Kay Buena's Blog

So out of nowhere (while I was wondering where B.J. had gone) she walked inside my house, which scared the f___ing Hell out of me (which was a personal first for sure). And lo and behold that doll and become a Rastafarian!

“Oh, s___ in a hand basket,” I screamed (like a Banshee).  What does it take to get you to act normal, anyway? I have practically pulled out my hair and rolled around like a circle around the planet Earth (as though Saturn didn’t already have enough rings in the first place). However, will there ever be another Uranus?

And although Betty Jane seemed a tad shocked by my exclamation, then it occurred to her: Jeeeze, you know what: that old bitch really is my real little girl — so I think my next move is to become the oldest Young Republican, and that she did.

And that’s the story, y’all.

   We were involved in our usual drama of  a personal nature, when out of that where in no-where  re-enters my strangely intriguing  main character once again, Ms. Betty Jane Abbitt.  So she’s a doll.  Get over it.  So I’m over 60.  Get over that too.  This sort of silliness  is most relevant in these tough times when entertainment and communication tends to come from a “Box”, rather than a raw imagination, –a given instead of a mind-created tale of wonder and invention, or a friendly visit from people we love, like or even simply tolerate.  Wouldn’t want to set a precedent or anything.   Like” nothing personal”–that we can not have!  It would mean that the cyberworld might have some virtues, besides  the obvious pleasure of hearing our own voice ringing in our ears.But, who knows?  It could happen.  Well, actually it did happen here, but I am in digression as usual.  

      I am hoping that my husband is not too  far into Cyberspace and it’s pain, to help me get some rather dubious photos  of  “Betty Jane”, such as her “Before”pic, and her mug -shot as well, to say nothing of her “New Look,”   with extra- stupid- fashionista-like images of Betty Jane and her post-operative surgeries.   (by the by, I know this is idiotic;  sometimes that is a needed thing.  )

     When last we saw what was left of Betty Jane, her  infamous “Monday Panties,”  it seemed unlikely that Betty Jane could ever be herself again.  There is still some doubt on her behalf  in this question.   But, it is her life and she has to be the one to make up her own stupid stories, not me.

     While Charles (my husband) is going on “his walk”  (as if)  I shall write of one of her most valiant encounters with the forces of evil, when she got her eyelashes (of her right eye) blown off in an explosion, brilliantly produced by my brother, who will remain nameless, as he too wants no part of this endeavour.

     As I might have indicated in some of these writings, my childhood was spent as a “military brat.”  It was not unusual for my brother and I to watch the lousy newbies target practicing  with “nike” missiles.  So to us, a gasoline splat,  lit with a match, and some decent running , was less than no big deal … it was not even worth getting worked up about … and it’s effect was to be compared to what happens to a dirty kid when he (or she) is forced to take a bath. Back to square one.  No problem.   We were living close to Wright Patterson AFB, in Ohio in a new  house in a brand new housing development, back in the early 1950’s.  The row of houses were built and occupied, but few residences had landscaping — that was your own problem, but no problem to us, my brother and I.  We began to formulate a story involving Betty Jane and “Foxie” (the main man) and the rest of our stuffed animals.  As any good “action movie” has numerous close calls, we had developed ours, before the plot… So 1st. things  first:   We got some of the more active characters of our toys  involved in a really good chase through what was to be a completely benign  gauntlet for our gang (so to speak) to weave a trail from one side of the yard to the other.  My brother was older and more experienced in things like Charcoal Broiling outdoors, or putting  the gasoline in a lawn mower or a boat, than I was, having no experience at all in those culturally complex male-dominated actions … by a long shot (no pun intended.)     OK.  The short story — long: We  (“he did it'” …  not me…”)  splattered small amounts of  gas  here and there, and then proceeded to carry  our buddies through the perilous  terrain, while lighting and tossing matches in our wake.  Needless to say, this was a less than brilliant way to spend a quiet afternoon, however we survived that, with no casualties (other than the horror of the neighbors’ version of said event.  Betty Jane’s eyelashes  (of her right eye…) did not.  She stayed that way until I was so bored as to do something about it 58 years later, even though the space- time continuum remained relative to normal for a couple of deviant pre-schoolers- who grew into adults and then fairly cool geezers.    

     As you can imagine, I am sure, my mother was less than pleased with the resulted small “fox holes” we blew out of that bare dirt.  I am sure that my father was not overly concerned, as he was somewhere in the skies over  Barbados at the time.  However, we made a start in the landscaping plan, which is always good to do.    

      The very bold and brave “Betty Jane” didn’t even cry when that happened.

    Oh, well, back to the present