Kleen-N-Kleen = Ch-ching!

I open my front door and I am greeted by a giant toothy smile with a small man connected to it—a Bob Marly-esque man dressed in a crumpled white button-down and khaki shorts.

I am thinking of how much I love reggae music, when I see, on the porch at his feet, an industrial spray bottle, half-full of a yellowish liquid.

I give an internal eye-roll. Oh my God he’s going to try to sell me something! Is it too late to shut the door?

“Good afternoon, Miss. Is this a bad time?”

Did he just call me Miss? I like to be called Miss. Much better than Ma’am—sounds younger. “Oh, no, no it’s okay,” I assure him, poking my head out the door.

Extending a weathered hand, the man says, “My name is John.”

John? I was hoping for Ziggy, or something more artsy or island-y. I take his hand. “Hi John. What can I do for you?”

“Just a minute of your time, please.”

Is that a Jamaican accent? I love a Jamaican accent. “Okay, John, shoot,” I say. “But make it quick, I have to cook dinner.”

“Quick, yes, quick. Tell me, Miss, do you have kids?”

“Yes, our youngest is off to college this fall.”

“No!” he leans back, eying me. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have a kid in college!”

Giggling, I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me. It’s a step that will cost me. I don’t know it yet, but specifically, it will cost me $42.79.

Without wasting any time, John picks up the spray bottle, unscrews the nozzle and runs his tongue across the length of the nozzle tube, lapping up the yellow liquid. “Before I show you what this amazing cleaning product does, I wanted to prove to you that it’s non-toxic.”

I am grossed out. I am intrigued. I am skeptical. If it’s non-toxic, it can’t possibly clean anything...

As if he had read my thoughts, he puts the nozzle back on the bottle and pulls a white washcloth from a well-worn backpack, and then a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. He hands me the Sharpie, and somehow I know, without him having to tell me, that he wants me to mark on the washcloth. So I do. And as expected, he sprays the cloth with the cleaner. Almost immediately the mark begins to disappear.

I am not impressed. Spot Shot—$2.99 at the Wal-mart—will do that.

Sensing that he’s loosing me, he quickly begins cleaning my storm door with the liquid and the washcloth.

Okay, I think, you can’t use Spot Shot on glass. That’s why there’s Windex. But I allow him to continue, because he thinks I look young, and because I have a weakness for a Jamaican accent, and because he’s blocking my way back into the house.

When he has polished the door to a sparkling shine he runs the palm of his hand down the center. “No smudge!” he says. “Now you try. My hands are dry, but a lady like you usually wears lotion.”

I try to smear the glass with my fingers, but it remains clean. I think of my Jack Russell’s wet nose against the back sliding glass door. I could use some of this stuff.

I am now trying to decide whether I want to pay by check or charge.

But John isn’t taking any chances. He produces a wire brush from his backpack, drops to his knees and proceeds to clean a large rock (yes a rock) beside my porch. When he has finished the rock appears to have been bleached. He moves on to another one.

“No, John, stop! You don’t have to clean anymore rocks. I’m sold.”

“Thank you Miss. Thank you very much. What is it that made you decide to buy?”

“Actually I think you had me at Miss.”

This is For You

This is for you, the sentimental one who cluttered your refrigerator door with drawings of smiling suns and stick people with oversized heads. You, who glorified the dandelions we picked with a crystal vase. If we were to look inside your jewelry box, we would not find flashy diamonds, but a dozen or so little teeth wrapped in tissue paper. And in that “secret drawer” that we were never allowed to open, there are no expensive clothes, only locks of our hair and every Mother’s day card we ever made for you, preserved with care.  

This is for you, the selfless, who bought us silly toys at the grocery store when you knew they would most likely be forgotten the next day, and most surely go unappreciated. You, who went without second helpings at supper so we could have thirds.

This is for you, the overprotective, who made us wear life preservers in the kiddy pool and jackets in May. So what if we were the only teenager on the block who had to mow the lawn in catcher’s equipment and steel-toed boots?

This is for you, the tenderhearted one who, with tears rolling down your face, switched us all the way home when you caught us playing in the street. The one who gave us quarters for the gumball machine, and still slips us a twenty when things get tight.

It’s a little late, as usual, but you know us, we would forget our heads if they weren’t tied on, happy Mother’s Day, and we love you for all you have done, and all that you continue to do.

World Peace

The great thing about having a blog is that when you feel bitchy about something you can always write about it, and maybe one or two people might read it and say, “yeah, that pisses me off too!” Or not. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because the point of the bitchy blog—or as I like to call it, “the blitch”—is to vent. And we all need to vent; Dr. Phil (or maybe it’s Dr. Oz) says it’s good for your mental and emotional health. So, in the interest of my sanity, and in the spirit of doctors Phil and Oz, here’s my “blitch.”

Back in September of last year, NBA player, Ron Artest of the LA Lakers changed his name to Metta World Peace. His new first name, the Buddaist word Metta, means "loving kindness and friendliness towards others." His new last name is, well, self-explanatory. Mr. Artest...excuse me...Mr. World Peace, (or maybe it's Mr. Peace, and his middle name is World) according to his own words, changed his name "to inspire and bring youth together all around the world."

Now isn’t that special.

The name change sounds like a lovely gesture by an obviously lovely man who, out of the goodness of his lovely heart, is taking advantage of his privileged position as an NBA star to influence millions of young people around the world.

HA! 

For those of you who aren’t already familiar with the professional athlete formerly known as Ron Artest, allow me to give you a brief history of his humanitarian nature, his “loving kindness and friendliness.” I’ll start with his most recent gesture of brotherly love toward one of his fellow ball players. It happened Sunday before last, during a game with the Oklahoma City Thunder. After an admittedly impressive fast-break dunk over Durant and Serge Ibaka, World Peace came down growling viciously, pounding his chest with one fist and threw a hard elbow to the head of Thunder guard, James Harden.

It was an accident, according to World Peace. An accident forceful enough to cause Harden to have a concussion. WP later claimed he was merely celebrating the dunk and got "real emotional and excited.” But when the officials reviewed the tape and realized it was clearly no accident they ejected him on the spot. Last Tuesday the NBA announced that he is suspended for seven games. Looks like he’s probably going to miss the first round of the playoffs. Pity. In this humble “blitcher’s” opinion he got off easy, given his history of violence.

The elbow incident was only the finale to World Peace’s long list of aggressive behavior. During the 2011 playoffs, in a game against the Mavericks, he slung a forearm and struck J.J. Barea in the face. Before he joined the Lakers he had been suspended 12 times in his 13 year career. In 2007 he was arrested on a domestic violence charge. In 2004, back when he played for the Indiana Pacers, he leaped into the stands and attacked one of the fans. Now that was classy. There’s more, a lot more, I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Being the huge NBA fan that I am, I can appreciate World Peace’s talent and passion for the game. And in his defense I believe he tried to clean up his image by changing his name. He appeared on Dancing With the Stars and the cast of the show thought he was a really nice guy. Last April he was presented with the NBA’s J. Walter Kennedy Citizenship Award for his work on mental health awareness. He tried, God love him.

Every time a commentator says his name “...and World Peace goes up for the block...” I bust out laughing. As I write this I can’t even type it and keep a straight face. But that’s just me; I’m a sucker for irony. And maybe I have a warped sense of humor because whenever I see him a vision of Miss Piggy pops into my head. She’s got on her wig and false eyelashes and lipstick, but it doesn’t change the fact that underneath all the glam she’s still a pig. And she always will be a pig.