What now Mary Ann?

I think the title above was the name of a song, but I don't know for sure, and I certainly don't remember any other lyrics.  The phrase is meant to jump start my mind for fodder for another episode in the wildly popular "Squidgy" series.
...time passes...more time etc.

So the spouse and I took our little selves off to Fresno, CA  last Thursday night so we could enjoy three plus hours in the single cab of a Toyota Tacoma with three dogs.  There are few things in life other than that experience you should not miss.  We got to the motel in good order.  Placed leashes on all three demons and got out of the truck only to realize that only two of the malcontents were actually attached to a human, or such facsimile of same.  It couldn't be the blind dog, oh no, it had to be the little Brat Russell terrier, often know as the spawn of Satan.  So off she ran, with a 6' leash turning every so often to look back, give her version of the one finger salute, and take off again.   Did I mention it was midnight, in Fresno, and the beast was black?  Such a good time we had playing chase with her.  Down through the Barrio, and alley's, and sketchy streets Steve and I and our attached canine companions Emma and Blind Melon Carlos  raced, calling for our youngest child and encouraging help from the 'hood.  One happy man asked if he could help us.  I engaged him in polite conversation while 6'8" Steve vanished to another part of town.  When the  good Samaritan appeared, all  300 plus #'s and of good height with his pet, a pit bull cross, I squeaked that if he found the miscreant a phone number was on her collar and would he contact me.   Then I too vanished, rather more quickly than the spouse.  I'll come quickly to a close now, as I know you are breathless and near expiration from anxiety.  We returned to the motel parking lot and the creature sat there in the middle of the parking lot, covered in some indescribable filth, waiting for us like what up?  I couldn't even look at her.  Steve was weeping with joy, and I had to pee. 

Happily the rest of the weekend was relatively tame by comparison.  Steve designed his show jumping course in his weird short hand and then began to throw jump poles willy nilly all over the ring.  He bribed me to be his intermediary between the jump crew and his bad self.  You know I think what really happens is he gets me to ask the guys to put a standard next to each pole, two on a vertical, four on an oxer, six on a triple bar and some random number on a Swedish oxer.  When I have to ask them to change some standards around so the oxers match or something, they whine to Steve, who tells them not to listen the woman, she doesn't know what she's talking about.  I usually react pretty calmly about then and retire to the haven of some friend down in the barns who has alcohol.  Usually alcohol and red meat will cure me.  Not always.  Depending on the quality of the dinner we have the night of the insult I may or may not be of any help the next day.  This next day I was pretty much useless, except for the witty repartee' with my homies.

I have nearly 300 friends on FaceBook.  I hope they are all reading this, but like it is in so many embarrassing situations, they mostly are keeping their collective heads down and avoiding eye contact.  I'm also not sure I know all the almost 300 people, but it looks good anyway.  I have friends who have 1000+ friends - how is that even possible unless you do concerts or something?  FaceBook is an interesting phenomena.  I have contemporaries who evidently read 1984, and are convinced that FB is "Big Brother".  I don't care.  If they are interested in what I'm doing they are more desperate than I.  In any case I have reconnected with a LOT of friends from my wicked past, including two boy friends from high school, girlfriends from the era of marriage #1, and of course a lot of horse friends.  I mostly lurk and stalk, spooky, but I like it.  I'm practicing for when I can't get around on my own steam.  If any of you went to Dededo Jr. High, or Wettengel on Guam, don't you think FaceBook is a little like the Slam Books we had in Jr. High?  If any of you reading this went to either school in the mid-60's, or know someone who did, I want to hear from you.  Liz, this means you.

My peppermint mocha is kicking in and making me jumpy so I'll sign off now.  Peace.

Squidgy