“I’m Going To Have To Ask You To Leave”

I know I’ve been traveling too much when I start losing articles of clothing.

Not the kind I used to lose when I was young and single. A few bits of lingerie here and there were expected but not entirely pain free.  I mean, those “special” little loincloths could set a working girl back a few clicks. Leaving special knickers behind was a hard lesson in fiscal responsibility back then.

But now that I’m old and married? Losing articles of clothing is just downright irritating.

My favorite flip-flops, for example. [both of them]

A beautiful camel-colored pump [only the right….not the left]

And the worst to date?  My cherished Burberry scarf. I spent all day scouring a New York hotel in a frenzied search.  A few  guests fled when they saw me pawing through the housekeeping trash in a darkened stairwell.  I tried to explain but when a wild-eyed women holding a smelly banana peel in one hand and the remnants of a New York Times in the other, the overly-gentile take on a harshly judgmental attitude. I suspect they reported me to the front desk.

No matter. I have been judged harshly a time or two on my road to respectability.

For the love of Pete, we’re talking Burberry here! What self-respecting fashionista wouldn’t get their paws a little dirty to get back such a cherished accessory?  You soak your hands in a little clorox and redo the manicure and you’re golden.  Small price to pay if it means reuniting with finely spun cashmere.

Oh, did I mention it was cashmere? Burberry cashmere?

Changes the game, don’t it, sisters and brothers united in fashion?  Now you understand the magnitude of the situation. It was the proverbial all-is-lost moment in this tragic tale of fashion.

I had broken the oath of no cashmere left behind.

I was ashamed. I was not worthy.

So I went the way of the coward….Straight to the hotel bar and into the outstretched wings of a large, Grey Goose.

Yeah, I stayed long enough to start spittin’ out feathers but I was in distress, okay? Cut me some slack!

Then lo and behold, just as the bartender was about to call security, an angel appeared before me. Cocooned in a glow of pure white light, arms  stretched toward me in offering. I blinked once, twice, struggling to focus.  Yes, yes… it was  human. And it was wearing a suit with a name-tag.


No, the haircut was all wrong and he wasn’t smiling. It was definitely the concierge.

And he had my scarf! Oh, happy day and praise the Baby Jesus. The blessed one had my scarf.

I reached for it, snatch it away from the stoic concierge.

I buried my face in its creamy softness and cooed.

I was asked never to return to this hotel. [probably over that whole dumpster-diving thing]

I didn’t care. I had my scarf.





Arachnids And Fifty Shades of Grey Goose

This is a spider.

It’s floating in a loving prepared, perfectly shaken vodka gimlet…Grey Goose fresh squeezed lime and two drops of triple sec to be exact.

Tragically, this little feller was eight legs up when I noticed him.  Tragically for me, on the other hand, I didn’t have my glasses on and took a big swig before I noticed.

Argh! [as E.L. James so eloquently writes as Christian Grey snatches away Anastasia Steele’s virginity]

I just hate when that happens.  Not getting laid for the first time, you understand….but rather finding a dead spider floating in my cocktail.

I mean, I was like “Double Crap!” [another bit of literary genius frequently employed by Ms. James in that book about handcuffs and shit]

So, now that we’re on the subject of bondage, I just have to throw out my favor-ite passage from Fifty Shades because….well….it kinda relates.


Hmmm…I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle.


Hmmm…I sip the tangy beverage… pulling it deeper into my mouth so I can feel it slide down the back of my throat.  My tongue swirls the tiny bits of lime pulp. It’s my very own…..Argh! Double Crap!….spider-flavored Grey Goose gimlet!

Jeez, Miss Howe! Your “inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves” as you spring from your chair in utter disgust.