as a pious Irish Catholic Texican on a cattle ranch outside of Nowhere Texas, our family had a nightly ritual. Every evening, right before bedtime, my parents, grandparents, and whichever spare relatives with five names apiece were on the premises, had to come sit on my bed and listen to my prayers.

Laredo Porter Wagoner T————–, known to all as Big Red, needing a prayer for that threshing incident back in 1953. I could have foretold that having conjoined twins fighting for control in the cab of that thresher wasn’t going to end well. Then there’s Austin Johnny Cash T—————, fondly called Cap Tee; he need praying because, at age 47 his erstwhile music career (playing both the spoons and banjo simultaneously) still hadn’t gotten off the ground and it certainly was looking like a job down at the Feed and Seed was in his future.

Next comes Beaumont George Jones T———-, nicknamed Gator. Poor Gator had never been quite right in the head ever since that midnight skinny-dipping situation when the water moccasin bit him on his willy; no cousins would be added to our family tree from that uncle. Lastly, Laramie Loretta Lynn T————–, called by all Maria. That little filly needed our prayers most of all, since she became the very first lesbian cowgirl in our family’s history. That situation still could have been salvaged if only she hadn’t tied Grandpa’s favorite pet calf “Smelly” to her Ford F150 and pulled it all the way to Kansas before marrying her wife. Yep, my family needed a big bucketful of prayers every single night.

Once I was chock full of the holy spirit from all that praying and was safely tucked in and left alone, I always added one special little request that was uniquely my own, “And please God, don’t let me die a virgin”. I certainly didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew it was BIG and a really huge deal.

It was with equal certainty that I knew I would never outlive my teenage years; impending death and dismemberment lurked around every corner of that ranch. Falling from the roof of the 3-story barn, slipping out of the towering mulberry tree, slicing yourself open on rusted barb wire and dying from tetanus. Getting a fatal rattlesnake, black widow, scorpion, or tarantula bite. Really, what chance did a scrawny little kid have to grow to adulthood?

It was that concern for my future and needing to lose my virginity prior to my imminent and premature death that had me petitioning Jesus each and every night until my 18th birthday, when my BFF Mother Nature stepped in and rendered that whole situation (and resultant prayer) moot.

With those ruminations rattling through my memory, it was with GREAT surprise that I woke up yesterday morning to discover it was my 63rd!! birthday. Who ever would have thought? I am quite proud of my twin accomplishments of avoiding BOTH geriatric virginity AND premature death.

“The Catholic church convinced me that God and chocolate are great substitutes for sex. Now I’m a nun, a virgin, AND have diabetes.”

“What do you call a 13-year-old girl from Kentucky who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin”

For all you virgins out there (do you still exist??), have an amazing weekend and keep your situations intact!


Image from

Image from

Oh oh, my first encounter with trouble in Paradise. I’m either about to be arrested for MAJOR cocaine possession, or El Chapo, the escaped Mexican drug lord, is about to show up on my doorstep demanding to know why I have about 3 kilos of his white powder laid out on my lanai floor. Either way, my future is not looking so glowing.

My road to perdition began about one month ago, when I drew back my Bahamian curtains to greet the sunshine and morning and saw…my entire white lanai floor covered in chocolate brown sand, which had definitely not been there the previous night. As my sleepy brain was trying to process this situation, I couldn’t fail to notice that the entire floor was in motion. Stepping out to investigate, I realized that my outdoor living space had been high jacked by approximately 10,000 teeny ants. Thinking they were fire ants, after years of living in Texas and the Carolinas, I immediately grabbed my laptop and googled “Tiny Evil Bastards”.

Turns out Evita wasn’t the only thing brought here from Argentina; Linepithema Humile came along for the ride as well. As luck would have it, they eat the honeydew that is produced by honeysuckle, which covers the entire lanai side of my flat. Am I a lucky girl or what?  For some reason this season the landscapers had decided to leave the gorgeous orange honeysuckle untrimmed until its bloom cycle finished. This left the shrubs pushing hard against my screens, creating expressways for my miniscule roommates to move in.

Enter my new favorite Man of My Dreams, Joey the exterminator, who sadly informed me that all his beetlejuice would do is kill off the workers, forcing the queens to produce more and more replacement ants. “Don’t even waste a dime on poisons, totally worthless, and yeah, that’s coming from me, an exterminator. If you tell property management I said that, I’ll deny, deny. Get these bushes trimmed back and spread baby powder all around. It doesn’t kill them, just scares them shitless. Trust me on this.”

Always one to bow to authority, especially ones with a giant cockroach on top of their service vehicle, I promptly headed to Dollar Tree and bought their entire inventory of talc. The curious cashier couldn’t resist inquiring, so I opted for livening up her dull day. “I just kidnapped 8 newborns from the hospital down the street and if you don’t stop with the questions, one of those squirts is gonna get it!”

In a hormonal homicidal rage I raced home and fired up the industrial strength shop vac Mr. Adorable had loaned me and began dispatching both the living and the dead to their maker. I was chuckling like a mad woman as I spread that baby powder over every square inch of my lanai; I even poofed it onto the screens themselves, as a way of having the final knockout in this battle.

As a testament of my gratitude to Joey, whose wily expertise allowed me to regain my precious outdoor real estate back, we are currently planning an October wedding. If you think talcum powder is just for stinky baby butts…you would be wrong, soooo wrong.

The only downside to my happy ending is…this powdery substance is apparently permanent; it refuses to be vacuumed or swept up. It is seemingly a part of the floor, which has lead to some inquisitive and lingering glances from the two narcotics officers who live across the way.

As for El Chapo’s eminent arrival, I’ve got that covered. Stocked my bar with a bottle of Gran Patron Platinum, have a succulent platter of enchiladas suizas in the oven and a huge skillet of frijoles refritos simmering on the stove. Figure I’ll get the chubby little Mexican drunk and stuffed, then hand him a rolled up hundred dollar bill, send him out to the lanai and ask him to breath deeply. BTW, I fully intend to collect on his bounty!


comcast suxIt took COMCAST only five days to do what no one else has successfully achieved in 62 years. They turned this flower child, peace-loving, OM chanting pacifist into a heavily armed and dangerous weapon of redheaded annihilation. I want to terminate every single Indian citizen in New Delhi or Calcutta who works for any call center. I am now officially a racist.

Those elitist snobs (generally liberal Democrats who voted for President Obarfup) who sniff disdainfully at something foul in the wind when asked about their TV viewing habits and will only reluctantly cop to watching PBS? Not me Sista. I am an unabashed TV baby. My DVR holds such a special place in my life that I prepare it kosher meals and set an extra plate for her at dinner. We get manis and pedis together; she is truly my BFF.

So, when one of our daily violent lightening storms blew her up last week, I was understandably devastated. Since this wasn’t my first rodeo with a scorched DVR, I went through all the usual checklist before embarking on that dreaded 90-minute phone call with Raj or Samir in India. Reboot, check, 3 times. Swap out cables, check, twice. Not even Mr. Adorable, with his backpack of skills, could fix my issue. Nothing revived my darling DVR; she was officially DOA and my 48 episodes of “The Barefoot Contessa”, 20 assorted movies, “The Millionaire Matchmaker”, and 79 “House Hunters” would have to RIP beside her.

Grief-stricken and verklempt, I fortified myself with two Grey Goose dirty martinis prior to placing that dreaded call; here in Paradise COMCAST will not send a repair tech to your home until you have been ground down by Raj or Samir for a requisite 90 minutes. It’s like penance for a Catholic; you can’t achieve relief until you ante up the vig. First, you are required to input every personal identifier God could create, not simply your account number and name, like any other company with a conscience and a soupcon of customer service. DOB, SS#, complete address, how many ounces of lint are currently residing in your belly button, and what was the maiden name of your eighth grade boyfriend’s mother?

Then, suddenly, there is the ear-splittingly high-pitched, heavily accented voice of one Raj, who persists in calling himself Joe, Bob, or Jim. They love to spin the fantasy that they are just around the corner from wherever you are, and are American to boot. “Oh hello Miss Ree Knee. So pleased to be allowed the most intense pleasure of the possibility of perhaps assisting you in your utmost troubles this very evening. How can your faithful servant Joe facilitate your joy this most pleasant day?” If obsequious was a scent I’d be inhaling that and chicken curry vindaloo through the phone line.

Predictably, after 90 minutes of rug-burned knees, holding a flashlight between my teeth and twisting my arthritic bits into positions that would make Swami Muktananda proud, and wriggling around like a Thalidomide baby, Joe sighs. “My most humble disappointment at being unable to assist you in your sorrowing troubles will be most vexing to me for long time to yet come, I am sure. My failure to resolve your sadness will bring deep shame upon my family’s name for many centuries forward. I apologetically request that you drive over two hours tomorrow and the headquarters will replace your annihilated box and cable, most enthusiastically I’m quite certain.”

Joe’s strikeouts continued when Headquarters smugly informed me that they changed policy and no longer allow customers to swap out their damaged boxes. Would I like to schedule a tech house call 4 days hence? No… but what I really wanted to do was rearrange all of your teeth, without benefit of anesthetic.

Arriving home, after a 2-hour drive to and from Paradise, with my deceased BFF on the seat beside me, I received a call from Samir, Joe’s more demonic and much less polite coworker. He demanded that I immediately reconnect all that Joe had put asunder the evening prior in order that his advanced technical team could run diagnostics. Looking down at the rug burns on my knees and elbows, I sweetly demurred; I would wait the four long days. “In that situation it will be most essential to cancel the technician visit; they cannot be scheduled until we resolve your trouble, which we most unreservedly do, over 120% of our chances.” Garrotted and defeated, I once again hit the carpet, knowing at least another 90 minutes of skin to surface pleasure was on the menu. When Samir was thwarted in his resurrection attempts, he promptly hung up on me. Yep, no exchange of pleasantries or good wishes for BFF’s successor, no marriage proposal, no plans to meet to break garlic naan…just a dead phone line.

Today, Day 4 arrives, as does COMCAST tech and hero Adam, who diagnosed and corrected the problem in under 3 seconds. My dear BFF was rescued from the jaws of death and pronounced fully restored, no replacement needed. Did I mention Adam is completely and resoundingly AMERICAN. Amen.

COMCAST…Satan is preparing a special place in hell for you and your imperious ways as we speak. And that, my friend, is the most polite thing I am allowed to say about how much you suck on this PG rated blog.



It’s deja vu all over again!! If your first retirement turns out to be just a dress rehearsal…try it again, hopefully this time with a more permanent result.

In April I received news from my beloved Social Security Administration that I could collect survivor’s benefits from my deceased husband and actually make more income than I was making at a full-time job I didn’t love. For the first time in my life I not only wanted to kiss a civil servant, but possibly even birth his babies! Angels sang and the seas parted. I spied my opportunity to write to my heart’s content, unplug my alarm clock, and head for the beach as often as desired. For the first and only time since my husband’s suicide in 2005, there would finally be a by-product with a happy ending. One that didn’t involve shock, devastation, financial mayhem and debt.

My calendar now looks like this:















Ahh… it’s off to the hammock for a nap now, under the swaying palms and subtropical breeze. It’s been an exhausting week!

Cupid and The Cadaver #115

Renee Moore:

A blast from the past…because I’m too busy having fun to write a new post!

Originally posted on SAY GOODNIGHT GRACIE:

“Why, oh why do I have all these spots on my face Mama?”, I used to wail when I was little. With a gentle smile my mom always assured me that “Each freckle is where an angel kissed you goodbye before you came back down here to Earth”. I’m pretty sure one of those angels must have peeked at my birth chart and said “We better give this one a super heaping helping of humor, because she’s surely going to need it!” I certainly needed it last night, when Cupid played a little practical joke on me.

Had a blind date with a Cuban writer/newspaper publisher. Great photos and my girlfriends all agreed that he was super hot, not the usual Crypt Keepers I’ve been going out with. He’d chosen a beautiful venue right on the beach at sunset and since I have a strong leaning to bronze Latin types…

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IMG_0521After uttering Oy Vey for the twelfth time yesterday, my new Paradise friend quizzically inquired, “You inject sooo many Yiddish words and expressions into your speech. Are you part Jewish?”

Lounging by the pool later I realized it was true. Bubbe, bupkes, chutzpah, feh!, goy, kibbitz, klutz, kvetsh, mazel tov, mentsh, mishegas, nosh, oy vey, plotz, shalom, schlock, shmendrick, schmaltzy, schmooze, schmuck, spiel, shiksa, shmutz, tchotchke, yenta all lace my speech heavier than I lay on the jalopenos.

Twenty-three years in NYC certainly played a part, but it was the two years I accidently rented a huge pre-war flat in Midwood Brooklyn, not realizing I was in a hotbed of Hasidic Jews, that really enhanced my knowledge of all things Yiddish.

The day after the movers left, I innocently headed out to Avenue M, the closest shopping street, to purchase mops, brooms, and groceries. I thought it strange that there was not a single soul out on the streets, but turning onto the avenue I got the shock of my life. All the stores and businesses were closed, with heavy metal doors pulled down and locked over storefronts. I cursed my decision not to set up my TV the day before, because I knew with certainty that the Arabs had come and World War III was surely at hand. As I raced back to the safety of my beautiful, rent-controlled apartment I pondered how I wanted to spend my last surviving days on earth.

I couldn’t spend my final hours listening to my beloved music; the stereo wasn’t hooked up. Couldn’t send any “Farewell, I love you” messages to dear ones; laptops and cell phones didn’t exist in my world in the mid-eighties. At a loss, I settled for crawling under my beloved brass bed with my two Siamese cats, Pancho and Bailey, a bag of Cheese Puffs, a magnum of Dom Perignon, and a carton of OJ. That way, when the Palestinians broke down my door to annihilate me, at least I’d be semi-comatose.

The next morning, emerging from my war-ravaged hidey hole, I couldn’t resist edging out to the street, the better to see what my destroyed neighborhood looked like. Quel surprise! Skies were blue, the sun was shining, folks were as loud and boisterous as ever, and all businesses were open. That little war I envisioned? Turned out to be nothing more than Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, soon to be followed by Yummy Kippers. You better believe that little holiday didn’t catch me by surprise.

Trust me when I tell you that assimilation into this neighborhood was not easy for this Irish Texican. Every summer walking home from the subway in my 5″ stilettos and Wall Street power suits, I had to run the gauntlet of elderly Hebrew women sitting in their aluminum folding chairs, clucking disapprovingly as I passed by. My approval rating didn’t shoot up when I began dating a wealthy gentleman who sent his black chauffeur to pick me up in a stretch limo, always with an armload of yellow roses in hand.

After two long and arduous years of being the scorned woman on the block, I decided to marry the first stockbroker, attorney, Indian, or Chief I could wrangle and get the hell out of Dodge. Because all those clucking old ladies? They had apparently decided collectively that any port in the storm might be preferable to their darling 50 year-old dentist bachelor nephew dying without a wife…any wife, even a scrawny titian-haired Gentile. Invites were starting to pour in to come to dinner and meet Chayim, Efraim, and Yitzhak. I realized my future could not include a man whose name sounded like a cat yakking up a fur ball.

So it was only fitting when my darling but totally neurotic doggie, Reggae, had to start wearing a muzzle for her own self-protection, that muzzle tov immediately leapt to mind. Her only animal companion for the past 13 years went northward to visit Jesus in November (there’s that darn month again!) and she is so lonely and anxious being an only child that she has begun to chew hotspots on her leg, leaving me with $200 vet bills on each occasion.

None of the muzzles we tried were effective at keeping her from aggravating this wound every time I left her alone or went to sleep. Shofar giving her a dreidel to play with and hanging a mezuzah by the door have not helped either. Clever shiksa wench I am, I finally settled on the Blue Daisy Cone of Shame Therapy hat. The Xanax and Dom Perignon I give her as treats haven’t hurt either.