T’ain’t right.

One of my fantasies is to sing Habanera.

It has been since I was ten years old.

I will never pull that one off, but I did go surfing on youtube looking for a little hot Carmen, and, well, Carmen is not blonde. She does not wear yellow. She does not emote a subtext of, “Look at me, aren’t I pretty?”

She is not plastic.

This presentation started off strong. It even got bonus points for cigarettes and liquor. Unfortunately, Carmen eventually showed up. Strawberry blonde with an unfortunate tendency to make scary faces and chew her cud.

Whether you know the story or not, you have to understand just from listening –

Carmen smolders.

She burns.

She is a vixen.

In short, Carmen is a whore.

What will they foist upon the unsuspecting public next?

::hiding my eyes::

Hello. My name is Naomi.

I believe introductions are in order.

I’m Naomi Judd. You can call me Naomi, of course. We’re friends, after all. And I am clearly a friendly sort of gal.

I’m married to Jerry Jones. (And I didn’t realize until I tracked down that link that he was born in LA. That explains a lot.)

This all started because I’m not Margie Reynolds.

You see, because of a family member’s condition, I’ve been making regular visits to an assisted living home for adults with “memory issues.” This generally seems to be Alzheimer’s or dementia, but includes some other conditions.

This place should be the setting for a sitcom.

It has all the usual suspects.

There are the Runaways. Two women who walk quietly and speak to one another in low whispers, plotting their escape. One of them is blonde and sly. “Excuse me, but I go to this school every day,” she says, her eyes narrowed, “and it’s time for me to go home. For … for lunch.” She appears very pleased with herself for being tricky. “Could you help me find the door?”

Of course, I very helpfully led her to the “lunchroom.”

Wow. That was one dirty look she gave me.

Or, more jarringly, “Is that your husband?” she asks, sizing the Resident Storm Chaser up. “Do you think he needs … another wife?” At which point she gives a wicked little laugh. “I think I’ll wait here for him, he might need some help getting out the door.” I totally do not like the look in her eyes and if I were the jealous type, I might actually try to divert her.

But being the wicked rather than the jealous type, I waited around a corner where I could watch the RSD’s ‘new wife’ tempt him into helping her escape.

Unfortunately, she and her friend wandered away to plot an escape attempt that most likely includes blowing up the kitchen for a diversion.

Her friend never says a word, except the words she mutters low for only the blonde’s ears.

I have not yet figured out who is the brains of their operation.

I just know that when they remember to try and look innocent, the smiles they bestow are damn near evil.

And then they drop the smiles and go back to low mutters and whispers.

Then there are the lovebirds. They also walk together, only they are always holding hands. They look so normal you’d never guess either of them had “issues.” They fit together like a married couple who have been together for, oh, say forty or fifty years should. They sit together on a love seat watching television, especially sports. They both have their shoes kicked off and their feet share the same ottoman. She rests her head on his shoulder. He rests his head on hers.

I ask an aide, “Are they married?”

She arches an eyebrown. “She isn’t. He is.”

Whoa.

Seems they used to spend a lot of time in each other’s rooms. Seems his wife was (for some reason, who can figure people out?) perturbed. Seems the management checked with the state to see what procedure they could use to separate them.

Legally? Nothing. They are adults and if they want to do whatever it is they’re doing behind closed doors, nobody can tell them to stop.

Oh dear.

Management was distressed. Well, because, people getting frisky (if they were getting frisky — who can say? the doors were closed) is one thing. Wives writing checks to keep their husbands in a very nice facility just to see them getting frisky with the brazen hussy from the west wing is quite another.

Fortunately, it has a (rather) equitable ending. The State, when asked, affirmed that if the facility wants to make a new rule that residents are not allowed to entertain members of the opposite sex in their rooms, that is legal.

They did.

The lovebirds didn’t protest.

They simply started snuggling and holding hands in public.

And they really are sweet to watch.

And when his wife and daughters show up to visit, the brazen hussy discreetly disappears.

It works.

And then there’s the loud, sassy, fabulous aide who babies them all, who ended up in Dallas after Katrina and has never looked back. She even brought her family with her (once she got them out of the Super Dome) and they are now all Texans. With a vengeance. (Though she still cooks a mean jambalaya and has no desire to cook chili.)

When I walk through the doors I never know what form of entertainment awaits. I just know that those crazy people have worked their way under my skin.

Oh, and that J, an intensely intelligent woman with Downs Syndrome, regularly fills me in on what’s going on in the world, and comes up with eerily off-center yet on-target conclusions about it all.

And called me Margie Reynolds until I finally felt guilty letting her think I was somebody I wasn’t, because a woman with her intelligence deserves not to be patronized.

Of course, once I convinced her I wasn’t Margie Reynolds, she was embarrassed at her mistake.

And realized I am, of course, Naomi Judd.

And by the way, she is looking for Paula. Paula owes her a visit, and she’s actually a little distressed that Paula hasn’t come to see her.

I finally said, “J, I’m sorry, I don’t think I know Paula.”

She gave me the Disappointed Look a mother gives a child who is telling fibs. “Naomi, of course you know Paula.”

I must have looked as guilty as I felt.

“Paula Abdul.”

Paula, please visit J. I’m not kidding. She will make you feel like one guilty bitch if you don’t.

She has The Look down pat.

Hollywood ending?

 

And I realize this isn’t news to many of you.

 

But.

 

He won.

Edited to add:

Okay, for those of you who (like me) love sappy wonderful happy endings but (unlike me) might not be obsessed enough to track down the rest of it:

Yes, I need a Kleenex ™. Hush.

And as Candace points out below in comments, his CD will be available in the US in September.

Correction: Available now from Amazon.

Cheney was right.

Via moveon.org.

 

Ooops, sorry.

I’ve been writing.

I’m alive, and watch this space for a “where in the world Wednesday” later today!