May
09
Filed Under (Humor) by helene on 09-05-2018



Apr
23
Filed Under (Tommy Villalobos corner) by helene on 23-04-2018

First You See Her, Then?

To me, a beautiful woman with a book is something I could only envision in my wildest imaginings

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: January 27, 2017

First You See Her, Then?

“There is no such thing as romance in our day; women have become too brilliant; nothing spoils romance so much as a sense of humor in the woman.” I made the foregoing declaration after downing four beers at the Green Bar. I then looked around for engagement.

Fríjol seated two bar stools from me and to my right, made no response. I figured he was concentrating on a lost love or even a lost wife.

To my left sat a Pepino who also seemed lost in some Pleito from long ago and two states away. Sure, sometimes it took him several minutes to react, but he always responded. I liked bouncing my thoughts off him.

“Oscar Wilde wrote that down in his play, “A Woman of No Importance.” What do you think?” I added.

The Pepino took his customary few seconds to ingest my words, burped, then said, “I think all the time,” as if proudly proclaiming heartfelt pride in a well-hidden fact.

“But what do you think now?” I challenged. By the way, I am Edgar, the Barrio Sage, or the Barrio Be-Knowing-It-All, as some misguided souls call me. I like to read books and people. However, back to the Pepino. He was still thinking as we get back to him.

“About what?” he said, with another underscoring burp.

“The women of today and their take on romance.”

“I can tell you about women,” said the Pepino. “One day when I turned eight, my mother dropped me off at my abuelita’s and never came back. I didn’t cry. I laughed. I went from one female who cooked like an army sergeant, to a grand Señora who filled me with Comida Méjicana from sunrise to sunset. I haven’t tasted such tasty cooking since she turned in her olla.

Considering how this Pepino’s misfortune turned into a Spielberg ending, I recalled what a famous man once said, “The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.” In my case, I must always add, “If you give him some time.”

I then remembered her like it was something that happened right before I walked into the bar.

It all started out one spring day at a Chicano book fair. She, the object of my discourse, was selling books at a bookstall. To me, a beautiful woman with a book is something I could only envision in my wildest imaginings. I could compare it to a guy seeing a babe approach him out of nowhere with two big mugs of beer, set both before him and slide in next to him.

I walked up to her bookstall, opening one of the books. It was about life in early San Antonio while I was thinking about life in present East Los.

“What are you looking for?” she said as she walked toward me in a methodical manner, which I, being Chicano-blooded Edgar, saw it in a salacious manner.

“Do you have anything by Edgar Solotán?” I gave her my name even though I have never written as much as a grocery list. I did this just to take up her time, and, thus, observe her, and hang with her beyond the usual allotted time under the circumstances.

“No, but if you whistle the first five lines, I might recognize something.” She was obviously on top of her Chicano Literature. She gave me a stare, okay, a glare that said she did not appreciate me or my ancestors, going back to my first ancestor plucking wild corn in some valle in Méjico.

Seeing how she caught me off guard and had wrapped my tongue several times around my throat, she then politely said, “What are you looking for?”

“Ah, the eternal question,” I said, regaining my cerebral equilibrium. “Are you a philosopher posing as a beautiful woman?”

“Neither. I’m just me.”

“Just you?”

“Con safos.”

“You from around here?”

Chale. But I ain’t saying where. Don’t want no trouble at no book fair. But don’t cross me, ese. I can take care of myself.”

Another saying by that famous man crept into my brain: If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

I was about to make another U-turn of the many I have taken during my lifetime when she said in a soft, inviting voice (okay, maybe not, but that’s the way I heard it), “This is a very good book. Read it myself. Three times.”

Holding a thick book with both hands, she pushed it toward me as if it were a cake she had just baked for me. I read the title while she still held it firmly under my nose: “The Ways Of My Abuelita Jesusita For Today’s Chicana & Others” by Clotilde Bonista.

“That’s for girls,” I spit out.

“And others,” she spat back.

She withdrew the book and placed on a shelf below her.

“What else you got?” I said, hoping to recapture the only friendly moment she had offered me.

To be continued…

Illustration by Helene Thomas of Yakima, Washington. She did the cover of Tommy’s latest novel, Outline For Love.

 

First You See Her Then? Part 2

They talked and talked so I walked and walked. Before I knew it, I was a fair piece down First Street and nearing Ford Boulevard

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: February 28, 2017

First You See Her Then? Part 2

Read Part 1 of First You See Her Then?

“What else you got?” I said, hoping to recapture the only friendly moment she had offered me.

She merely waved her hand over the books surrounding her. So as to maintain contact and not to have to keep calling her “her,” I now asked her for her name.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, in case I run into you at some airport, I don’t have to yell out, ‘Hey, you, the one with all the books and brains and beauty, how are you?'”

“You don’t have to yell at all. Just don’t say anything. Keep walking.” She fluttered a hand in the air in the direction of the street as if directing me onto the street and away from her.

“You don’t want to get to know me better?”

“No.”

She was being coy. Other batos would have said, “She ain’t that pretty. Let her die all alone in some jacal.” But not me, Edgar Solotán, whose ancestors fought in key battles en La Revolución Mexicana, both sides. She was fighting her destiny. I was going to show her we belonged together, sticking our noses into the same book over a dribbling baby.

“Let’s each grab a favorite book and meet at some park. I’ll bring the wine and potato chips. You bring your pretty self.”

“I try not to disappoint.”

“And you don’t.”

“I do and will. I will not meet you at a park, a zoo, or Metro Rail station. ¿Entiendes?

“Not when you put it that way.”

“That’s the way I will always put it, for now and all eternity.”

“Can you really see that far into the future?”

I never received a response, for another person, a guy who looked like an Aztec warrior who moonlighted as a fashion model, walked up and stood at the other end of the stall. I, with thinning hair, an egg-shaped head, and thick glasses, stood helplessly by as my book lover was transformed into an idol worshipper before my eyes. She scampered over to him like a puppy dog finding its master after wandering for days in and around Griffith Park.

They talked and talked so I walked and walked. Before I knew it, I was a fair piece down First Street and nearing Ford Boulevard.

My thoughts rested with the self-realization that even females with brains were not attracted to a book collector and observer of the human condition. I’m talking about me, Edgar Solotán, to be sure we’re on the same página. Where was the justice? A fellow who looked like that good time Charlie always gets the girl at the end of any chisme.

Was I admitting defeat?

“If she was that smart,” now said the Pepino, quaffing his beer, “that means she knew you weren’t quite right.” I did not like his response. He was not only slow, but lacked understanding.

I launched my counter-assault. “I did not fall. She was there the very next day. She even smiled at me when she saw me.”

“Sure she wasn’t laughing?” said the Pepino.

“No, because she then said that she was glad to see me.”

I picked up a book, a mystery, I think. The Man Who Loved Me But Then Went Away by Claudia Myopiaz.

“Was that a friend?” I asked her.

“Friend?”

“The Aztec Warrior with a fat modeling contract.”

“Huh?”

Even her “Huh?” sounded intelligent, even alluring.

“Yesterday as we were talking, this man stood over there”–I pointed an accusing finger to the very spot where he had stood–“and you zoomed to him as if he were a monster magnet and you a tiny, collectible pin.”

“Oh.”

“You say, ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Oh-oh.'”

“We’re very close.”

“He’s already your husband? Did you marry him last night?”

“No. He’s my brother.”

Sure, I said to myself. She did not have his height, bearing, or muscle tone. I was onto her.

“Yeah, that’s why I always take the sisters over the brothers,” the Pepino interjected.

I ignored his sarcasm and pressed on. I asked her why she closed shop on his demand.

“Because it was time for me to close and he was taking me home. He drops me off and picks me up. I have a protective brother via my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, I have one of those, too.”

“How come you talk like that?”

“Are you questioning my manner of expression?”

“See! Like that.”

“Huh?”

Again, her “Huh?” reflected a certain level of savoir-faire.

“I mean to say, yesterday, here and there, you sounded all chola-like. You even called me, ‘Ese,’ a mark of distinction in barrios in every direction. You sounded like a legitimate chola, not a fake one.”

“It comes and goes.”

“By the way, books are my passion. But I don’t like mysteries.”

“Too bad. We have some of Rudolfo Anya’s Sonny Baca mysteries.”

“Do you have any romances?”

She eyed me with eyes that told me that she knew what I was thinking, while, at the same time, telling me my hopes had no basis in reality.

“You know, you haven’t bought not even one book for being so in love with them.”

While I was reflecting, she continued.

“Are you sure you adore books?”

“It’s my religion. I think I’m a high priest. I collect them like some people collect boyfriends.” I was proud of my last statement since it was the perfect sentence to elicit a positional reaction from her.

“I have the perfect book for you.” She whipped out a slim book and held it under my nose. I couldn’t read the title from the angle she was offering. My expression must have told her, for she assisted me.

“Read and absorb,” she ordered, adjusting the angle.

To be con

First You See Her, Then You Don’t, Part 3

Her face told my face to move or the attached legs at the other end would kick me hard and far.

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: March 31, 2017

First You See Her, Then You Don't, Part 3

First You See Her, Then You Don’t, Part 1

First You See Her, Then You Don’t, Part 2

“What Not To Say to a Chica in Or Out Of the Barrio by Alex Finable. Dude knows of what he speaks.” She then withdrew the book quickly and hid it below the counter, as if preventing me from gaining any free wisdom.

“You seem to have a book for everything.”

“I use them like balas.”

“But a guy doesn’t want to be shot at when he talks to a girl.”

She gave me a look worthy of an international assassin ready for a formal execution. It was a cross between a snarl and a smirk.

“I have no problem with you outside of you not buying any books.”

“I find it distracting to buy books when someone who looks like you is hawking them.”

“Why should I distract you? You seem to be distracted all by yourself.”

“I’m normal. You might even say boring. That’s why I need a woman in my life who wouldn’t find me boring. You like books and reading them in a quiet room, a cup of hot chocolate within reach, I’ll bet. Do you find me boring?”

“Extremely.”

I have to admit, that was a thrust with a rusted, serrated knife right through my corazón.

“Are you sure you feel that way?” I said, giving her a second chance.

“Willing to testify in court.”

She unhooked the chain again and closed the overhanging stall door on my face. I rushed to and waited outside the exit door in the back.

When she came out, my inquiring face met hers. Her face told my face to move or the attached legs at the other end would kick me hard and far.

“And don’t follow me,” she added out loud. “My other brother, nickname Bofón, is meeting me at the taco truck on the corner.”

“You are sending me mixed signals. On top of all the others you have sent me.”

She proceeded to lock the door then headed down the walkway.

“I yam howta beer,” said the Pepino. He waved his hand for another.

He was swaying on his barstool as if he were a cobra ready to strike.

“So, did you get the girl?” he said when his beer was set before him.

“I’m still working on it. But that is beside the point.”

“The point being?”

“That I was in love.”

“No kidding,” said the Pepino.

“I am a true romantic. Last one, I think.”

“You must be kidding there, too.”

I didn’t know why he thought me such a committed comedian.

The very next day, I returned to the book fair. My heart sank below my knees and down to the heel of my left foot. The area was empty. I saw this bato sweeping. I went over to him and asked him about the whereabouts of the beauty in the bookstall. I even pointed to the spot where she had floated.

“I just clean up,” he said, and then pointed to a woman who was stepping into an office nearby.

“I can talk to her about it?”

“All day.”

I headed for the woman who had now disappeared into the office. I hurried over, in case she, too, vanished into barrio air.

As I rushed in, I nearly rushed up her back as she had stopped to read something she held. She was well dressed. My stomping caused her to turn and face me.

Her look told me, “What in holy chimichangas do you want?”

My responding stare must have said, “I am not sure but I’ve been looking all my life for it, can you help me?” for she then looked at me as if I had just hatched a large goose egg on her floor.

I said aloud, “I am looking for a young woman. Pretty. No, gorgeous. She worked in a bookstall over there,” I said pointing to the heavenly spot.

“Why?” she said, with a superior air.

A surprise question that did nothing but give me a blank mind and an iced up tongue. She pinch-hit for me.

“Do you do business with her?”

Oh, would I, I thought. Instead, I chose the fabled higher ground. “I have this crazy notion that we hit it off and she would be crazy to see me again.”

“She would be, for she is on her way to England. Oxford. Trinity College.”

“What?” was all I could come up with on such short notice.

“Yep. She is a dedicated young woman and her only focus is Medieval English Literature.”

“Her only focus?”

“And her love of books, in general. And she grew up right around the corner from here.”

“I love books, too,” I said, trying for points and an inroad.

“Then why aren’t you sitting somewhere reading one?”

A good question and I aimed to give her a worthy answer.

“I am on a hot trail.”

“Well, I won’t keep you.”

“But you are part of that steaming trail. What is that angel’s name, anyway?”

“You were close, just like your stab at romance.”

“Huh?”

“We call her Angelica. She’s my niece.”

“Will I see your sobrina again?”

“As soon as I find a good deal on a crystal ball. Maybe online. Then I’ll let you know.”

There stays my romance.

“That’s it?” said the Pepino with a burst of three burps. “You started out a dark horse who became a dead horse.”

“Neither,” I said, keeping my fortitude. “I am the second mouse standing by.”

“What second mouse standing by?”

“The early bird catches the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. I think I read that on gang graffiti two blocks from here.”

“But you didn’t get the girl,” he insisted.

“Then you’ll have to come back for another story as the rest of my life unfolds,” I said, finishing my beer.
tinued

 

 



Apr
23
Filed Under (Tommy Villalobos corner) by helene on 23-04-2018

Chicanos For Love–Part One

Relationships are a string of definitions: Long term, short term, casual, experimental

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: September 12, 2016

Chicanos For Love--Part One

“I remember when relationships were just making out, talking about school, familia, making out some more, breaking up, getting back together then letting go or getting married and having lots of crying orejones,” said Ramona Gilbatar to her best friend of the month, Glenda Surjete.

“Yeah, now relationships are a string of definitions,” agreed Glenda. “Long term, short term, casual, experimental. Then there’s Communication and Confrontation. Throw on top of that, Loyalty and Conflict. Character or Psyche. Needs. Relationship Triangle. True and False Selves. Values Conflict. It’s a miracle people even stay together longer than one conversation.”

Both women worked in a laundry where they folded and packaged laundry for meat packing plants and delivery firms. They both fantasized what kind of man might have worn a given outfit, making each other laugh in the process. Neither had ever tasted a true lasting relationship with any guy. Both were twenty-two and looking for a Cave Man/Hunter type. Or at least an aggressive Gatherer.

“When we get off, let’s go get something to eat,” said Ramona. “It’s payday. Then we can go listen to some Tejano music at the European Grill.”

“They play Tejano music at the European Grill?”

“Sure. A Méjicano just bought it and wanted to keep the name although you won’t find any European or even a grill in the place. His specialty is tacos. He claims to serve a variety of 101 kinds of tacos. And he is twenty-six and single and the most handsome [i]bato ever to slap a taco supreme together. There was an article about him in the local newspaper.”

Before you could say Enabling Spirituality, both women were seated close to the manager’s office with the name Claudio Torandado, Mgr. nailed to one side of the door. They had arrived early, deciding to take their meal from the list of 101 Tacos then have a Margarita, maybe several, hoping to trip Claudio the manager as he rushed by. And Glenda did see him walk hurriedly to his office but could not untangle her foot quickly enough to send him flying nor get a look at his face. Glenda agreed that if he was as handsome as Ramona claimed, he was too handsome to be single at such an advanced age of twenty-six, although her own father was thirty-six when he married her mother who was twenty-five. But, she reasoned, her father was probably as plain as God made any man since Adam. Eve had no choice. But her mother did. What her mother saw in her father has remained a mystery to her all these twenty-two years.

“Maybe we should complain about his tacos,” said Ramona.

“Why?” said Glenda, unable to bear criticizing a wonderful appearing man even if he wore a pink tutu and pranced before them.

“That way, he will have to talk to us. Then one of us will make our move.”

“Seems fair. But who moves first?”

Ramona figured that was one problem Eve never faced, but a problem woman has struggled with ever since.

“The one he looks at first,” said Ramona, feeling it was fair since either woman could turn heads in a mortuary laid out with male cadavers.

The moment came when a figure came whizzing by with a vacuum cleaner, his handsome hand carrying it, which hand was attached to his handsome arm leading to his handsome head. They both tried to trip him but he skipped then fell flat on his face all on his own, being tripped by a wrinkle in the carpet.

“We killed him,” said Glenda, one hand to breast, the other covering her mouth, as he lay motionless.

To be continued…

 

 

¡Exprésate!

Chicanos For Love – Part 2

“I’m causing you pain? I feel like I was hit by something big and slapped by something bigger.”

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: September 15, 2016

Chicanos For Love – Part 2

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

“We killed him,” said Glenda, one hand to breast, the other covering her mouth.

In fact, all evidence led to such a conclusion as the bato wasn’t stirring.

“Should we run?” said Glenda, one foot pointing to the exit.

“No, silly,” said Ramona. “He has many tacos in his future. I see one foot moving.”

Glenda, in panic, turned him over. They both shrieked. It was not any fine-looking manager, but a moaning toothy boy of about fourteen, maybe fifteen, maybe even sixteen with a galaxy of pimples from forehead to chin.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Glenda.

“Why are you asking him that?” said Ramona.

“For one, he’s not who he is supposed to be. For two, he scared me, not moving for that short while. I already felt I was in a cold, dark cell at Corona thinking what might have been.”

The youngster moaned louder as if fighting off the angel of death.

“Wake up!” demanded Ramona. “We were only joking. No reason to die over a joke.”

“He’s disagreeing with you, Ramona,” said Glenda. “He is not moving again.”

Ramona’s inclination was to give him one good patada but thought better since he might be related to Claudio, the cherished object causing her present frustration. She shook him. She pleaded. She rubbed his back. She then slapped him on the side of the head.

“Ouch!” said the boy now in full compliance.

“You better say ‘Ouch!’ since you’re causing us much pain.”

“I’m causing you pain? I feel like I was hit by something big and slapped by something bigger.”

“Why were you passing by? We thought you were the manager and owner of this lugar?”

“No, I’m his younger brother. I do the cleaning around here.”

“Can you introduce us?” said Glenda.

“Why?”

Ramona and Glenda searched each other’s blank faces for an answer, found none, and turned their heads back down to Torandado The Younger.

“We’re cooks,” said Ramona.

“What kind of cooks?” said Glenda.

“Yeah,” seconded the Younger.

“Tacos, of course.”

“My brother has half the family in his kitchen,” said the younger brother, still in a prostrate position, his head now resting on a hand propped up by one elbow as if the three were chilling on a grassy knoll at Griffith Park. “My Tía Lola manages taco production, my prima Louisa does the buying, my Tío Rufino does the actual cooking of the various ingredients, and an ever-changing crew of primos, primas, two abuelitas and a grand Tío put the tacos together.”

“Oh,” said Ramona.

“Um,” said Glenda.

“Ouch!” repeated the lounging Felipe as he felt another slap come from behind and to the opposite side of his head from which Ramona had landed hers.

To be continued…

 

Chicanos For Love – Part 3

Before either Ramona or Glenda could respond, the Tía stomped off like a prison warden

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: September 19, 2016

Chicanos For Love – Part 3

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 2

“Ouch!” repeated the lounging Felipe as he felt another slap come from behind and land on the opposite side of his head from which Ramona had landed hers.

It was the aforementioned Tía Lola.

“¿Felipe, what are you doing sentado como un loro de peluche en Vera Cruz? Get up.”

Felipe shot up like a dolphin, captivating his audience akin to a preeminent dolphin at any outside aquarium as three pairs of eyes belonging to said Tía, Ramona and Glenda followed his upward flight and solid landing.

“I have to go,” he said, grabbing the vacuum cleaner and heading away from them in a seamless series of rapid movements.

Being an understanding pair, Ramona and Glenda were left staring at the guardian of the Claudio Torandado castle of honor. She, with her swirled up hair, pursed bright red painted lips, looked at them as if they were two inferiorly prepared tacos.

Before either Ramona or Glenda could respond, the Tía stomped off like a prison warden who has straightened out a yard full of wicked prisoners who had complained of rotten food, damp cells and stinky mattresses.

“Come back,” said Ramona wistfully, hoping to reset the scene and find out how to get involved with Claudio.

“Does that pepino look like his bro Claudio?” said Glenda.

Ramona looked at Glenda as if she were speaking a dead language, having become dead due to the people having spoken it being dumb as all get out.

“No, silly, would I make all this effort for someone that looked like Felipe?”

“You’ve made lots of efforts for guys who looked like El Cucuy,” reasoned Glenda.

“Well, now I have found the man that makes all the others seem like sorry memories.”

“I thought at this point it was we who found the man that makes all that.”

“Okay, we found him and we will take him down. Girls who work together get what one of them wants.”

Glenda thought about this briefly and could find no reason to disagree with the pronouncement so she remained silent.

They left the establishment owned by Claudio Torandado and spent the next few days talking about him and the likelihood one of them would hog tie him and drag him before their favorite priest. Ramona lived with a sister who was attending college and Glenda lived with her parents who encouraged her to go to college like their neighbor’s daughter, Lupita.

“Someday, Lupita is going to make big money,” said Glenda’s mother, Irma Surjete, while they swung back and forth on a swing in the backyard one warm evening.

“And I’m not, which is fine with me,” said Glenda.

“Well, then you have to find a responsible hombre,” said her father, Leo Surjete, who sat between them, a very dark brown arm around each. “And nowadays, that’s like asking for a straight answer from a politician or a reasonable estimate from a mechanic.”

“Of course it is, apá, but I’m not worried about finding a man. In fact, I think I found one.”

“Where?” said her mother.

“How?” said her father.

 

Chicanos For Love – Part 4

“You have never even met him. How do you know you want to spend your life with him?”

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: October 3, 2016

Chicanos For Love - Part 4

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 2

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 3

“Of course it is, apá, but I’m not worried about finding a man. In fact, I think I found one.”

“Where?” said her mother.

“How?” said her father.

“At the European Grill on Atlantic. I went there to eat on payday with Ramona. He owns the place, is handsome, and has money.” These last words were spoken with the anticipatory and sparkling eyes of a Méjicana two weeks into a rigorous vegetarian diet while gazing upon a plate of steak tacos with pineapple with a quick marinade of soy sauce, garlic and ginger flavors to skirt the steak, all there for the taking if she played her cards right.

“Ramona?” said her mother. “¿Esa? She’s looking for Mr. Money, forget about Right or Wrong.”

“I hear she’s aggressive. How you going to compete with her,” said her father.

“Good question,” said Glenda.

There was a pause as her mother and father waited for a response. When none seem to be arriving, her mother pointed out the lack thereof.

“Well?”

“It’s never easy getting a guy to admit he’s crazy about you.”

There was another pause. This one was longer since all involved were not sure whose turn it was. Again, there was not a bush that Irma Surjete ever beat around. She again gave voice.

“I say it’s best to look for a hard-working man. This guy sounds like he does not sweat.”

“Why is that the standard? I like my men to smell nice, not smell up the air.”

“Look at your dad, he works hard but always smells nice.”

“Yeah, but he works in a bakery. He has always smelled like muffins, rolls and cinnamon swirls.”

Entonces marry someone who works as a florist,” said her mother loftily as if stating a solution to a formidable problem in quantum mechanics.

“I want Claudio Torandado,” she told her parents acting as if she were a petulant little girl wanting a Bebe Jumeau antique doll and no other. She left them swinging in the wind.

Meanwhile, Ramona was petting her sister Octavia’s very flat-faced Persian cat Turbo and telling Octavia about Claudio Torandado. She painted a perfect picture, which her sister then proceeded to scribble over.

“You have never even met him. How do you know you want to spend your life with him?”

“A girl knows these things. Don’t you read romance novels?”

“No.”

“Well, you should. You’ll see there is plenty of loving going on in the world.”

“Yeah, for $34.95 hard cover, $24.95 paperback and $15.99 Kindle.”

“You’ll see. You meet the right guy and your college dreams will evaporate like yesterday’s rain puddle.”

“I’m going to be a mathematician in the theoretical physicists’ field even if it takes me ten years. Whether there is some guy with me at my death bed matters little to me.”

“Octavia, don’t you want kids?”

“Sure. But not before I get my degree and am entrenched in numbers up to my nariz in some tiny cubicle at NASA.”

“Well, the only number I need is one, and he is the one.”

“Didn’t you say Glenda is also fascinated with the orangutan?”

“Sure. But she’ll get over it.”

“Over what?”

“Me nailing Claudio.”

“What if she nails him?”

“He’s not her type by a mile.”

“Why are you? You and she are the same age, same height, nearly same weight if you discount your pizza intake, same job, live in the same barrio and both of you drive Toyota Corollas, although hers is white and yours red.”

“That’s what sets us apart. I live a red life, she a bland white one.”

“Paint your lives how you like, I see a blank canvas. Tell me then, are you both going to drive up to him and offer him un raite and see whose car he jumps into?”

To

Chicanos For Love Part 5

“I mean, is your brain also made up of one of your pimples?”

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: October 7, 2016

Chicanos For Love Part 5

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 2

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 3

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 4

“That’s what sets us apart. I live a red life, she a bland white one,” said Ramona.

“Paint your lives how you like, I see a blank canvas. Tell me then, are you both going to drive up to him and offer him un raite and see whose car he jumps into?”

“No. I will wear a form fitted buttoned down red dress and Glenda her white frumpy dress. He will then see me as a passionate, loving, and full of fun and games woman set to lead an enriched life, covered with jewels, cabeza a pie.”

“So, sis, you have life down to a sexy formula.”

“More like a puzzle I have solved. Can’t be wrapping laundry all my life, you know.”

“But you can’t pick up a man like a package of laundry and carry him home under one arm.”

“I will carry him like a freshly pressed suit from the cleaners, carefully and quickly.”

Octavia picked up flat-faced Turbo and went to her room. Ramona smiled a smile of self-assurance.

Very next Friday, Ramona called in sick. She then went to the European Grill at about two o’clock in the afternoon, figuring this would be the best time to catch a manager of any eatery. Fridays were the busiest, she had observed from patronizing countless taco trucks with Glenda all over the city. Restaurants had to be the same, just not as happy, she thought.

Ramona stepped up to the entrance and pulled on the door. The door said, “Chale.” She tried a second time but found out this was one inflexible door and refused to be pulled on. She looked up at the building as people have been doing since the castle days. I guess it is a primitive instinct coming from the fact that many a castle had to be stormed to gain entrance. The quick look was to see how reinforced were the battlements and parapets. Ramona saw nothing but pigeons looking for a pigeon to drop their load on.

Ramona thought. Diplomacy worked now and then, she concluded. She knocked. Twice. Three times, then a fourth. She then proceeded to pound on the door a toda madre. She heard movement. She stepped back, ready to charge. After further noise, the door opened. Felipe, Claudio’s younger brother, stepped out, his pimples having multiplied, now streaming down his cheeks and populating both sides of his neck.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

“You’re Felipe, right? Claudio’s little bro?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to talk to Claudio.”

“Can’t.”

“Why? Is he busy doing the books or ordering stuff?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know I can’t talk to him, estup …Felipe?”

“I know, that’s how.”

“You know what?”

“Eh?”

“I mean, is your brain also made up of one of your pimples? Tell me, why Claudio himself can’t come to the puerta? ”

“He can’t.”

“You said that.”

“And I’ll say it again and again until you go away.”

“Which I ain’t.”

“It gets cold out here at night.”

Felipe began to close the door. Ramona threw her weight against Felipe and not the door. They both landed in a kitchen barren of food smells or people who prepare food smells.

“Where is everybody?” Ramona said, getting up without helping Felipe up. He seemed to prefer the prone position as before and again with one elbow propping him up, he carried on the conversation from there.

“We had to close when Claudio left.”

To be continued…
be

Chicanos For Love – Part 6

She found an ideal website — Chicanos for Love — helping you match up with your personal idea of a dream.

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: October 24, 2016

Chicanos For Love - Part 6

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 2

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 3

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 4

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 5

by Tommy Villalobos

“Where is everybody?” Ramona said, getting up without helping Felipe get up. He seemed to prefer the prone position as before and again with one elbow propping him up, he carried on the conversation from there.

“We had to close when Claudio left.”

“Why?” Ramona said, more alarm in her voice than intended.

“Because he knew everything about taco stuff and we don’t.”

“You jackass. I’m asking you why Claudio left, not about tacos?”

“He went to a monastery,” Felipe said as effortlessly as if he had just relayed that Claudio had fallen off a log.

“A monastery?”

“A monastery.”

“Where?”

“Who knows?”

“Why?” she said in distress, watching The Good Life puff away.

“You asked that already.”

“Where?” she said, ready to pounce at him like an agitated wolverine.

“And you asked that too, already.”

“This is awful.”

“That’s what your friend said.”

“My friend?”

“The gal you were with when one of you tripped me in the dining area the other day.”

“You mean Glenda?”

“Don’t know since I didn’t catch her name, and she was dressed in some kinda white frumpy dress and wobbled about in those black high heels.”

“Glenda?”

“Glenda, if you insist.”

“She was here? Today?”

“No, two days ago.”

“Why that flirt. She never told me.”

“She was just as messed up about it as you are. I think she almost cried.”

“Glenda never cries and will never cry. You need a heart to do that. And no one will cry at her funeral, not even her.”

“Maybe she is not your friend.”

“Best one I ever had. Did he say when he was coming back to make more money?”

“I think when you go to one of those places, it’s, like, forever.”

“He’ll die there?”

“With full honors.”

Ramona wanted to kick Felipe in the head but decided the pastilla didn’t know he was a pastilla so her kicking him on any part of his body would be wasted effort and energy.

“So, he just walked away from making money to maybe begging with a tin cup on the streets.”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course not. You don’t know anything.”

“I know Claudio is gone out of your life, for good. And I don’t think he was ever in it, if somebody would ask me.”

Ramona felt she could have squeezed Felipe’s head to half its size then pull his lips over his eyes and then drag him through the kitchen, across the dining area, and out the front door. He quickly moved out of her reach. Her eyes must have ratted on her.

She left the European Grill for good. She went online looking for a pestoso.

She found an ideal website, Chicanos For Love. They helped you match up with your personal idea of a dream. The categories were endless:

Lowrider Hynas Girls Connecting With Lowrider Batos

Taco Eating Chicanos Looking For Taco Eating Chicanas Y Visa Versa

Committed Cholos Looking For Committing Cholas

Rejected Chicanos Looking For Accepting Chicanas And Visa Versa

Workout Type Chicanas Looking For Workout Type Chicanos

Professional Types Looking For Somewhat Professional Types

Tejana Music Lovers Wanting Tejano Music Lovers. Oldies Fans Will Do.

The list went on for pages, so she, Ramona, felt she would find someone.

Glenda took the philosophical approach. “Qué se vaya donde quera. I found somebody else anyway,” she told Ramona over a coffee latte at a downtown coffee latte place.

“Who is it?” said Ramona.

To be continued…continued…

 

Chicanos For Love – Part 6

She found an ideal website — Chicanos for Love — helping you match up with your personal idea of a dream.

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: October 24, 2016

Chicanos For Love - Part 6

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 2

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 3

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 4

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 5

by Tommy Villalobos

“Where is everybody?” Ramona said, getting up without helping Felipe get up. He seemed to prefer the prone position as before and again with one elbow propping him up, he carried on the conversation from there.

“We had to close when Claudio left.”

“Why?” Ramona said, more alarm in her voice than intended.

“Because he knew everything about taco stuff and we don’t.”

“You jackass. I’m asking you why Claudio left, not about tacos?”

“He went to a monastery,” Felipe said as effortlessly as if he had just relayed that Claudio had fallen off a log.

“A monastery?”

“A monastery.”

“Where?”

“Who knows?”

“Why?” she said in distress, watching The Good Life puff away.

“You asked that already.”

“Where?” she said, ready to pounce at him like an agitated wolverine.

“And you asked that too, already.”

“This is awful.”

“That’s what your friend said.”

“My friend?”

“The gal you were with when one of you tripped me in the dining area the other day.”

“You mean Glenda?”

“Don’t know since I didn’t catch her name, and she was dressed in some kinda white frumpy dress and wobbled about in those black high heels.”

“Glenda?”

“Glenda, if you insist.”

“She was here? Today?”

“No, two days ago.”

“Why that flirt. She never told me.”

“She was just as messed up about it as you are. I think she almost cried.”

“Glenda never cries and will never cry. You need a heart to do that. And no one will cry at her funeral, not even her.”

“Maybe she is not your friend.”

“Best one I ever had. Did he say when he was coming back to make more money?”

“I think when you go to one of those places, it’s, like, forever.”

“He’ll die there?”

“With full honors.”

Ramona wanted to kick Felipe in the head but decided the pastilla didn’t know he was a pastilla so her kicking him on any part of his body would be wasted effort and energy.

“So, he just walked away from making money to maybe begging with a tin cup on the streets.”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course not. You don’t know anything.”

“I know Claudio is gone out of your life, for good. And I don’t think he was ever in it, if somebody would ask me.”

Ramona felt she could have squeezed Felipe’s head to half its size then pull his lips over his eyes and then drag him through the kitchen, across the dining area, and out the front door. He quickly moved out of her reach. Her eyes must have ratted on her.

She left the European Grill for good. She went online looking for a pestoso.

She found an ideal website, Chicanos For Love. They helped you match up with your personal idea of a dream. The categories were endless:

Lowrider Hynas Girls Connecting With Lowrider Batos

Taco Eating Chicanos Looking For Taco Eating Chicanas Y Visa Versa

Committed Cholos Looking For Committing Cholas

Rejected Chicanos Looking For Accepting Chicanas And Visa Versa

Workout Type Chicanas Looking For Workout Type Chicanos

Professional Types Looking For Somewhat Professional Types

Tejana Music Lovers Wanting Tejano Music Lovers. Oldies Fans Will Do.

The list went on for pages, so she, Ramona, felt she would find someone.

Glenda took the philosophical approach. “Qué se vaya donde quera. I found somebody else anyway,” she told Ramona over a coffee latte at a downtown coffee latte place.

“Who is it?” said Ramona.

To be continued…

 

Chicanos For Love – Part 7

“Love is sacred to me. I don’t kid about it.”

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: November 3, 2016

Chicanos For Love - Part 7

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 1

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 2

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 3

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 4

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 5

Read “Chicanos For Love Part 6

“Who is it?” said Ramona.

“A guy called Louie who works at a tire shop near where I live.”

“Do you like him?”

“Love. I love him and he loves me.”

“No kidding.”

“Love is sacred to me. I don’t kid about it.”

“Then you are no longer interested in Claudio?”

“If he were drowning, I’d throw him a sack of papas.

“We didn’t even meet him.”

“He would have been like all men. Except Louie.”

“Why is Louie an exception?”

“Because we’re in love.”

“You just met him.”

“That’s what really makes it special. I know him so little that it has to be love.”

Ramona was forced to ponder Glenda’s reasoning but could find no reason behind her reasoning.

Ramona continued to search Chicanos For Love website for love. Glenda dated Louie until she found out he was also dating several other females who also considered him in love with them and they in love with him.

Claudio was never heard from again. “A passing dream,” Ramona dotted in her journal, which she kept in the open for anyone to read.

Ramona decided to re-position herself in life. No more salivating over men. She would play it cool and refrain from showing too much interest. Let them chase her until the right one catches her then wrestles her to the ground under the shade of a majestic fruit tree.

It has been working ever since Eve.

End

 

 



Apr
23
Filed Under (Children's Stories) by helene on 23-04-2018

Now available at Amazon

Short Tween Stories, is a combination of exciting fantasy, sci fi, fiction, and true stories for middle grade readers. An invisible dimensional planet sucks up a bag of Halloween candy in Seattle WA. A talking bone scares a young boy that’s on the computer to much. Bow-wow buddies Oro and Elo go for an adventure in the barrio.



Sep
18
Filed Under (Tommy Villalobos corner) by helene on 18-09-2017
A very humorous Novel

I laughed myself silly when I read the book, ‘OUTLINE FOR LOVE’,
A very clean book a twelve year-old can read.
Can be purchased at Amazon.



Apr
06
Filed Under (Humor) by helene on 06-04-2015

Since I am retired and have a lot of alleged spare time, it was voted that I should find us three reasonable motel rooms. Variable wish lists from a few became very challenging.
Because I couldn’t find everyone’s wishes and wanting to please I started getting an eye twitch.
After corresponding with all, while trying to keep the e-mail short since reading e-mail from your cell phone has to be less than two sentences. I’ve come to the conclusion no one reads the third sentence which stated to go to my website and read the complete letter.
Everyone was getting unhappy for lack of their special amendments, so I decided on looking for rooms that I could afford.
The hostel slept twenty to a room and was very cheap, but I decided against it since all of you upper-middle-class families are too used to being coddled with things like clean towels.
I looked at pictures on the Internet and found a nice-looking motel close to the airport, deluxe rooms with two vibrating queen beds for four at a price of $55.00 a night, or $13.75 per person. Not cheaper than the hostel but guaranteed to have amenities like free wireless for those with rooms with line of site to the nearby train station.
After I booked the rooms, I thought it better to read some of the prior guests’ comments. I believe some people are very picky and expect a five star service for a one star price but here is what I found:
Close to a correction facility and airport, the noise prevents sleep, and fears from potentially escaping prisoners.
Lice infested dump.
Lacks necessary amendments like toilet paper.
Better sleeping in your car.
They stole MY towels.
Free parking is only for 1 night, after that your car will be stolen and you won’t need it.
Should the comments be true, you’ll be SORRRRY because I am not canceling the damn booking.

Love Mom

AHA…. SOME ONE READ MY LETTER…THEY BOOKED THEIR OWN PLACE AND ARE PAYING THREE TIMES AS MUCH…

Most of the wedding party did not read the letter on my website and we arrived a week later at the motel I booked. The motel was jam-packed with automobiles. You had to walk sideways in-between the parked cars just to get to the lobby for the motel keys. The guest in front of me was scantly dressed with a bit of butt cheeks showing. The place smelled funny, and the carpet looked like the inside of my garage floor that hadn’t been cleaned in years.

I suddenly heard a recognizable high pitched voice, yelling on his cell phone outside the lobby, “No! No! Go to Denny’s and stay put, will call you…theirs no parking space here, don’t come!”

I got the keys and a few of the wedding party looked in the rooms.

“It stinks I’m not staying!” said my loud mouth son. One guest said she was okay with the next room that didn’t smell so bad.

“Mom open your eyes…focus, focus…go cancel…we’re finding something else!”

I couldn’t convince the upper middle class snobs to stay. I focused and saw a few unsavory characters as I looked down from the second floor, and witnessed one person three cars down attempting to hotwire a car, well maybe its best to find us another motel.

We found a reasonable 4 star motel four blocks down the road and Rich called the rest of the wedding guests and gave them the address. Good thing they didn’t see the place I booked, when they travel they book in the most expensive hotels and require 24 hour room service.

If they bothered to read the reviews from other previous guest, I must say those guests were gentle with their comments, they could have found their own accommodations.

Yup, I always like a good bargain; I guess they didn’t realize what a good bargain I could find.

 



Apr
06
Filed Under (Humor) by helene on 06-04-2015

A few weeks ago, a friend, which I will call M, needed a picture to send to friends and family. She didn’t like the way she looked and said, “I got dark circles under my eyes, and my face is too fat.”

I took a few pictures and told her I would e-mail them when I finished using Photoshop.

I picked the best picture, and sent her a copy of the original and the picture I doctored up.

Underneath the picture, I wrote. Untouched.

On the Photoshop picture, I wrote. Elongated face, erased dark circles, whitened teeth.

She called me soon after and said she forwarded my e-mail to all her friends and family.

“Ah M, did you read what I wrote underneath the pictures.”

“No, I couldn’t find my glasses, and just hit forward to all and send.”

 

 

 



Apr
06
Filed Under (Humor) by helene on 06-04-2015

Hairballs and shark attacks
By Helene Thomas
Published in Grandparenting mag. 2012
I received a desperate phone call from my daughter Tonya, who needed a babysitter for a few days.
Unsuspecting of the hilarious situation I would find myself in, I watched Tonya and my 3-year old granddaughter, Chloe, arrive from Seattle the next morning. Chloe’s pink suitcase had suddenly become stuck on one stair leading up to the deck. Short on patience, she swing around and started to wrestle her luggage. Chuckling, I hurried and helped pull her suitcase up to the deck. Right away she spotted the toys in the living room, and the magnetic pull of playthings left only a quick hug for me as she said, “Toys for me, Grandma Honey?”
Tonya gave me a few instructions after she had set up the car seat in my car.
“Mom, she sleeps in a big bed now, and you have to lie down with her at nights okay? Once she’s asleep you can sneak out. You two are going to have so much fun, Mom.”
“Huh? Four months ago when you came for the week-end she slept by herself!”
“She’s going through a stage, Mom.”
We walked Tonya to her car. When she opened the door, she mumbled something about Chloe likes to hold ears before she falls asleep…
Back in the house Chloe decided to hold a tea party. She loved to pour. I was getting waterlogged, and to distract her I mentioned picking berries.
She let out a squeal, dashed out of her little chair and raced to the back door.
One look at the overgrown berry patch and I immediately regretted mentioning berry picking. I pointed at a few raspberries that were easy for her to reach. After she picked two berries, she pointed to the raspberries for me to pick. I discovered she didn’t like to pick, just eat them. After my second handful of ripe raspberries I told her the rest of the berries had to ripen.
“But Grandma Honey, I see lots and lots of red berries — see?” she said pointing deep inside the thorny twigs.
“I see — go pick them.”
“No, Grandma Honey, it’s still your turn to pick.”
The heat was beating down on us and I said, “Tomorrow we’ll pick them.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Cause they’ll taste better tomorrow.”
She raced toward the wading pool, stripped down to her diaper and quickly sat down and splashed away for two minutes. When she tried to get up, she looked at me, as if I was holding her down. I saw a tantrum coming on and quickly lifted her up. Her diaper had sucked up most of the water, which I concluded weighed more than she did.
We went back in the house, changed her and turned on a favorite DVD. After the third Sippy cup of apple juice the show ended, and she disappeared into the den. Within seconds, she was back in the living room with a folded diaper in her hand. Cute, I thought. She’s going to play mommy and put a diaper on the Cabbage Patch doll, so I continued on what I was doing.
Suddenly, she stomped her foot with incoherent words coming out of her mouth.
I smiled and walked to the kitchen. She followed me, now clearly articulating, “Change my diaper — I said change my diaper!”
I couldn’t stop laughing, ran around the kitchen island and said, “You have to catch Grandma first,” hoping to get her out of her angry mood.
With a full day behind us and past Chloe’s bedtime, I realized nighttime was also the catch-me-if-you-can time.
Tired and worn, we went to bed and straight away I pretended to sleep. She was singing a song and within minutes, I felt tiny fingers on my ear as she probed them with little pinches. Then she grasped my ear, and with each release she squeezed harder.
“Ouch! Leave Grandma’s ear alone.”
“Okay, Grandma Honey.”
She twisted and turned and presently I found a foot on my head. I turned around to protect my face. Then her little head squirmed close to the back of my neck, pushing as hard as she could, “I love you, Grandma Honey,” and those tiny fingers started to twist my ear, and stretched my poor ear like a rubber band.
I found this bedtime ritual hilariously funny and pressed my lips against the mattress. Now glued to my back, a little busy hand started to tousle my hair, and suddenly I felt strands of hair leaving my head. “You’re hurting Grandma’s head,” I said, still with a nice voice.
She stopped pulling my hair, and little finger found my ear again. This time though, it felt more like a shark attack.
“Ouch!” I yelled and jackknifed out of bed. “Grandma has to go potty. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, Grandma Honey.”
I switched on the light and quickly checked my ear, making sure my ear hadn’t morphed into boxers’ ear.
Now I knew what happened to beloved teddies that turned ragged, or blankets that become tattered for comfort at nights. This little one liked ears for security.
Ten minutes later I tiptoed to my own room.
The next night my attempt to sneak out of bed didn’t work; like a magnet she was right behind me, asking, “Is it morning time, Grandma Honey?”
No such luck, so I sank back into bed, and those strong little muscled fingers found my ear again.
Over the next few days we held many tea parties, baked cake in her little oven, played hide-and-go-seek, finger-painted, blew bubbles, styled and cut snarled hair balls off the heads of a couple of Tonya’s old Barbie dolls, and splashed away in the wading pool.
A week later my daughter returned to Yakima, and after lunch we said our goodbyes. The house seemed so hauntingly empty, and I wished I lived closer to my grand-kids.
Two weeks went by. I received a call from Tonya, who was driving Chloe to the beauty parlor. Chloe had somehow gotten hold of a pair of scissors and beautified herself. Oops! — I wondered if Chloe had seen hair balls in her own hair.IM000933.JPG



Sep
26
Filed Under (Humor) by helene on 26-09-2013

To the editor — Aggressively flogged for years, smokers have received a little reprieve. Now experts are after obese people. An epidemic in plumpness has hit mainstream America. Just like smokers, overweight people cost insurance companies, cost taxpayers and cost businesses with all their alleged sick leave.

 

Laws are in effect to help make your life more miserable. Sin tax on smokes and the goodies you buy, the higher the calories, the higher the sin tax. Traveling? Pay by how many pounds your body holds.

 

Who’d have guessed, it’s the salt shakers now. The more you sprinkle on your food, the unhealthier you’ll get. Now you are categorized with smokers and plump people.

 

A glass of red wine is good for the heart. Never mind if that itsy bitsy after-dinner wine glass has graduated to a stemmed fish bowl. In the 1960s, one kept wine bottles inside the pantry, under the bed; oops, did I say that? We are now connoisseurs of distinguished wines.

 

How soon will experts find an outbreak of unpleasantness for wine connoisseurs?

 

Who will be next for public flogging?

 

All I can say, don’t let the experts mess with our happy hour.



Nov
30
Filed Under (The Embelished Truth) by helene on 30-11-2007
Defragmenter Tool

“When was the last time you used the defragment tool on your computer?” Russ asked over the phone after I told him I was having problems with my programs.“What’s a defragment tool and where do I find it?”“On the desktop, go to My Computer icon—”“I can’t find the desktop icon.”“Mom! You’re looking at the desk top right now!”“OH.”“Click twice on My Computer, highlight local disk C, go to file, down on the bottom is properties… click on that. You will see a gray box that will say, Local disk C Properties, then click on tools and down on the bottom you will see Defragment Now.”“Okay I’ll defrag my compute later,” I said writing everything down.

The next morning I followed his direction and clicked on analyze. There were white, blue and red lines all over the place and on the bottom it read contagious. I had a schrek attack and called my son at work. “It’s contaminated—I must have gotten a virus.”

“What’s contaminated?”

“My computer!”

“I’ll stop by on my lunch hour Mom—just don’t do anything okay?”

“Okay,”

At noon fighting heavy traffic and an empty stomach he rushed in the house and went directly into the den. I busied myself in the kitchen.

A minute later I heard him yell, “MOM!”

I bolted into the den and saw his face all contorted with wild looking eyes. He must have really found a mess I thought.

He jabbed his finger at the bottom of the screen and said, “READ IT MOM—READ IT!”

I stared and said. “Yes I told you it was contagious!”

“READ IT MOM—READ IT! Get out the dictionary!” he yelled, with spittle spraying the screen.

I looked at the computer screen again and read the word out loud. Con-tig-u-ous which sounded even worse and hoped it didn’t mean beyond fixing.

I grabbed the dictionary and the contiguous definition read. 1Touching. 2 Next or adjacent to; nearby.

“Heh?”

“Nothing wrong with your computer…just your eyes mom.” He laughed hysterically. “What’s for lunch?”

“As soon as I dig up some earth worms I’ll make you a thick juicy meat sandwich, garnished with nettles.”

© 2007 Helene Thomas all rights reserved.