that one

My Aunt Patricia's granddaughter, Carli calls my aunt, "Nanny."

She calls my aunt's three Bisons*, "The Guys."

And for the first year or so that she could speak, she called her grandfather, my Uncle Ken, "That one."

"Who lives here?" my aunt would ask whenever my uncle walked in the room.

"Nanny," Carli would say very seriously, "The Guys." And then waving vaguely in my uncle's direction, "That one."

And then everyone would laugh. And by everyone I mean my Aunt Patricia and Carli.

Recently, Carli has started calling her grandfather "Papi."

"Ken was so happy," my aunt laughed, "when he finally got a name!" And then as an aside, "But between you and me, I think it's really selfish of him to insist on it. We were having so much fun before."

*See comments for spelling explanation/correction.

my toes are harlots

Seriously? I have no problem going braless. And when I'm feeling confident in my body, I'll wear the skin-tight pants, the plunging necklines, the short skirts, and think nothing of it. But somehow, I find that the very red nailpolish I painted on my toes last night makes me feel squirmily immodest.

(I didn't look at the color name, but given my discomfort, I wouldn't be suprised if it's called something like Whore of Babylon in Ruby Shoes Your Mama Taught You All Wrong Now Go Hide Your Feet.)

but where would you recycle her?

Esther, on reading the tabloids and star rags:
They should sell these magazines with a friend. They're not half as much fun to read by yourself.

Preach it, sister.

singlets are funny

Click for larger image.

Believe it or not, these people are going to be famous. And I'm just counting the minutes until they are because then I can sue them for all the pre-fame abuse they inflicted upon my fragile body, my delicate ego. Seriously, I was beaten. (And see that headgear Annie's wearing? That's new. I had no such protections.) Sure the bruises have faded, but I've still got the emotional scars and cauliflower ear to prove it. I've got photographic evidence should the judge ask. I've got tear-smudged journal entries.

It's funny, though. I still love most of them and have deep affection for the others -- yes, I know, it's all very Patty Hearst -- except Rob, that is. Because I don't know him very well and back in the day he was too cool to go out with me. And as I inferred above, I scar(e) easily. But he's still funny. And a lot can be forgiven in the name of funny.

So, Rob, it's official. . . I forgive you. Do you feel mysteriously better? Do you feel suddenly free and weightless now that the pall of my resentment has lifted? Did I ever mention, that I don't even LIKE blonds? So, there.

Dude. This stalker stuff is coming way too easily, so I'll stop now. Watch "The Lance Krall Show" -- Monday, April 18 at 11 p.m. on Spike TV.

You'll laugh. I promise.

Here's a little taste: Clock Trouble

Oh, and by the way, that's Sarah (Hi Sarah!) with the chair.

notes from orlando: golfing is not a sport

"My friend Monica told me that I need to post something new," I called to tell my cousin Corinne. "And nothing's going on in my world. Tell me a story."

"Well, the kids are on Spring Break," she said.

"And. . . ?"

"And I told them that we could do anything they wanted to do. Anything in the world."

"So did you go to Disney?"

"No, we're over Disney. We're Disney'd out. They wanted to go golfing."

"Golfing? Like Putt-Putt?"

"No. Real golfing."

"All five of you?"

"Yup. Ryan took off work."

"You don't golf, do you?"

"Oh no, not me. I drive the cart and drink Bloody Mary's. It's really great. You're out there on the green and little cars come by to deliver you drinks."

"So your idea of golfing is drinking and driving."

"I only had one. And the carts only go four miles an hour."

"Whatever lets you sleep at night. So how did the kids [Cody, 11; Kendall, 10; Bailey, 7] do?

"The boys are really great golfers."

"And Kendall?"

"Kendall's very good at soccer."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, Cody gets up and whales on the ball."

"Uh-huh?"

"And then Bailey gets up and whales on the ball."

"Uh-huh?"

"And then Kendall gets up. . . and the ball sort of just falls off the tee."

"Oh."

"And then she tries again and it only dribbles about two feet."

"I hate golf," I say.

"Well, she must get it from you, then."

"How long did she last?"

"About three holes. After the third hole she was like, 'That's it. I'm driving the cart.'"

"Poor kid. Did you get her a Bloody Mary, too?"

"No! Who do you think we are. . .the Barrymores? I told her 'Honey, it's okay. Golf just isn't your sport.'

"Very good parenting."

"Thanks. But she just gripped the wheel a little tighter and gritted out, "Golf. Is not. A sport."

"I couldn't agree more," I said.

"Seriously. This from the girl who runs home from school during the off-season, so she can stay conditioned for soccer.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. She had me cut her hair to above her chin last night because her ponytail kept smacking her in the eye during games."

"She's hard core. So did she try again?"

"Yeah, at around the seventh hole she thought she'd give it another shot."

"And?"

"Suprisingly, she hit it really well. She got it to the green."

"Oh, good for her!"

"And then she's on the green and doing her little putt and it's going right for the hole. She was jumping up and down she was so excited and then just as it's about to fall in, all of a sudden this little dachshund streaks onto the green from across the street, snatches up her ball and runs away with it!"

"You're kidding."

"No, it was running in circles around us and around the hole and Kendall was screaming at it to give her back the ball. And the more she screams the more the dog runs. I've never seen her so mad. She was swinging her club up over her head and I really think that if she could have gotten close enough, she really would have clubbed that dog."

"Oh my gosh."

"Seriously. Ryan was yelling at her, 'KENDALL, DO NOT HIT THAT DOG!'"

"So what happened?"

"Cody just squatted down and said, 'C'mere dog.' The dog ran right over to him, dropped the ball and rolled over on its back to have its belly rubbed. Cody rubbed its belly. Kendall grabbed her ball, stomped over to the hole and finished her putt. And then Cody picked up the dog and took it back to it's house."

"And she's always been so sweet to Fred."

"Fred's never come between her and a golf ball."

"This is true. So will you all be golfing together again?"

"Oh probably. It was actually really fun."

"Except for the rage and frustration part, of course."

"Well, the rest of us found it amusing. Sometimes you just have to take one for the team."

"Yeah, well, someone should explain that to the dog."

a good word about beginning's end

A little more than a year ago, my Grandpa Jack died. Last month, my great aunt Peggy -- my Grandma Kay's sister and Jack's wife -- passed. Yesterday, the Pope died.

Now, I'm not comparing my relatives to the Pope, but. . . . Well, maybe I am. Certainly, they weren't the world figures, the leaders of social and spiritual change that the Pope was, but they were Christians, and Catholics to be specific. They were faithful and devout in their belief. They were kind and loving people, whose generosity of spirit knew no bounds. They faced the ends of their lives with pragmatism and a real peace. And my understanding is that the Pope had a similar experience.

Of course, I can't speak to the Pope's passing, though the reports of his serenity, of his visible participation in the prayers his closest advisors and friends said over him were broadcast across the world. I think I briefly overheard someone say that toward the end, as he passed in and out of consciousness he saw the white light. And I was thankful for those reports, just as I was horrified by the simultaneous analysis of his failing organs. The man was the POPE. The leader of the Catholic Church whose message was all about the greatness of the love of God. And you're discussing his kidneys?! I was completely disgusted at the grotesqueness of it all. But then, you know, I couldn't help but think, the human body is grotesque.

Grotesque in all it's fluids and secretions and need, need, needs. Beautiful, too, in it's perfect mechanization, it's order and symmetry. In our youth -- those us blessed with good health -- are given the joy of it. In our dotage however, I think, it can become a burden.

My grandfather, like the Pope, was such an amazingly physical man in his youth that age and his body's failing, was agony for him. A few months before he died, he and I went on a walk. He was so weak that we got only as far as the next-door neighbor's driveway before we had to turn around. "If only I could walk again," he said. It broke my heart in the same way it saddened me to observe the enfeebled Pope, bereft of his power of speech, robbed of his ability to pray out loud.

My grandfather died with his three children and two of his grandchildren around him. And it was an amazing time for us all. Despite the sadness, we were incredibly grateful for the legacy of love that he and my grandmother had given us. There was even a moment of profound and comic relief in the form of the Irish priest who'd come to offer him last rites. The man just simply refused to accept the solemnity of the situation. "ARE YA STILL WITH US JOHN?," he shouted at my grandfather's inert form, startling him I dare say, back from the very doorstep of death. My grandfather blinked blearily. "YER'RE A BLESSED MAN," he continued, "TO HAVE ALL YER CHILDREN HERE -- ANN, JOHN AND CATHY! YER GRANDCHILDREN, JOHN AND JILL! YOU'LL BE PUTTING IN A GOOD WORD FOR US WITH THE FATHER, NO DOUBT!"

No doubt.

Later that night, in a moment of solitude, as we all lay sleeping, Grandpa Jack took his leave.

I like to think that at the instant of his passing, he found himself in the body of his youth -- only better. That he found himself running -- running -- toward the gates of heaven and into the loving, waiting arms of those who'd gone before him. I see him lifting my grandmother high in the air and spinning her around and around, the sheer joy of the reunion greater than any he's ever known. His parents and grandparents standing around their fair-haired, blue-eyed boy with smiles in their hearts and tears of love in their eyes, just as they were at his birth, his baptism, his wedding. I see every dog he's ever loved -- and he had many -- barking in happy excitement at their master's return. (I do believe our pets go to heaven and I've already told Fred that when he goes, he should find my Grandma Nora, because she's a sucker with the treats.)

When Peggy died, she did so on her own terms. Diagnosed last year with breast cancer, she chose not to undergo all the radical "life-saving" measures that increase the quantity, if not the quality, of time left. She was old, she said. She'd lived a long life and was at was at peace with her God. Let it be. And then one day, about a month ago, she said to her daughter, "I think it's time." She asked to be taken to the hospital so that her daughter's last memory of her wouldn't be of her mother's death in her home. Until the very last minute, she was a mother to her baby girl.

She was never even admitted. She died before they could check her in, with three of her four children around her. (Her oldest, Mary, lived the furthest away and couldn't make it in time.) The thing is, Peggy never truly lost consciousness and as she moved from this world to the next, she narrated the experience for her children. She saw the white light. She cried out at the vision of Jesus. And moments before she was gone, she saw my Grandma Kay.

When Mary arrived, she wasn't surprised, as were the others, that their father hadn't been at heaven's door to greet their mother. "I was talking to Daddy the whole way here," she told her siblings. "He couldn't greet Mommy, because he was with me."

The Pope, I believe had no living relatives, but his children of the Church were by his window, at his side, with him in prayer by the millions, just as my grandfather's children and grandchildren were with him. Just as Peggy's kids were with her. And I can only imagine the host waiting to greet John Paul II in the afterlife. I can only imagine his euphoria at finally being with God to whom he'd so completely given his life. To be able to prostrate himself before the Lord, in praise, the way he'd done in his youth. To dance in the temple of God, as David did. To dance as my grandparents did in the living room when they were young.

It's kind of nice to think about.

I don't wonder that my grandfather, Peggy and the Pope died with such peace because they knew that this corporeal ending was no more than the beginning of something greater. Perhaps, in the end, it's just that our bodies, beautiful and grotesque, are no more than cocoons, providing nourishment and residence for our nascent souls and if we're lucky enough -- blessed enough -- to reach old age, they grow brittle and frail just in time for our gorgeous emergence into a greater incarnation. An incarnation without the frailty of the human form to slow us. An incarnation where dancing is a happy imperative.

And that's kind of nice to think about, too. Especially knowing that those happy, dancing people are putting in a good word for me and mine, every chance they get.