Archive for December, 2015

Mondays with Melitas – December 28, 2015

CAVIAR _0307SURPRISE VISIT ON CHRISTMAS                         DECEMBER 28, 2015


Wouldn’t you just know that something would come along to throw me for a loop?   It’s time for a story to be written, and here I am out of commission. The Warden — but we have to give her the nice name “The Aztec Princess” because she had to step in to type while I dictate. (It’s fun — I am dictating to her.) It is all because I got the Gout yesterday on Christmas Day. If you have never had it, go look it up on Google to see how you stay away from it because it is p-a-i-n-f-u-l!


I haven’t had it for several years so it came as a huge surprise — I can’t write because that pesky devil settled in my right elbow. No wonder I managed to get it. Last week: Lunch with Maureen at Macario’s — I had Chile Verde (Pork, a No-No for me;) then we had some Veal Stew on Wednesday and the leftovers on Thursday — a NO-NO. Then the Warden brought home some raw oysters to have with a cocktail — a REAL NO-NO. The absolute end of Gout stuff came in the house for another tidbit to be munched with a cocktail:


CAVIAR (1.76 OZ)                 (Very expensive)              NO-NO, NO-NO, NO-NO

There’s enough of that leftover for our cocktail hour today, and “Yes, I’ll partake. I’m a sucker for punishment.” But does anyone get the picture about stuffing me with all the wrong food? She knows my diet can trigger GOUT.



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Mondays with Melitas – December 21, 2015

blog 12-21a blog 12-21bNEW YEAR DAWNING                                         DECEMBER 21, 2015


Skip Christmas!


I need to start thinking about the future. This present tense is lousy. There should be no bandages on the left leg nor on the right elbow in another couple of weeks. It will be a new year dawning, so it is time for me to think about some resolutions. It’s silly that I haven’t cut the umbilical cord which is hooked up to the Wound Center at Eisenhower Medical Center. They are sick and tired of me around there, and I have certainly had them up to my ying-yang — and all the nurses coming to the house every few days to dress the wounds. Those nurses probably are sick and tired of seeing me in my “night” attire — even if they come late afternoon, I wait to dress in “day” attire after they go on their way to some other hapless individual.

Before I leave this year, I’ve just got to tell you about circumstances in general around here. This Coachella Valley has many hiking trails for people to get lost, or even get dead. Visitors to the valley are usually the ones who end up needing to be rescued — they don’t take enough water, or maybe they get stuck overnight on the mountain with not enough clothing for warmth, or they lose their way. So the Riverside Country rescue people are called with the helicopter, with the fire engine, the “bus” (ambulance) and so forth. This exercise costs the county taxpayers probably $150,000 minimum (my guess.) I have thought about this for a number of years, and feel like it’s time to put up some signs. There is a stretch of beach along the coast north of San Francisco where there are terrible rip tides and the sign on that beach: “Swim at your own risk. There are no life guards to save you.”

I don’t know why I wandered off my soap box, except I was thinking more about one certain hiking trail over by Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage — they named it “The Bump and Grind.” The authorities have posted signs — put up gates, etc to close this trail off. The hikers bother the Big Horn sheep who live up there, but do you think that stops the hiker? No, it doesn’t.

I have a similar situation right here on Dandelion Drive. I have my own “Bump and Grind” trail right here in this house. For the New Year there will be signs posted at critical areas on the trail.


“Meli — watch your step, do not dare take the path to the right here, or left as the case may be. You do so at your own risk. Those handsome 9-1-1 hunks will not take a call to this address, nor will the ambulance, nor fire engine drivers (who aren’t bad to look at either.) EMC will not take you in. Medicare is crabbing about the costs.”


I had a few thoughts tumbling around my brain, and somehow one idea kept coming up. This is BRAIN TO MELITAS: “Stop reading those murder mystery thrillers. You are definitely wasting your time. I order you to ask Amazon to send you two Kindle books: “Boost Your Brain” by Majid Fotuhi, MD, PhD: and “How to Improve your Memory”

(Boost your Brain Power and improve your memory for Life!) by Joel Kirkhoff. Then study them!”

Now there you have it. You know what I will be doing until New Years — reading and studying those two books, head buried in my two Kindles, trying to get the brain jump-started so it will be able to find some new, old tales to spin for my Dear Friends out there, and whom I dearly love.

Happy Holidays to one and all.



MELITAS FORSTER                                       Mondays with Melitas


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Mondays with Melitas – December 14, 2015


DECEMBER 14, 2015

This past summer was just crawling along for me. Besides not walking too well, I was having to hit the road every once in awhile to go over to Emergency, then follow-up at the Wound Center for them to glue me back together. During this period, I was given orders to STAY home — orders from the Doctor, not the Warden, for a change. Sitting and laying around, there was not much to do because my brain was on a sabbatical. No blogs came to that mind, so just watching the news was what I did — The AOL, the TV, or the Newspaper (which I hate.)

Time was still going along, yes, lots of time, and the news was going on incessantly. One of these times, I picked up parts of a story about this old gal in one our southern States. It was hard for me to hear because of my lousy, expensive hearing aids (ear plugs,) but somehow I got the gist of her story, about what was contributing to her longevity. There she was plugging along at the age of 112, and it was all due to the fact that she ate SWEET POTATOES all her live-long days. She had them at breakfast, for lunch, and for supper. Not only that, she munched on them in the hours between meals. Whew! All her life, yet.

Several weeks later, I was just sitting around biding my time, and when the evening news came on, I was half-way listening with ear plugs, making like hearing aids. My good eyes were drawn to the screen, and there was the program interviewing some o-o-l-d woman trying to weasel it out of her about what has contributed to getting her to the grand old age of 116. The few words she spoke, you could bet she was from the South also like the 112 year old.

There she was in her “best” print dress predominantly in green hues, then a perky, dullish green felt hat, almost like a tam, with a flower-ish thing to one side. There was the interviewer, and then there was a woman to the side of the comfortable, over-stuffed chair our heroine was in. The standing lady had one arm around her shoulder and would translate the questions (English to English) from the interviewer. During questions, our friend’s head would fall to her left shoulder and with her eyes closed — to get a little shut eye. Her prompter obviously would give her the signal to act alert — head up eyes open. She would answer “Yes.” Then drop off again, eyes closed. Head on shoulder. This went on — all answers “Yes,” and by asking the right question it was pulled out of her “that her thing” that got her to 116 is BACON! — Yes Bacon. Bacon for breakfast, Bacon for lunch, Bacon for dinner and Bacon snacks all day long between meals. And between little naps. I did think that she looked a bit over weight — must have been the Bacon. Not only that it had to be only smoked Bacon, REAL Bacon. None of that Smoked Veggie Bacon. Ugh!

Now you have the recipe for living to a ripe old age. Take your pick, and stick to it. Somehow, living in the South may have something to do with living longer. I’m not about to move there.

If anyone ever asks me what I attribute to living to 97¾, I don’t know what I can say. It can’t be said it is because of Tequila for breakfast, lunch, dinner and sipping in between. You already know the old saying: “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor.”



MELITAS FORSTER                                     MONDAYS WITH MELITAS


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Mondays with Melitas – December 7, 2015

oooold lady storyHere is one of my favorite blogs from Melitas… and a special message from her:

This story appears on page 202 in my book, “What a Life!” If you don’t have this great book, send email for info:


NO PUBLIC OFFICE FOR ME                                 MELITAS FORSTER


With the recent elections just behind us, I have been thinking that perhaps I should run for some public office. Right off the bat, however, I ruled out Congress, or the Senate, or even President because I would never put myself in a position to have to endure the winters in Washington D.C. If they were to transfer the Capitol to California, I would definitely be interested and give it some very serious thought. I am a home-grown Orange County- kind- of gal, and have never shoveled one ounce of snow – lots of ice cubes, though, in my day.

I could set my sights on running for the La Quinta City Council; more exactly, the Mayor’s position might be to my liking. Or I could run for County Supervisor, or even County Tax Collector would be nice. As far as the State is concerned, I know I could help in the Assembly or Senate. My brain is only running on 4 out of 8 cylinders, but that appears to be more than ample gray matter for those positions. Governor should be considered also, while I’m at it.

I would have to round up a campaign committee, and my very first Rule of the campaign would be that there would be no mud-slinging coming out of my camp. My opponents can do all the bad-mouthing they want if that’s what makes them happy and feel good about themselves. I would not rebut them by revealing their errors in judgment like cheating on the wife or husband, as the case may be, or that they had smoked pot – but didn’t inhale- or had been slapped with a DUI, or they hadn’t paid their taxes, and on and on and on. I will just stick to the facts and tell the people what I stand for, and how I will do my best to correct the problems that we face in government —–and there are plenty of outrageous problems. So there is plenty of stuff to talk about without dragging the transgressions and dumb decisions of my opponents into the fray.

Remember that old saying “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” well both State and National governments are really broke and desperately need fixing. And that is putting it mildly. I feel, with all my years of experience, I could possibly come up with some common sense ideas to help.

But wait a darn minute — all of sudden out of the blue a memory appeared that has dropped like an atomic bomb to forever shut me out of running for a public office.

Back in 1966, I bought the México Lindo restaurant in San Juan Capistrano. It was located on the little side street next to the railroad depot.

It was very   popular, the food was very tasty and widely received, the   Margaritas were world renowned; we had six Mariachis playing Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, and then they would leave for their homes in Tijuana or Tecate, to return on the following Friday.   The building was 2-story, and I remember when the family built it in the 1930’s. A Basque couple with 2 kids, a boy and girl.   The wife, Prudencia, often worked for my Aunt Mae as housekeeper and cook. The second floor was spacious as their living quarters — huge living room across the front of the building with dining area, then a kitchen, 4 bedrooms, and bath. They operated the first floor as a run-of-the-mill small restaurant, and pretty soon Dr. Sparkle (his real name) came along and bought the property and added a huge dining room on the west side of the building, and named it the “México Lindo Restaurante Extraordinario,” but it was more popularly known as just the “México Lindo.”

The Mariachis used 2 of the bedrooms on weekends — 2 of them had local girlfriends whom they bunked with. I used one of the bedrooms as office — furnished with a desk, a floor safe, and an adding machine.

I can hear my audience — if there is one — getting all bent out of shape and wondering what all this México Lindo story has to do with “No Public Office.” If you were counting, you would have figured out that 3 of the 4 upstairs bedrooms were occupied, and this is the crux of the story coming up.

Graciela was the cook who came with the purchase — she was great, but she had other plans for her future; and so, with my approval, she was teaching a young Mexican girl all her “secret” recipes for the taco meat, the chile rellenos, the chile verde, the Albondigas soup, etc. — the entire menu in order to take over. Elena, who may have been 20 years old, maybe….. took that 4th bedroom upstairs, and was elevated to chief cook, and all was well on Verdugo Street in San Juan Capistrano.

In the meantime, I have to bring in another player to this little saga — Eddie, was a sales clerk at my liquor store around the corner on the main drag, Camino Capistrano. When he finished his shift at the liquor store, he would often drop by to hang out with Elena in the kitchen, yakking away, as he would help her clean up and close off the kitchen for the night — they were just great pals, no romance involved.

One Sunday night, much to my consternation, the BORDER PATROL appeared on the horizon — two officers in their military-green patrol vehicle — and very politely removed my precious cook, packing her up with all her worldly possessions, which included a huge life-sized, stuffed Teddy Bear…… and that’s the picture I have when they were driving away with my Elena, with such a forlorn, teary-eyed look and Teddy Bear, bigger than life sitting beside her in the back seat with her stuff piled high around her.   I was nonplussed to say it nicely. And there was Eddie stepping up to the plate to address the problem, telling me that he would have her back the next morning. Indeed he had her back Monday morning in time to start her shift for the lunch hour…..with Mr. Teddy Bear in tow.

Several months passed, and the Border Patrol would show up once in awhile — always on a Sunday night after the kitchen was closed, and they would cart off my Elena , and Eddie would go retrieve her and have her back the following Monday morning along with Teddy Bear. At some point, I thought I’d better go to Tijuana so I would know where to find her, just in case…. So the next time the Border Patrol showed up, Eddie went with me in my ‘67 Cadi to show me where her home was. It was several miles to the east from downtown Tijuana, past the old horse-racing venue, into an area of poverty-stricken shacks, dirt floors   — the whole “enchilada,” so to speak. After that rescue mission, I came up with a plan to end all this back and forth scene. Eddie’s tires were probably wearing thin, so here’s what I told him: “Eddie. you are going to marry Elena — no ifs, ands or buts — and the sooner, the better ……..for ALL concerned.

Eddie quickly agreed probably being fearful that I would fire him from the liquor store if he didn’t. ( I swear I did not even hint of such a possibility, even though it did cross my mind that I did have that ace in the hole in case I ran into any hurdles.) Also, he realized he would really not be supporting her — that would be a part of the “prenuptial.” Elena was most agreeable. At this point she had a boyfriend, and he was not very legal either. So it turned out to be a marriage of convenience for the good of the Mexico Lindo, not exactly made in heaven, but by a very determined boss who was sick and tired of the BORDER PATROL interrupting business as usual, and having to face the sight of Mr Teddy Bear leaving one more time.

So Elena, with boyfriend as best man, and Eddie with his bald tires went off to Santa Ana for a license, and there they were joined in matrimony.

Somehow, I don’t think the judge mentioned “holy.”

I knew everything would end up like the last page of a good novel. My brilliant answer to the dilemma made me extremely proud. Eddie was happy with a raise in salary, and I had known he was gay all along. Elena was happy, she had moved in with the boyfriend, and didn’t have to pack  up her precious Mr. Teddy Bear, alleviating a lot of wear and tear from all those trips back and forth across the border. Through all this I never did know the name she had for him.

I now had a legal cook. Life was good.

Now 40 or 50 years later, 10 or 12 years into the new millenium, there I would be running a very nice, clean campaign for Governor — remember, no mud- or sex-slinging, and I have won all the debates, mainly because I could put my opponent to sleep while droning on and on, and he has hopelessly lost his train of thought. I am comfortably ahead by at least 10 points in the popularity polls. Life is good.

And whaddya know, somehow from out of nowhere, some smart ass in the enemy camp has dug up that old scenario from the México Lindo. I am immediately called a criminal for having aided and abetted an illegal immigrant, and crossed over, not just a state border, but a National Border, sneaking her into California from México.

I can feel the Huevos Rancheros* sliding down my face and landing on my chic campaign ensemble.

Life is now ROTTEN, and for sure there is NO PUBLIC OFFICE FOR ME.   Not in this lifetime…..


Translation for English only readers:

*Huevos rancheros = Translation for all the gringos** = EGGS, Mexican style.

** gringos = Translation: = All the peoples who do not understand Español.***

***Español = Spanish



To this day, I have always wondered why the BORDER PATROL only showed up on Sunday nights, and not on a Friday or Saturday when the place was jumping. It would have killed us to witness the scene of Elena exiting the premises in the midst of the dinner hour, along with Mr. Teddy Bear — looking more bedraggled than ever. And, for sure, life would have been much, much more rotten. However, for all I know the B. P. may have shown up and they couldn’t find a parking place.



November 10, 2010.




















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