Sid Sirloin

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&ssPageName=STRK:MEWNX:IT&item=290280002664

Here's where you can buy Mark Christiansens new book, Sid Sirloin. It is reminiscent of the Hanna Barbera cartoons I grew up with. Atom Ant to Yogi Bear, they all brought a smile to my face. More of a glaze over honestly. I would fade away into the 2D world, a voyeur to the nutty lives of my favorite house pets, Tom & Jerry, or cheering on Spa-ce----- Ghost. Of course I make a connection to Under Dog as well. Personal reasons.
A refreshing retro feel, and a clean story line introducing a stable of new characters to the fantastical 2D world, kid friendly story filled with archtypes, life lessons, and friendship.

One of the happiest people in the world.

That's my sister.

A superb teacher, a wonderful sister, an awesome daughter and a fantastic parent and wife. It's no wonder she has been awarded honors.

So let's hear it for Mrs. Stockton of Glendale Unified School District!

R U STOOpid?

Two and a half feet tall, just as old and mostly diaper, he fingered the two parts and pinched his face up. In his tiny jeans, and mini work boots, he was quite the little man, so when he tilted his Scooby hat back, and wrinkled his brow, it was hard not to laugh. He squinted in Papas direction, contemplating the potential exchange of words, then he moved towards him with conviction. Handing the segments over, he asked, "Fiss it?"
The denim and plaid beard replied, "Thank you, is this for me?"
"Fiss it....peace?"
"Well thanks, but you keep it...okay?"
The embryonic farmer before him, shifted in frustration, squirming out the words again.
"Papa...fiss it!...peace!"
The old fool smiled over at me oblivious to the quandary. "Why is he giving it to me? What's e want?"
Before the obvious escaped my lips,Haven took another step closer, leaning into his target threw his hands up to hips all crossed up and asked Papa point blank, "R U Stoopid?"

He hasn't changed much since then, 'cept bein' a little taller mebe.

word count 176

OMG! It's J Lo!

Hominis est errare, insipientis perseverare
[It is for man to err, for a fool to persist]

3-11-18-28-53-(37)
7-23-33-47-51-(14)
4-21-36-46-52-(6)

According to the Missouri Lottery website, these are just some of the numbers they call cold numbers. That means they don't hit much, or lately, or, lets just say, they aren't very lucky.

Saturdays winnings numbers were:
4-11-16-33-40-(9) with a power play of (4)

Explain that.
Three of the numbers were off the computer generated Cold list.
So what does this mean? I have no idea. If you too are searching for the answer, maybe you should be watching the TV series Numbers instead of reading blogs. Or better yet, become a Numerologist so you can dazzle your friends, apply mathematical equations to everything like breathing.

YOU: HI (breath, equating mentally whether this person you just met is a waste of flesh)
NEW PERSON: Lo
YOU: (another breath. chances of this person being a smart ass are 85%, chances of this person being Chinese 15%. Still computing for worthiness).
NEW PERSON: What are you staring at?
YOU:Nothing
NEW PERSON: So you think I'm nothing, a void, inconsequential? You think you're better than me?
YOU: (Oh great, I forgot to breath, now I've stepped in it! Deep breath)I'm Jack, with a J, I'm an idiot.(breathing, equating, the percentages say that this person is most likely an insecure smart ass with no job and nice cleavage).
NEW PERSON:J.
YOU: (breath, computing, 45% chance her IQ is around 100, 55% chance she's a parrot. Worthiness points bottomed out. Odds of her name actually being J Lo.....Oh My God....it's J LO! Screw the math!)

Does mathematically dissecting the world around work for the average idiot? I'm guessing... no. It would be like building on sand. Does it work for picking the winning lottery numbers? Well, I don't know. How many mathematicians have won the lottery?
word count 290
1/7/2008 11:28 AM

The Cat's not Bored, Or Dodgeing Golf Balls

You know you spend too much time alone when every thought, no matter how inane, finds it's way past your lips regardless of company, or lack thereof.
I'm rethinking the amount of alone time I designate to self, plus cat.
When I rattle off at the mouth over every little provocation I am entertaining to a feline shut-in, but am looked at askance by other humans (under 60).
When I was a kid, my best friends mom had been through a lot. It showed in that she began mumbling, and humming to herself a great deal. Every fleeting thought, and memory, leaked from her perfectly lined lips. She was a retired beauty queen.
I thought the quirk very odd.
I loved her though.
I also, hoped, that if I ever were to get that way, the end would mercilessly come quick.
I see how my Persian's fascination is peeked, following me around like a golf fan. She, shuffling along within ear shot, no matter where I go, watching my lips, and tilting her head in question, not sure if she should be listening, or ignoring my sounds.
It makes me think.
I'm losing it.
At least the cat's not bored, or having to duck golf balls.
The behavioral oddity of excessive verbalization is not all that uncommon. Most people have found the cell phone craze a simple camouflage for that type nutty behavior.
Hold a phone to your face, and all of a sudden
...WAH-LAH...
you look sane.
It gave me an idea.
Wear the phone around my neck with the nifty cord that came with it.
Whenever someone starts looking at me like my cat does, flip it open,
and say,
"Sorry, had to take it off speaker phone, can I call you back later?"
Instantaneously, you are reprieved from your momentary lapse.
You see, when I first started noticing my nut bag was over flowing, I decided to reintroduce myself to a more social structure. I opened a brick and mortar store. There were no longer days, or weeks of nobody to talk to but myself and the hair ball. John saved all his talking for his friends and family and just sort of used me for venting. He would come in at the end of the day, do his play-by-play of his aggravatingly ME day, while I was expected to stop the world and give him my undivided attention while he dumped, then without being allowed a word in the one sided conversation, he would exit to his room, and I could breathe freely once again, like he was never there.
I was getting way too into my alone time. languishing in the productivity and sheer freedom of it.
I did my thing, got back out into the social order, shook things up a bit, and now am prepared to dig in for a long period of me plus cat. I need to focus on my creative projects, which I do best in isolation.
I figured out that I wasn't kicking divets as much as I thought, and that now I had a fix-it for the ones that slipped. I can look as important as a four year old texting her BFF, or sane as any gossip (there's a contradiction to laugh at)...by talking to the phone...even if there's nobody on the other end.
Shhhh, I won't tell anybody, if you don't.
word count 547
11/15/2007 12:51 PM

We Are Borg!

Blessed Are The Record Keepers, For They Connect The Dots
~ Cerebral Gas

With the coming of the digital age, obscure information has become obscenely easy to come by. People are running out of excuses for their blank pedigree charts. Genealogical maps are no longer only for the monetarily blessed. Anyone can research their family tree, and post the findings for all to see. It can work for you, or against you, as proven in a recent article my sister emailed me linking some royalty to treasonous figures of history.

I personally have used the web to find long lost best friends, an ex-husband that ran years ago, I have stumbled across relatives, researched anything from Avian Flu to zymurgy, posted my twisted thoughts for all to read, downloaded literary classics, and posted personal pictures of redneck farm life. Anything you want, anywhere you want to go, it's all in your PC. No passport, no vaccines, no airport security nightmares to deal with. Just push the power button and google away. Awesome!

Once a person discovers the World-Wide-Web (the Borgian collective unconscious to Trekkies), it's hard to resist the pull. You find yourself assimilated into the research Mecca, seemingly without a desire to do otherwise. Only you don't get any cool mechanical appendages fashioned from obsolete digital hardware parts. I take that back, I've seen more than one ass-bag trade in their Lazy-Boy for a top-of-line Wal-Mart desk chair fresh out of the box and smelling curiously like the plastic bag it was packed in, not able to let go of their fancy new wireless mouse that connects them with....everything. Me , for one. Television has lost it's long time standing as number one home entertainment.

I'm really glad to see so many trade in their non-productive hypnotic trance for the interactive learning tool we have now at our fingertips. It's turning the world into a more united working force, mostly for the good.Let me hear a , "WE ARE BORG!"

You Are Assimilated

Today, is the first day of the rest of your life.

I don't remember who said that, only, and most importantly, that someone did. I'm sure it was some sort of intellectual with a monetary investment in the rights.

If you are into cliches and borrowed thoughts, I've got one for you;
Today, yesterday is officially over, and tomorrow is only a day away.

Woops, I think I just stole the last half of that from Little Orphan Annie, or her song writer. I can't be sure who. It is so easy to fall into the opacity of the plaegerism trap.

Have you ever had such an epiphany, that you were able to be faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildiings in a single bound, in order to grapple for a pen and paper to record your profound word play invention, only to find upon sharing, that someone else had beaten you to it, which left you wallowing in the aphasia of a dim bulb?

It leaves one to wonder whether, we, the people, are capable of a single original thought. Which leads me to the possibility of the collective unconcious. If you are a Trekky, think Bhorg. Some believe that we are born assimilated, pulling all ideas out of the energy field that is all living things. All that information, just floating all around and through us, free for the taking, unless of course, if someone else plucked it out first and filed a copyright or patent. That brings us back to the plaegerism laws and other tidy little clauses in the legalities of mankind. There are some hefty fines for reusing phrases and technologies that have had the mark of another legally embedded, which are not yet in the public domain.

Being the artistic type, and money poor, I fret about such things. It takes all the fun out of creating when you have to google every other sentence of your copy to make sure you're not going to get sued by some obscure individual with delusions of grandeur once you sell your presumed uniqueness for some lunch money.

Creativity is a gift meant to be shared, and I don't see anything wrong with earning a few dollars doing it. Everybody has got to eat. I've given away more of myself, as in objects d'arte, than some artistes produce in a life time, so having this oppportunity to cash in on a little piece of my brightly colored, heavily populated world of insanity, in the form of a made for television cartoon, is kind of an, it's-about-time thing. I'm ecstatic and scared. I don't fear success, I fear failing to make people laugh. Twisted, shallow, and deep, all at the same time.
2/21/2007 2:6 PM
word count 458

Giving the Doodle-bug Carte Blanche

To toon, or not to toon, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to sit on my dead ass behind a cash register for the rest of my life, ever wondering, what could have been, what would have been, had I run with that box of crayolas that started me on the toonage path, or, to just blaze a trail to cartooning heaven? VT4, on a trilobyte, or troglodyte, or a something-like-that-hard-drive, with RAM in gigabytes, and all the Pixar effects I can dream up, all at my fingertips! Gee, let me think...
It appears, that I will be going to Nashville. You know, following my dreams, and all that.
Ever since I was old enough to appreciate all the activity in an animated short, I've dreamed of being the creator. Not like in God per say, more like Walt Disney, Hanna-Barbara, or the physicist that created Beavis and Butthead. I dig the idea of being able to imagine it, slather it down on paper (anything will do in a pinch), and watch it come out of my daughters humongous screened TV. My very own life-size, techni-color world where everything is possible and insanity is probable.

I do love my store, don't get me wrong, It's just that I never remember dreaming of being a merchant someday. It's something that just evolved out of need. The need to be doing something monetarily satisfying. I have been going through all the motions, slowly building something out of nothing. Yet still, I sneak time in for my cartoons and writing about dribble, because that's what I was born to do. Unfortunately, it hasn't made me any denaros to speak of, therefore it has been a hobby and not a livelihood. All that is about to change.

Most people walk around dreaming of being a reincarnate of some famous person, or becoming well known for their own deeds in this incarnation,something with fifteen plus minutes of fame attached to it. I don't know who I might of been, or if I ever was prior to now. What I do know is that my one thing I do great is to totally make fun of....everything. It didn't win me any Brownie points, especially in the less creative fields I was required to do time in during college, yet it keeps leaking out of me. It's where I come from, who I am, and where I'm going. All that matters, is that I create; Anything that will coax a smile, an untimely blush, or cause the urinary tract to malfunction. Once that happens, I know I have done my job right. You can have the spotlight. I am perfectly content to change the world, one smile at a time.
1/23/2007 9:51 PM
word count 452

Bon Jovi-licious

At what age does optimism become absurdity? Is there a point of no return?

Life has taught me that the little boxes representing age categories are much more than squares on a page. For instance, the 40-45 check box marks the transition from liking to shop in the junior’s section, to having to shop in the large frumpy womens section, because there isn't a stylish selection available for anyone larger than a small 9. So, by default you're forced into ugly clothes, because we all know that most fashion designers for major department stores are incapable of believing that any woman that can learn to live with mid-life cellulite has a right to look good doing it, especially if she is of the moderate to low income bracket.

By the time a woman reaches the next life change, the following little cube attached to numbers, she's had enough of the categorical niche she's been stuffed into and begins venting in Towanda rants. The clothes outlook is still dismal, the available man market is even worse, and while her ex is hot-rodding around town with a fresh new tart in the sports car she should have gotten, she's finally finding herself.

While wholeness is a pleasant state to contemplate, if given a choice, most would trade that for a brief liaison with a Jon Bon Jovi-licious house painter in a minute. Too bad the chances of that are so slim, unlike our profiles.

With each new check box, comes a new list of collateral losses to come to terms with, until in the final stages when the butterfly turns into the caterpillar with a bust line where her waste used to be, and an ass greatly resembling that continent Down Under.

Back to my question. Is a positive outlook at my age a sign of unwavering faith or is it a latent side effect of all those aluminum incased TV dinners I ate as a kid?

Numerology; I may as well be naked in a room full of people

Normally, I don't plug advert's, but this one left me wondering, Do the numbers add up, or did they just read all my meanderings? I'm guessing they just did the math. It would be a tad less tedious. They included the formulas for figuring out these numbers, but they didn't cut-n-paste well, so being me, I deleted them. You coud visit this site for the full lesson with yourself as the guinea pig. Find out what you already know, like I did. What's the point? Well, it's not all about you. It's about the math. Being human, we love to find out what others perceive of us, and like one of my favorite country icons sings, "...occasionally, I want to talk about me..."(it's a human defect).
Divination, in general is a fascinating thing. I put num erology into that divining ball of wax, because, after all, it can tell you as much about your future, as your past.I'm exposing my soft under belly by posting this. Good thing I'm not one of those people that are overly concerned with such a small sacrifice in the name of science. If you know me, you'll be nodding through the whole thing like the little doggie in the back window of my old Fairlane.
Free Numerology Mini-Reading for Susan
Birth name:Susan Irene Zuelke Date of birth: July 1, 1959
Hi there Susan,Thank you for visiting my website at www.123numerology.com, and for requesting this free mini-reading and ongoing numerology tutorial.Over the coming weeks, I'll be giving you a wealth of information about numerology (all completely free of charge!). I look forward to taking the journey with you - numerology is a true passion of mine, and it is my hope that you find numerology to be just as fascinating as I do.Let's jump right in by starting to analyze your numerology chart ...
The best place to start is with one of the most basic calculations ... your "life path" -- based on your birth date of July 1, 1959 -- is 5.
Susan, your Life Path of 5 ...You are about freedom, independence and the right to follow where your heart and gut-instincts lead you in life. You are an inquisitive soul with many questions that can only be answered through travel, exploration and experiencing a variety of life situations. For this reason you are likely to relocate to various cities or countries during your life and also entertain a number of life partners as opposed to just one soul mate.You are best suited to freelance work or being your own boss as stuffy offices and rigid routines are deadly to your imagination and soul. You are a great lover of human nature as well as one of it's greatest observers, which is why you would make a good archaeologist, historian, writer, journalist, reporter or artist. You are great at dealing with people and also do well in any "front line" occupation. For instance many crisis workers, emergency care workers and leaders of self- groups are fives. You need a job that allows you to meet a lot of people as well as brings you a variety of interesting experiences. You also have quite a spiritual bent to your personality that may send you on many personal vision quests. Most 5's are multitalented but they never stay in one place long enough for one of their projects to grow and blossom. Seeing things through to completion is the best way to make sure that you don't suffer poverty or bitterness in your later years. One of your greatest talents is the ability to communicate, either verbally or through the written word. Your expansive observations of life plus your ability to see all points of view makes you an excellent teacher. Most 5's end up teaching at one point in their life so others can benefit from the rich tapestry of their life experience. You are also a daring spirit that has a love of adventure. You are usually very physically fit and enjoy good health for your entire life if you stay away from overindulging in drink and food.
Your Expression - which describes your potential natural talents and abilities - works out to be a 7.
Susan, your Expression of 7 ... Your Potential Natural Talents and AbilitiesYou are a secret rebel and a loner preferring the company of your brilliant thoughts and fantastic daydreams to the company of other people. You are incredibly spiritually sophisticated and this creates an odd air of detachment to your personality. You tend to express yourself in a very blunt manner to others simply because you are not a big believer in wasting time with niceties. You tend to not express yourself well through your facial expressions or body language although you can be quite eloquent with words. You do not say much but when you do say something it is usually acutely observant or very enlightening. To you the ultimate expression of your higher self lies within the mysteries of science, nature and the occult. Most number 7s tend to be interested in all three topics. Many are mathematicians, naturalists, anthropologists, historians or priests. The virtues of solitude appeal to you most as it allows you the peace and acres of time that you need to investigate your favorite subjects. Even if you have never gone to school you probably have the equivalent of a Ph.D in some kind of esoteric or scientific subject. An important part of your self-expression is the ability to be able to pass this knowledge onto a willing enthusiast or student one day. You are also likely to choose a romantic partner that shares your intellectual passions. As you are so quirky it takes a very special person indeed to understand your complex body language and need for a lot of personal space. Usually when you do find a partner that understands you, you are so grateful, that you become loyal for life. You have a child like need to be inquisitive and live in a fantasy world. You are very logical and in terms of your personal tastes, believe that beauty is a matter of form following function. You are also a perfectionist so much of what you own will probably be the very best or state of the art. You should be well able to afford this as your deeply analytical and logical mind also often lends you a talent for investing money. Although you like owning the best on the market you are not the type to show off. You tend to hide your wealth from others as well as you hide your other secrets. This is partly an attempt on your part to see if an individual likes you for you. Your reverence for the mysteries of the universe makes you an adamant seeker of truth. Now, Let's Examine Your Soul Urge(also known as your "Heart's Desire")In your case Susan, this totals 9.
Susan, your Soul Urge of 9 ...What You Desire To Be, To Have, and To Do In Your LifeThe highest expression of your soul's urge is to connect in a mystical way with others. Although your aspirations are lofty, you are also a humanitarian who is often gifted with a sharp intuition and keen analytical skills. Often you give up opportunities that should be yours, simply to help another. This is because your faith in yourself, god and the future is so strong that you live by your conviction that the universe is always unfolding as it should. Others simply do not possess your spiritual sophistication and may be amused or repelled by what they see as your irrational talk or beliefs. You may be accused of being stupid or foolish simply because you won't take the bait (of a job or money) at the expense of your ethics. As you are driven more by compassion than common sense, you are the first to fall on your sword for a worthy cause. You may often be broke because you see money only as a tool of change. You would much rather spend money on art, charity or a trip. In fact, ostentatious displays of wealth anger and disgust you because your ideal is a world where all humans are equal. You might appear very eccentric to others who don't quite understand your fascination with the spiritual world or your insistence on being a seeker of truth. Furthermore nines tend to get carried away when it comes to trying to heal or connect to others. As you are so talented psychically, you often become a liability in business simply because people in authority resent your ability to perceive their secrets. You rarely rise very high on the corporate ladder simply because others see you as a threat to their cloak of political intrigue. You have a soul that must be continually assured and fed with new sources of spiritual information. To stay healthy, your psyche may require that you make special trips to holy or mystical places. You may have to seek out special teaching to help you understand and cultivate your talents so that you are in control, as opposed to terrorized by them. Being able to foresee the future or see through other people is often painful, so some therapy might be required in your life to help you detach from your own sensitivity. Many nines often find themselves subject to a lesson in becoming humble by the cosmos simply because they were too boastful of their talents. Making money off of your psychic talents may also cause you some problems, as part of your path is to heal without the expectation of reward. If you are working professionally as a psychic and are a nine, then remember to tithe at least one tenth of your earnings towards a worthy cause. However the highest calling of your soul urge is to share your intuitive talents for free.I hope you are enjoying this brief glimpse into the world of numerology -- the science of numbers, which governs much - if not most - of what happens in your life, your relationships, your health, and your economic future.Please also realize this:What I Have Given You HereHas Barely Scratched the Surface!Susan, what I've shown you so far is just an extremely small fraction of what is possible through numerology ... I've basically shown you three of the nine-hundred-plus calculations I do in a typical reading.I've just given you a very general overview. With a full analysis, you can explore your life and personality like a microscope, revealing more about you that you ever dreamed possible.Your personal life, your career, your relationships, your finances, your future ... you'l learn about it all. You'll not only experience the peace of knowing the path you are best to travel in this life ... you'll learn how to capitalize on specific opportunities that might otherwise pass you by, and what pitfalls may befall you if you're not ready for them.I kid you not ... people have both laughed out loud and cried tears of joy when they identify with characteristics they have never shared with a single soul ... when they realize the reason for the struggles they have been going through ... when they learn about the gifts they have in this life that just needed to be pointed out to them.As a valued subscriber, I'd like to make you a very special offer on a full length numerology reading that fully explores virtually all areas of your life (including your career, relationships, specific events and opportunities in your future), leaving no stone unturned!You'll find full details here:http://www.123numerology.com/specialThanks for joining me; I hope you enjoy this fascinating journey of discovery ...Peace and light ,Blair Gorman123 Numerologyhttp://www.123numerology.com/

Horse Scents

There was cracking, and a great groan; the tractor came up onto it’s rear tires as the front swayed, the engine pulling, then it came down hard as the beams gave way. I covered my ears from the sound of 100 year old, seasoned hardwood splintering. The loft heaved forward and dropped to floor level. The roof smiled big, it’s toothless defiance held true.

“I don’t believe it! It’s all twigs, holes, and a few old shingles. I thought it would implode for sure. Dam! Well, you up for some disassembling?”, I squinted and brushed off the dust. Yanking down the bandana covering my nose and mouth, I walked round for a better look at the whole structure.

“What are you laughin’ at? You look like a BALD raccoon. Least my version is more natural.” I huffed, and kicked at the much shorter side of my barn.

He shut up and climbed down from the drivers seat, joining me on the ground. “Unbelievable. I could just burn it right here?”

"I think not. That barn’s going in the house. Save the good pieces before you light it.”

That was the end of an era for me. My horses were gone. Gone were my chickens, ducks, and that crazy Toby The Wonder Pig. I hated to see it go. But then again, I figured it a safe wager nobody’d be dumping thier cats here anymore. I was staying broke because of city discards. Some days, dozens of new faces would appear in my barn at feeding time. I couldn’t do it anymore. If I had to sell my horses, then those cats were hitting the high road.

I’d been ill, medically bankrupt. Those days are behind me now. I miss that old barn, being out there, instead of in here. I miss the animals; Mostly my horses. Heck, I even sold my truck before I sold them. Things are better now, and I’m thinking it sure would be nice to get back in the saddle. I’ve had this big notch carved out of me since they left, and I want it back. I need to feel whole again.
I was rummaging for VHS tapes this morning, and A Field Of Dreams fell out onto the floor, and it got me wondering, I’ve got dreams, I’ve got fields, so, if I build it, will they come? The horses I mean.

Faux Pas Anyone?

If I had a nickel for every time I did something stupid, the lottery would seem like a total waste of money, with such a bottomless supply of moronic behavior at hand. There are nicer ways of saying, mistake, like, faux pas. Almost sounds sexy. I know I’m having a bad day if I use that phrase three or more times. It sounds a heap better than, I’m an idiot. The unmistakable connotations leave nothing to the imagination. Leaves me wide open for ridicule too. Whereas, if I say faux pas, they forget all about what I just did, and start asking what it means, how you spell it, and where the heck I heard of such a thing.

Me: That’ll be $4,590.00….woah, for two Snickers? We’re gonna have to drop the price on those candy bars if we want to move them before the next ice age, eh?
Customer: How much is jus’ the coke?
Me: That puppy’s only 50 cents. You don’t need the extra ass-baggage anyways… Oh wait, I’m an idiot, says here the Snickers are only 69 cents each. What ya say we jus’ do it over?…how d’ya spell void?
Customer: (starts contemplating the two foot tall pile of goldie locks on my head) That hair all yours? You mus’ got a mess o’ roots all tangled up in yer head missy.

Never was much of a salesman.

Never did figure out why the cash register did that. Every once in a while, it has seizures, and makes stuff up. Then it straightens itself out and starts ringing up the real prices, right as rain. Speakin’ of, that’s what I was just wondering. Is it going to rain today? It’s dark, chilly, there’s an owl out there bellowing, and the place is quiet. Almost like I’m not supposed to be here. Weird.

Moo-Baby!

It's a Beautiful day in the neighborhood....won't you be....my neighbor?

It was a warm-fuzzy day today; I almost felt like sidling into an old cardigan and singing kiddie-show tunes. Last night about this time, I was stressing over the last two weeks being so slow I could've danced naked outside the store and nobody would have noticed. Okay, maybe a few truckers would have lifted an eyebrow. Today made it all better. Several of my favorite patrons decided to stop by and visit. We shared a lot of laughs, and some war stories. Talked about our dreams, totems, favorite pets, and I put a little coinage in the till. All-in-all, a good day. I even acquired a nice set of throwing knives from the local Paint Ball field owner and his taller half. The look on his face was priceless, yet brief, when I spewed, in my excitement, "Oh yeay....I can't wait to throw them at somebody!". Yes, even he, had to think for a second before realizing I was kidding.

It got us on the subject of survival training, not that I personally need any. Like I say, if I can survive one major mistake that left the residue of his last name intact, raising two kids, going to college, outliving a second mistake, working anywhere and everywhere that wouldn't fire me for having a family emergency (usually involving children, being ill, or doing something tragically wrong like trying to cook and accidentally catching the house a fire whilest I'm at work),...well, everything else is small potatoes. Yes, if you were to leave me out on the top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, it would be reduced to a mole-hill by morning, I being no less for wear, then I'd gingerly step off the tippy-top of the highest peak as it sank into the valley below asking for directions to the nearest Waffle Haus.

So, getting back to what I was saying a million words ago, this friend, is thinking about starting another side gig teaching survival training. He'd probably be good at it.

Around here, you have to have more than one iron in the fire, if you don't, you're liable to end up with bread or butter, but most likely not both. Makes a good meal hard to come by. I guess I should count myself lucky, I don't run one of those bait-n-tackle-beauty salon-pizza parlors. I love what I do, all of it. I especially like that I don't have to have curtains on my windows for fear of voyeurs, like in the city. That's my favorite part. The cattle don't care much what I look like, with or without clothes. And after closing, it's me, the cats, and those nosey cows. Moo-baby.

9/23/2006 10:32 PM
word count 448

Good Trade

The gravel sounded crunchy under the Fairlanes tires. Beads of sweet were gathering along my forehead, making my bangs stick to my eyes. The two men waved, and pulled away. I smiled weakly, then turned to admire the new truck parked in its stead. I was happy, and sad. I knew it was time to let go. It was still difficult. That old car had been mine for a few years. I can’t count how many times I half-heartedly decided to sell, then changed my mind. This time I followed through, and it was good. He got the car he’d been looking for, and I got the truck I needed. Good trade.

Tim Burton Nightmares

Nothing like a bad strawberry to put that cows bung-whole look on your face. Things like that keep the tears from my eyes at the seasons end. Not that I need all that juicy goodness going to my butt year round anyways.

My garden has already run it's course. Everything is pretty much the same color this time of year...crispy, heirlooms and weeds alike. As usual they say it's supposed to rain...again, and I doubt it...again. It seems to split off North or South before reaching our corner. It's been hot. I melt like gum on a hot sidewalk, or Ben Stiller in an Indian restaurant. Unfortunately, the second I enter the air conditioning, I plump back up with instantaneous water retention. The only part of me not complaining is my bust-line, the rest is screaming for a huge sale in the Big-Beautiful-Women's department to alleviate the building pressure. Brings to mind the image of Violet, the giant Blueberry, being rolled away by Oompa-loompas. Great, now I'll have Tim Burton nightmares all night. I should know better than to eat fruit before bed anyways.

8/19/2006 9:50 PM
word count 187

Sam I Am, I do Not Like Green Eggs and Ham!

Sam I am, Sam I am, I do not like Green Eggs and Ham!

Colors are another thing that passes in cycles. When you were two, your favorite color was red, at five it was orange, at thirteen, black was the color of choice. Preferences say loads about a person.

For instance, the woman that just left my fine establishment was critical (anal, if you prefer), aloof, ignorant, self-righteous, ill-informed, angry, and very over-weight. She was wearing dark blue slacks in an unattractive Walmart cut and a light blue tent top. Had short dark hair in a non-descript chop-shop-do and toted an adolescent like a pet pooch.

She hadn’t taken two steps in the door before I knew I wouldn’t enjoy idle chit-chat with her. So I busied myself with my daily shipping routine and tried desperately to keep myself out of range. Usually, I jump right into conversation if the colors, clothes, and demeanor are correct. You see, the over-use of blue indicated all of the aforementioned personality quirks. The unattractive cut of hair and trousseau screamed a critical and confused Christian, possibly Baptist. The sadly slouching preteen looked like a whipped pup. No doubt detested and scorned by the mother for being moderately attractive and desiring a typical teen wardrobe, of which she could have carried off quite well…if it weren’t hammered into her as being a sin. So she hung her head in disgrace and hid behind a mass of unkempt hair, ashamed of puberty and no doubt, worried about the spam a jealous mother fed her about the sins of the flesh ( spam; a jellified mass of by-products forced to conform to the can it is crammed into for marketing purposes) . I bet you’re wondering what she was wearing. Maybe, another time.

Being observant is commonly confused with psychism [i.e. “Psych”; a new detective show]; But, if you combine psychic ability with keen observation, pour it into a D cup and top it off with a pair of big beautiful cerulean eyes and long flowing cascades of sunlight, then you’ve got one scary woman. Ask any man. It can be hell on a womans love-life. At least until she finds the man that can appreciate and handle her well-rounded gifts gracefully.

I was going somewhere with all this. Oh yes, it was that green chick with the bouffant. An exhausting individual. That’ll have to wait for another time, more big blue Baptists just walked in.
Oy! I’ll have to conjure my cloak of many colors for the third time today. I deserve an ice cream cone.

For Petes' Sake Why New Mexico?

For Pete's sake can someone please tell me what is in New Mexico?

If you know me, you know that I am fond of divining. So much so, that I am opening a shop right here in Missouri.Tarot, Pendulum, Dice, I Ching, Tea Leaves, Runes...there is an endless sea of fortune telling methods available, and I like to explore them.

I look for signs in everything, because, as I was taught by a wise woman (my Mum), that everything happens for a reason, and that it's always for the best...sometimes, eventually. In other words, a delayed reaction to an action.That can be hard on the instant gratification generation. Patience is not a common virtue amongst them. I personally, can hardly control my excitement and wonder at what tomorrow will bring. Upon any pivotal moment, my mind is racing for a solution to the great mystery before me. Like when it's time for opening the piniata at a party. Most want to bash away, and pounce voraciously on the contents before it hits the ground, in many cases trampling what they coveted. I would be patiently waiting my turn while analyzing it for weak spots, and trying to calculate how to approach the job. I wanted to release the candy, sure, but I also didn't want to destroy the work of art it was concealed in. I wanted to gently knock off one leg and let it stream out naturally, thus prolonging the moment. While the rest were racing for their treats, I was asking if I could have the paper animals pieces so I could glue it back together and cherish it. I would always find something wonderful hiding inside. Something that was to be mine. I didn't have to fight my way in to snatch and grab before the next kid. I knew, that anything in that piniata, that was truly meant to be mine, would find it's way to me, no matter what happened.

So here's my question, why New Mexico? All the signs point in that direction. But why? my last writing assignment was a biography of a centenarian born in New Mexico Territory, brochures find their way to me, movies based in the state, books, articles, even things I find, like state quarters, worry dolls, pocket alters, etc, made-in-New-Mexico. My oracles all speak of travels, successes, invitations I must accept, phenomenal luck,love. This is MY year. So how does New Mexico fit in?Is it just my love for those flashy hot pink crepe flowers of the trinity, rock hounding, desert mornings or my curiosity about the Bohemian art community I have heard so much about? Of one thing I can be sure, Nobody's going to take my cartooning about seriously enough to warrant any serious interest. So a gallery opening is definitely out.

4/23/2006 0:40 AM
word count 434

"...if you're ever in Missouri..."

Have you ever had a fairly uneventful day that ended with a chance meeting that left you smoldering? I mean that in a good way. You find yourself so intensely attracted to a person that you walk away?

I did that once. It was the most moronic response I have ever had to an attractive man. I'm not a shy person. So what was with the "Nice meeting you...if you're ever in Missouri..."?

That was back in '97, and for some reason, that whole evening keeps playing out in my head. Every little thing about him, including the fake German accent. It was good, that I'll give him. I also understood why he needed it at the time. In fact, I kept waiting for it to dissolve; which it didn't. I guess that's why I said good night and returned to my packing. I was preparing for the move to Missouri. I hated Utah and was desperate to be anywhere else.

I've met a lot of men in my life. There has been chemistry on many an occasion. While a biochemical based liaison can be momentarily gratifying, it's not what dreams are made of, nor is an STD , for that matter.

So why did I write this? I don't know. I guess I'm venting. I never told anyone about him. This is not a kiss-and-tell moral dilemma, it was just what it was ...well...if he wanted anyone to know he was there he would have ix-nayed the disguise-ay...and brought a camera crew.

So, if you happen across this, my off-season Valentine, discretion dear heart. You never saw this, and I never wrote it.
3/27/2006 0:34 AM
word count 289

Yo Momma Wears Combat Boots!

My daughter Destiny is a soldier. The U. S. Army owns her. Maybe I should say she owns it. A wife, and mother of two, she sparkles like a zesty crisp green Vlasic in combat boots. That’s right, when the kids at school become of heckling age, her boys won’t argue or feel humiliated when the other kids say, “Yea…you’re momma wears combat boots!”
Instead, they’ll proudly agree and then counter with a , “..and she can
kick your dads ass too.”

You wouldn’t know it to look at her. Her baby doll features and innocent wide eyed sensuality can turn a room on it’s side. She’s 5’2’with a porcelain complexion, enormous glassy green pools kissed with long feathery lashes. Her aggressive nature reflects itself in her hairs refusal to hold coloring. She got that from me. We’ll be blonde to the end. It’s not our personal preference.
Armed with Army issue fire arms, she’s a formidable opponent.

When she was a kid I thought she’d grow up to be a knock-down gorgeous woman. I hadn’t anticipated she’d be a literal automated killing machine, a capable marksman.

So, when ever you think about insulting the intelligence of the next Bratz shoe-in that catches your eye, remember this, she could be the soldier covering your back in times of war and you know how hormonal women can be

.12/31/2005 10:31 PM
word count 226

Finding Neverland

"....actually, you're a dog"

I love Johnny Dep. He's a fascinating creature. Will the man never age? He's come a long way since 21 Jump Street. I am always assured of a good laugh or cry when he appears on the big screen. Even on the little screen. So naturally, I was excited when yet another opportunity arose for me to take a magical journey with the inimitable hair gel hottie. I quickly signed up for my 2 week free trial with Netflix and pushed him to the top of my Que. I figured I'd been thinking about trying them out for a long time now, so why not now, since there are so many movies out there that I haven't seen, and will most likely not see if I don't opt in for home delivery. This time of year is too iffy to run the risk of late fee's. So I rarely rent. It's a 40+ mile round trip to the local Movie Gallery. That's why I would no doubt end up buying those rentals due to imminent winter time weather conditions.

I was really excited when Finding Neverland arrived in that bright red envelope. I waited until the old bald man left for work, made myself a superb pile of nachos and cracked open that Coca Cola I so rarely indulge in. I gently removed the DVD and sat it in the tray and exercised my remote finger. The drawer slid in and nothing happened. And more of nothing. So I ejected it to see what was the matter.

Oh, is that all.

It had a crack clean through. I was a bit let down, but I had My Big Fat Greek Wedding
waiting in the wings.

I reported it damaged and sent it on it's way. A couple days later I received the replacement copy. I danced around doing my best Mary Martin imitation and batted at the fairy dust drifting down from the ceiling fans. Then I lined out my evenings work on the living room floor in front of the tellie, tossed my taco supremes onto a TV tray and flopped down, my trigger finger itching.

Please work...awesome! Peta-Peta-Peta

I channeled Bette Davis, then composed myself long enough to plow into the sour cream that was oozing from my taco. The excitement was short lived. The picture froze, it moved, then it froze for good. I never made it past the "...you're a dog" scene.

So I'm thinkin', I'm just not meant to watch this flick...not now anyways. I got my gift wrapping done for two birthdays and Christmas while half heartedly engrossing myself in Batman Begins. I had a hard time getting past the cape crusaders lisp.

My doubly bad luck with this movie tells me that it must be a very popular one for it to of been released for such a short time and to already have two worn out discs in a row find their way to my mail box. Will I never find Neverland? I only hope that my luck is better when The Pirates of the Carribean 2 is released. As for Netflix? Thou shalt not judge, lest ye be judged.

12/18/2005 1:25 AM
word count 513

Claddagh Poison Ring; A Fashion Oxymoron

WILL WORK FOR FOOD

That's my sign. The one I would be flashing at people if I were standing on a corner. Rare, I know. We're a dying breed, the ones that don't flinch at the prospect of earning our way. Heck, I'm just so tickled someone would actually pay me in exchange for my fulfilling a need of theirs. In case you've been wondering, that's where I've been, working. Now I know what you may be thinkin', " How can she go off and forget about us loyal readers? The answer is...money.

It being the most expensive holiday of the year, I've been beating the bushes for green backs. I haven't gotten my quota yet, although I may have had a couple of shrubs try to hit me back if they weren't dormant. I've been my resourceful self, selling anything that hasn't grown roots.

I've moved a lot of Oracles lately...and no, those have nothing to do with dental floss, tarot, pendulum, Gypsy Fortune Telling Cards, stuff like that. My second biggest seller has been silver jewelry, charms and talismans. Anything from any religion is good mojo. I'm not Jewish, but I love my Hamsa. I Believe all religions are THE religion. The stories are similar, a lot of the practices have similarities too. It all boils down to The Father, The Holy Mother, and The Son. Their lives read like the ultimate Soap Opera. It has been transformed into Blockbuster hits and has remained on the Best Sellers list since the dawn of publication. Tragic, mysterious, awe inspiring page turners. So, a person can't go wrong catering to the spiritual masses. Besides, I may inadvertently win a brownie point with the divine omniscience. I was listing some great stuff today that I wouldn't mind owning myself if I could afford it when a shiny silver heart caught my eye. It glowed beneath a crown and between two slender hands. It was a Claddagh ring. I stopped a minute and admired it, then gently tucked it into a tiny Ziploc and began writing the copy for the advertisement.

CLADDAGH POISON RING...

Right there I busted out laughing. You see, that's what I call a fashion oxymoron. A Claddagh is given as a gift of love and friendship. It's an Irish thing. However, I'm thinking it may not have been an Irishman that decided to create a poison ring out of the time honored gift. Yesser, you read that right. You can discretely stash a little dash of anything inside this ring. And honestly, if you want it to be discrete, you obviously have ill intentions. Am I right?

12/10/2005 11:50 PM
word count 435

The Anti-Socialite of Hogwaller

My Prince hath come!

Eyeball deep in people, I thought I would bemoan another. I'm not much for crowds...unless they're my crowd. And well, I haven't had many crowds of my very own since I moved to Missouri. Call me an anti-socialite. That's a retired socialite in hiding. Can you think of a better place to disappear than in the country...in A Country with all the pretentious entrapments imaginable being beamed into your very own satellite dish? Only in America. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I understand why, as a soul awaiting birth, I might have chosen this particular life. Television, the internet...and best of all...household appliances. Even They can be beamed in if you have a cap-less Visa.

We've come a long way since the indispensable P-32 was invented.

Yesser folks,
It slices,
it dices,
it can even remove a gall bladder in a pinch!
The A-mazing, Army issue, one each, P-32!

I carried one for years, then I discovered fire and the P-32 retired to the kitchen junk drawer to live out it's remaining days waiting for Godot.



We, the higher echelon of the hog farming community, were crouched amid playing cards, and stifling curses in the middle of the living room floor, when a vehicle pulled into the drive. The distinct pitch of gravel on gravel announced the arrival. Before I could feign an unfortunate play, leaving my cards to Valhalla, the back door creaked it's introduction. The sound of small feet doing double-time measured a 2.5 on the Richter Scale as they made their way through the tiny farm house.

Grandma!Awe...you're a princess. He stroked my face and leaned in for a long overdue meeting in Xanadu.

And you're my prince!

You're so beautiful. He let the words escape in a seductive exhale as he scaled my bean stalks and melted around my neck like a sable wrap.

The love of my life had been gone so long. His mother has a tendency to up and move without notice, and she did, a few months back. No phone call, nothing. I'm forced into the waiting game and it's never easy. What is easy, is loving the little charmers she gave birth to.



Since my pre-technology days when a can opener the size of a Lima Bean was thought impressive, Troglodytes were The Cool People, and raw fish was considered a delicacy, I have evolved into this big gooshy Grandma thing. More complicated than solid state circuitry, more intense than a microwave burst, more powerful than a plutonium Visa card, and more pliable than silly putty in the hands of a five year old, than anything the copious convocation of the Sci-fi community could collectively conceive. That's what love can do.

Gee, just think, if my daughter could have kept her feet on the floor I may never have met my Prince, fallen in love, or ceased consumption of uncooked sea life.

11/30/2005 4:27 PM
word count 478

Jonesing For Shelving Units

I was pretty amped up and didn't really need the coffee that was brewing. I threw myself together and double checked my list of to-do's while putting on the layers of winter attire. I plucked the blank check from Johns desk along with the list from the paper, tucking them into my top zippered pocket of my coveralls.

I hadn't been to an auction all year, but I couldn't pass this one up. Stores don't close down everyday, and I needed store shelving and a lot of other stuff. The floral shop had been in Nevada for years, I found out just how many, a few hours later.

It was cold, it being November, so there were fewer folks there than would've been in warmer weather. It was a common white house on an unimpressive corner, a few blocks off the main drag. Behind the house, the tattered remnants of a large green house that had seen a better time, was filled with open boxes. People wandered through, rummaging the contents for long lost treasures. Attached to the far end was the floral shop. There was a small trailer parked up by the front door where some elderly patrons were gathered in a friendly huddle. The white Styrofoam cups bobbed up and down, leaving wisps of steam in their wake. I sipped on my stainless coffee cup, wishing I was feeling social today. I felt more like a ghost, content to remain unnoticed and uninteresting, as I drifted through the maze silently at intervals throughout the day. There seemed no end to the haphazard additions that had marked periods of momentary prosperity. And just as it had grown, so it also shrank back from the decay of decades, until the only part being maintained was the store front.

I did my best not to dote on the trinkets. I was there for counters and shelving, and maybe a cash register, but I didn't see one. I had to keep telling myself not to bid. There were so many things I could have used for my store. Whenever the auctioneer would try to coax a $2 bid, John's face would drift into focus, chastising me for entertaining the idea of non-essentials. Even when he's not there, his nagging reaches out across space and chokes the life out of the best of days. He's such an old woman. So I would refrain, kicking myself the whole time. I knew what kind of bargains I could have gotten. Why did they keep veering off the path to the shelving? I really needed to see what they were going to run me before I dared indulge even one bidding war fantasy.

Eventually, they auctioned the shelving units. I bought every one of them. I also bought some flats filled with vases and other stuff. Boxes of fish bowls, some miscellaneous and mostly...vases.

I didn't get all the vases I wanted. There happened to be one antique dealer with a very deep pocket who won everything he put his mind to. I kicked at the dust and ground my teeth whenever he'd call my raise. I knew I couldn't win against him. I had a budget that had no room for such flamboyance.I did end up with most of the vases in the back room. I got many good pieces. Most I will sell., seein's how that's my business..you know,selling stuff I wish I could keep.

All in all, the day was alright. It warmed up, I got what I came for at a price I liked. I made a new friend, she's an artist from Huntington Beach, with many of the same interests as I. I even got some resale items, a few vases I could actually keep if I stick them up on the shelf when John ain't lookin', a huge floral cart (one of the I-could-really-use-if-I-find-one items) and a great walnut buffet, and all for half what he said I could spend, and still he tells me...in front of witnesses...that he'll never give me a blank check again. He always does that.He gives me money, tells me what to buy, I buy it, come back, give him the change, and he bitches until I pay him to shut up. Which mysteriously comes to exactly what I just spent.

So, he gets to come off like this big generous guy to everybody, and I look like the woman that takes advantage, because he doesn't do anything nice without the whole world hearing all about it and being given ample time to pay homage to his thoughtfulness, and he knows I don't tell anyone how it really went after he's through playing me. Hmm... I have a daughter like that too.

Well, I must not mind as much as I think I do, because after all, I'm still here.

11/23/2005 0:0 AM
word count 802

Mosquitos Bite! Especially if they carry Malaria!!

Banning DDT kills millions. Yes, you read that right. In Uganda, Malaria is a debilitating disease that afflicts about 12 million of the country's 27 million people.

Environmentalists are opposed to the spraying of DDT. They prefer to be on the safe side, by continuing the ban on the pesticide after the 1970's release of Silent Spring by Rachel Carlson. It became the symbol of chemically based insect control overuse in agriculture.

While pesticides are viewed as hazardous in general, sometimes, the pro's out weigh the cons, as in this instance where nearly half the citizens suffer because of the ban.

The fact that DDT is responsible for eradicating Malaria in the U.S., Europe and much of Asia, is being ignored, and Ugandans suffer. The complacency of those that now reside in the safe zones, sickens me. I find environmentalists, armed with their facts, have completely lost sight of the impact a full out ban is having on Africa. If it is used to end the devastation on the human populace, the food exports will all become suspect, limiting their export.

Here are my questions.
How catastrophic to the environment would be the use of DDT if handled properly?
What good are the exports if they have the potential of transporting the affected mosquitos back to the countries that smugly refuse to aide a crippled nation?
What good are the proceeds from their exports going to do them if they're dead?

Unless you've got a better idea, why not knock out the rest of the Malaria carrying insects, then shelf it? How selfish and self-righteous we must appear to those we could help,yet refuse, by not finishing the annihilation of the disease-spreading mosquitos?

You know what they say, be careful what you do and say, because it'll come back around to bite you in the @$$. In this case, it could be a deadly mistake forall of us.
10/20/2005 7:20 PM
word count 284

Doug 36

I've fallen way behind in my blog posting. So consider this a blog-a-thon. Tonight I'll upload some of my back-log.After a little updating and past tense tweeking, I'll be good to go,and you'll get a snicker or two out of my uncitified existence.

Boy, what I'll do for a buck is really sad sometimes.

There's a lot of down time involved in a rural store. By that I mean, you have a lot of time to contemplate things like, the meaning of life, day time TV and where on earth that awful smell is coming from.
After kicking back at the desk in every way possible, experimenting with radio stations, and rummaging the entire catalog of creative wall papering ideas, I went to a stack of papering catalog's near the front door. While crouched down and yanking the hefty volumes from the precarious row balanced against a carton of discontinued and terribly boring rolls, I took in a quick, deep breath as my knee screamed in pain. I quit breathing instantaneously when I got a lung full that left a bad taste in my mouth on it's way through.The stench of death infused my two hour old chewing gum with a sickening sweetness of the fairly recently deceased. I clamped my mouth shut and straightened out, which shot more unpleasantness up my body. I'm too out of shape to be moving so fast. I realized instantly that I had been crouched directly over a very dead mouse. For such a small creature it sure carried a mighty big smell.
I had finally found a purpose for my day; Rid the store of that aud de corpse. Whisking away the critter with a wad of toilet tissue did not suffice. The aroma stayed.I tried the usual Glade air freshener and got a potpourri of the two. Slightly masking, and maybe even enhancing it's subtle undertow. This morning I didn't think I'd find anything as chokingly infused as the warehouse air after running that old propane fork lift. I was so wrong. I dipped into the whole pile of deoderizer's claiming to be the best.
So here I sit in a room smelling of cinnamon sticks, citrus bouquet,lavender and spray starch, and undoubtedly, Jerry...the mouse, may he rest in peace, in the outside dumpster.


I start feeling a little old when other family members, namely my daughter, offers to do my dry wall. What happened to the days when I would have done it myself?
I walked out of the house this morning, eyeing the milk can filled with walking sticks of various shapes, sizes, and vintage. I contemplated giving in to the weakness in my limbs and bringing one along, just in case.
I decided I'd rather look cool when I fall down. The clatter of a free falling cane always draws all attention within ear shot to the idiot that can't even remain upright with walking aide in hand.
I've had to do a lot of kneeling today. Thank goodness my intuition told me to wear green-jeans. Those are my lime green ugly pants. While the color does not offend anyone with a lime fetish, they are comfortable, durable, and expendable. I think I did a fine job of disguising the bad taste of a retro color in an unattractive cut, even in an 80's state of mind (narrow ankles). I tend to forget that the fashion machine doesn't turn here. Anything is pretty much game, unless we're talking bold ethnic. I'm probably the only person in the Mid West that would dare, but then, I went out in public in my ugly pants, so what do I know?


Okay,all it took was one little delivery to end that I'm-so-old stuff, and give me hot-damn-flashes. His name is Doug 36. He's not an airborne virus, he's Fed-Ex Ground, and more of an intoxication. The 36 is because that's his number on a scale of 1-10. I should slap myself for being so silly, but I'm way over due for a stupidity attack. That's what hit me today. I was in a stupor. Rare for a person like me. I've always got something to say. I didn't counter with any Cerebral Gas wisdom like, "So, you ever been married? No? Do you like girls? Yeah? I thought you did. No doubt that's your problem. You oughtta set your sights a little higher up the food chain." Then I slip a sly wink in there and saunter. Not today.
While acting on impulse is a great fantasy all grandmothers cling to, we've been around long enough to know better. There are people that count on me in all my mid-life sanity. I'm not saying that getting older makes you more responsible, just wiser.
A woman is made the rock, the stability required to hold a family together. The role is born out of the need of others, not the desire of the aforementioned matriarch.
Ten years ago I would have hopped in his truck. Today, I sign the bill, shake his hand and return to the desk almost feeling like I should be having an after sex cigarette, because, that's as close to it as I'll get.
Besides, in my ugly clothes, I can't imagine anyone being impressed likewise.

You're Too Big To Be Afraid Of A Little Rain, Bubba!

It sounded like an explosion. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would’ve thought it was just that. The night went off like a flash bulb. I could see for a quarter mile through the deluge. The smell of sulfur was thick and unyielding.

Poor Merlin; He leapt from his bed and frantically crashed into the front door. I held him close and told him it was just noise and that he shouldn’t be frightened. I tried to appear convincing, which isn’t easy when your dealing with a dog that owns exceptional skills in cross-species communications.

It was one of those storms straight out of a murder mystery. The kind I always scoffed at and swore spoiled the story because it wasn’t realistic. Way too dramatic. This was real alright. Wet shuddering electricity streamed downward with conviction and made contact with something in the distance. The sound about knocked me off my feet. My façade was faltering, so I sat on the stoop and put my arm around the quivering canine in hopes of reassuring both of us.

You’re too big to be scared of a little rain, Bubba.

His eyes were wide and questioning. With a thoughtful hunch, his head cocked slightly, he stared at me from the corner of his eye. He was giving me that look. The one he gets when he’s absorbing information and either trying to make sense of it, or letting me know he thinks I‘m full of shit.

What?…okay, it’s loud and bright and a little scary.

I hate it when he coaxes the truth out of me. Not the part where the dog appears smarter than me, it’s that he starts licking and stuff like he’s all proud of me for getting it. Then I have to go in and wash the dog off me, and heaven forbid I don’t come back out with the cookie he just won in the stare down.

Arthur, Morgan and Freya casually emerged from under the lawn chairs and joined us on the stoop. Merlin’s not what you’d call a cat lover, he’s more of a cat co-existent. He likes them fine if they stay out of his food and don’t try to cuddle on a hot day. Right then he gave them all a lick, then attempted to scrape the fur-balls off the top of his mouth nonchalantly, so as not to offend. They blinked acknowledgement of his gesture and continued watching the sky. He smiled and quivered and nosed Arthur, who leaned into it with the passion of a cross-eyed Siamese, almost missing the mark.

After the storm leveled out, I messed up everybody’s fur a little, stretched Merlin’s face out and told them not to wake me up for anything, but an act of God over 90 miles an hour.

When I got up in the morning, I went to cleaning out the garden lean-to. I got it all nice and clean and organized for fearful animals, in case I’m not home next time to hold their paws. I’d given up on it a while back because of the nightly visits by a destructive possum. That stinky critter didn’t come back after that last storm. Either Merlin finally got sick of it licking his bowl, or it was that thing stinking on B highway.

The weather has been all off kilter this year. It poured where it should have been dry, it baked where it should’ve rained, shorelines were altered, and we’re on our second enormous hurricane off the Gulf Coast in the same month. All the news coverage has given it a Hollywood feel to those of us not in the midst of the damage. I guess that’s how everyone else felt a couple years ago when we were pummeled by a record breaking rash of tornados. I have a dreadful feeling in my belly and am a bit concerned to what kind of winter we will have here in the Midwest. Most of all, I hope I never have to experience the terror of that force ever again. We were lucky, most of our neighbors were not. My prayers are with those presently dealing with Mother Natures wrath and you count me in on the collective will to calm her down.

Hopefully, the intensity of Hollywood’s, The Day After Tomorrow will never come.
9/21/2005 11:11 PM
word count 714

Buttlessman, Insano & Wonderdog

Merlin, the keeper of the field and guardian of the screw gun, let out a holler that could suck his wagger clear up his tail pipe and outta his noise whole. Keeping with my routine, I bolted out the back door, flashlight in hand and scoured the south field for activity. A large shadow moved across the north window of my divine little shop that is now nestled in the corner of our clover field. I moved a little closer and held the light beam high as I peeked through the sun flowered wall of my garden. An eye glinted in the light as it turned to stare back at me. Merlin nosed my thigh and smiled up at me in his Do-I-get-a-Scooby-snack-now-? grin.

Two large ears twitched and swivelled, then the lanky intruder meandered out of sight. Deer are inquisitive creatures. They say curiosity killed the cat. It's killed more deer than anything else. A large doe was peeking in my store window and was non-plused by the dogs yellow-alert tirade. She was much more interested in checking out the shiny new obstruction in her path.

Either you need glasses or you need more lessons on what not to bark at. No cookie this time stink-butt. I'm goin' back in.

We've been working real hard around here lately. not that it isn't the norm. It's just different. You see, that little shop I mentioned previously, is now nearly complete on the outside. It's only missing the rails and the tin on the roof of the front porch....and a little barn wood front wall. The doors are now locked tight. There's nothing in there to steal yet, but I like exercising my right to lock out miscreants. Too bad I couldn't have done that day before yesterday. Actually, I could have, I just didn't. Thing is, it only had two walls, so the whole locking thing would've been a ludicrous futility. In fact, I teased John the day before when we went up to the house to eat.

John: Think anybody'll run off with the generator?
Me: Na, lock the doors.

I received the appropriate hesitation and then squint thing he does when he's contemplating my sanity. I rather enjoy pushing that button. Keeping the straight face as he sizes up the situation is the hard part.

John has been working very hard with a rag-tag team of volunteers to bring my store into existence. So being robbed is so unjust. He's worked so hard he's become concave where a butt should be. Gross visual huh? Well, it's true! It's a bird....it's a plane...no...it's Butt-less Man! Able to leap tall corn stalks in a single bound, able to bend corrugated steel siding with his bare hands...

Did I say robbed? ...yeah, we were robbed. Our sweaty little work force broke for lunch and high-tailed it to Sheldon to eat dinner. We were gone an hour. When we returned, no tools. They cleaned us out. All but the screw gun, and they had every intention of taking it. They had stretched out the extension cord and half untied the electricians knot before dropping it in the dust. Apparently they were interrupted in mid-thieving. Near as I could guess, the dog woke from his nap on the house porch in time to stop them from getting the last, oldest and most inexpensive tool.

Good dog.

9/2/2005 2:2 AM
word count 556

A Castellation of Pine and Sky

From the kitchen window it looked like a couple cows out nosing around my new erector set in the south field.

Hey...that look like cows to you?

What?

I pinched up my face in frustration. Good thing I had my back to the man. I silently wished he'd learn how to structure a sentence, a few more words at least. My inner martinet threatened catharsis.

He looked out over my shoulder and chuckled, That's yer lumber.

I know that, I just was asking if you thought it looked like cows from here.

The lumber lay silently in two tidy heaps jutting above the clover in the field. That was my store...rather...it was gonna be my store when it got done. The weather had turned on me from the start. As soon as we had the lumber delivered, the dry spell ended.

That was a couple weeks back. Today I looked out the same window, and saw a castellation of pine and sky. Even in the face of piggy-backing storms, my dream was taking shape. Mass (materials) times velocity ( hell-bent volunteers on a pressing schedule), equaled the skeletal beginnings of A Divine Little Curiosity Shop, to call my own. Since I can't eat on what I make as a writer, I've sunk everything into this venture. My online sales have been faltering at a bad time. That's been funding my building. Now I'm just concerned that I won't have enough to close it all in before the onset of winter. At times like these, it makes my need for a vehicle with air-conditioning seem small and inconsequential.

It all comes down to faith. I have enough of it to know that if I work hard, my needs will be met. So I will keep hammering away. I'll also keep my whimsical observations to a minimum if I don't want the single-syllable wonder to start commenting on his perception of my mental state, a naturally occurring exultation he savors at the mention.
Men!
8/18/2005 1:21 AM
word count 327

An Agressive and Horribly Stinky Scourge

After the Tsunami and other weather irregularities, I'm guessing that John was not the only person to run out and buy the movie, The Day After Tomorrow. He was so intent on seeing the film that when the sales girl informed him that they only carried it in DVD format, he purchased a DVD player on the spot. I about had a stroke. I thought he'd never give in to the DVD phenomenon. Those little goodies were just too upscale for the likes of him. Curiosity got the best of him. He wanted to see what kind of atmosphere altering anomalies Hollywood was predicting. I didn't have to point out to him that the world-wide weather in general has altered a great deal during our life times.
John never liked reading, he avoids it at all costs...unless money is involved. He tends to dote on his green-backs. I figure if he'd of had a TV growing up, that he would have been one of those kids that would see writing a book report based on a made for TV movie as a logical alternative to the otherwise unavoidable literary confrontation.
This last week, we've had an abnormal cooling trend. Instead of the usual August pressure cooker, we've had rain, and lots of it. It's so weird to be able to go for a walk in mid-afternoon this time of year without becoming partially cooked. I haven't been the only critter taking advantage of the late spring/ early fall weather.
My garden has become overgrown and out of control. A very appealing homestead to a wandering badger. The fence didn't deter him. He had no problem nosing open the gate and finding a large rock to burrow under in the sage patch. He didn't get to enjoy it for long. John put about nine rounds into his head and stuffed him in a hefty bag.
My sage is now all trampled and uprooted. John did more damage than the foul creature that indiscriminately defecated on my holy ground. I had no problem forgiving the old coot that, as a man can't be too careful when confronting an aggressive and horribly stinky scourge. The badger, I'm sure, viewed him much in the same manner.
Now I'm feeling guilty about telling Merlin to be quiet the last couple of nights. I thought he was just being stupid, barking at shadows. I should have been commending him for his bravery and shoving Scooby-snacks into his face. Dogs are so forgiving.
I haven't had much time to write lately, with my planning my store and all. I have finally decided on a name. I shall call it A Divine Little Curiosity Shop. Flea Market is much too generic, The Corner Store is too boring, and I decided that The Hedge Apple sounded much too much like a horse turd, and face it, The Hedge Witch could restrict my patronage considerably, because, after all, not everyone has a sense of humor, especially those bible thumping old fart's that drive 15 miles per hour down the center line of the highway.
I'm going to enjoy the interior and exterior design work and even more fun will be the purchasing of interesting oddities and seeing how many I can cram into it without violating any building codes.
8/17/2005 1:24 AM
word count 547

Shoot 'Em Real Hard, Okay Papa?

I'm a grandmother, like it or not. I love the kids, really I do, it's just the being called grandma part that is hard to swallow. However, I find it much more appealing than the locally accepted alternative form, Nanna, as the name carries heavy connotations if you're from Iceland. Granted, I am not sure of the pronunciation, but Nana is the name of the Armenian pre-Christian Mother goddess, and being blessed with the title of that omniscient one is an honor. However, the latter spelling, Nanna, can refer to the Mesopotamian moon god or the Nordic vegetation goddess. According to some legends the goddess of green died of a broken heart after her consort, Balder, was slain. A real downer of a story.

Since my companion is bald, and maybe even bald-er than most, I make the connection on a conscious level and fear carrying the title since it could mean his demise and a messy end for myself. So it's no wonder he doesn't mind being called papa. It has no weighty karmas attached to it that I know of, unless of course, if you consider the Spanish word for french fry (papa) might land you in some hot oil. Grandkids are great. My favorite thing about them has to be the things they say. My grandson, Haven, spent the better part of a week with us recently and the buz word this go 'round was fight.

You wanna play fight?

Let's fight!

I fight bad guys like Spiderman only I got no web...see. He said this as he flicked his wrist back in the classic Spidy manner.

I had to ask him why he was exploring this particular word so thoroughly. Only I worded it in 4 year old hip-hop slang, Why you be trippin' on fight homy?

Somebody got's ta git mean peoples...I'll do it...like this! He did his little Jackie Chan dance of death, complete with sound effects.

Child, there's other ways to deal with problem people you know.

Like shoots 'em? Pappa you got guns?

Yep ( A man of few words).

Then you can shoots 'em okay papa? An' I'll do this, as he chopped the air and kicked an invisible foe in the knee caps.

Grandpa grumbled, not knowing what to say and trying to stymie a laugh.

You shoot 'em real hard okay Papa?...an' grandma can git me some web shooter an' I'll tie 'em up all sticky.

So, if a 3 foot tall spider-chan-man hauls off and clobbers you in the lower extremities out of nowhere, you best reflect on what you were doing. It could be My Hero to the rescue!
8/10/2005 11:26 PM
word count 389

It runs in the family

A Flicking, Yanking, Switching, Jerking Test of Wills

I know I'm always commenting on farmers...John in particular. I can't help it. They're so darn entertaining. I feel like I was born on another planet. In a way, I was. We had indoor plumbing, cartoons and Disneyland. John, and so many others had chores, much the equivalent to that of a chain-gang doing hard labor. Television was for lazy people with more money than sense and the word Disneyland left a bitter taste in the mouths of those that were raised to accept that the Magic Kingdom may as well of been in a galaxy far-far away, since they'd never set foot in the grand brick entry paved in loving memory of family vacationers from around the world, excluding poor farm children.

Now honestly, there has to be folks around here that grew up much in the same fashion as I, I just haven't met them yet. I was working for a particle board furniture factory in Utah, which I hated. While I was there I discovered that the main office was in a place called Lamar, Missouri. A name I'd only heard about in an exhausting Kevin Costner saga about Wyatt Earp. The people that had all the key positions were from that place. They seemed nice enough, and they sure missed home. It got me to thinking about how I cringed every morning when the alarm would go off. I hated to be single, living in an area speckled with polygamous communities and run by the second largest cult in the US. Those Mormons left me uncomfortable. They were nothing like the Mormons back home, they were normal in California (that comment being relative to your geography). I even frequented the churches myself and had many friends in the ranks. They were just plain scary in Utah.

The people in Missouri are a hard working, brave lot that work their lives away, six days a week in a sweaty, dirty, plant where their only fringe benefit is a yearly picnic that bored me into non-existence. I admire their tenacity and humble demeanors and I get a kick out of the unique brand of humor that emerges. Blue Collar TV is a classic example.

I have never regretted the move here. No, let's be honest...hell yes I've regretted it! Every time I bash into a piece of furniture while groping for the ceiling fan pull chain in the dark, on account of Mr. Weber refusing to allow me to use the wall switches. When we first moved into this house everything was fine...until we installed ceiling fans everywhere. It put him at peace, reverting back to the familiar danglies. I, on the other hand grew up flicking switches and can't learn to blindly nail that cord no matter how well I know this house.

I'll never forget the day John came home all grumpy and stinky (the norm) and yanked the chain, nothing happened (not normal). He flipped out. He started a ranting about circuits shorting out and kept pointing his finger at me and began the barrage of ridiculous accusations about my office equipment and attempted some Nazi interrogation techniques. I just stood there, mouth shut, Windex and paper towels slipping through my fingers. When he stopped for a breath, in my annoyance I let the cleaning supplies fall and walked over to the switch and flicked it on and walked out. I took a long hike through the woods that day. It was the first of many.

I don't let him bother me anymore. If he were to do that now, it would start a war. A flicking, yanking, switching, jerking test of wills. Neither one of us have that kind of energy to spare so he'd just turn the switch and let the moody old hound lay these days. The powers that be have instilled a will in me that can leave cobwebs gather, the dust thicken, and the the laundry untouched if I am so affronted. I become instantly much too busy for domestic servitude.
I still try to placate the man suffering from chronic fear of change by leaving the switches alone... unless I'm cleaning the lights and blades like that day, and he doesn't get excited anymore...about anything. We'll explore the flip-side to that coin another day.
7/30/2005 1:51 AM
word count 737

Proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing

The male animal's genetic code has been ingrained with oddities such as the peacock syndrome, muscle flexing, and the ridiculous theory of two heads being better than one. Just because they were born with the duality, does not make it a logical assumption. Like I heard one woman put it, "With one of these, I can get as many of those as I want!"

I think that geography is a large contributor to the general consensus on virility. In California, men tend to compare the contents of their yuppie garages; In locker rooms, they are exceedingly consumed with physical attributes; in Missouri, it's the I'm a bigger hillbilly than you competition. Never before have I witnessed such absurdities as I have here among the ranks of the proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing folk.

These farmers get together and they start spitting and picking and urinating in a no-holds-barred fashion. For instance, my John is not a spitter, but if you put him next to a man that does, the mucus begins to fly.
The concrete pad for my new store was poured the other day by a typically farm-reared pair of men. The young one was quiet and unassuming, the straight man in the unlikely duo. The older one, a genuine corn-pone and damn proud of it. He was a real character right out of Lil' Abner. I wouldn't classify him as being lacking in intelligence, quite the contrary. He had a lot to say about pert near everything. A real well-spring of acquired knowledge. How he acquired it remains a mystery, one I feared tackling for fear of it costing me a few more hours wages, as he's given to gab.

"We had ground hog fer dinner la's-nigh and we didn't even have to watch for buckshot! Man was 'at good! The woman used the right fire arm that time." He patted his belly to punctuate, which I thought was right nice. Given the flow of the conversation I was expecting a gastrointestinal-symphony to drive home the importance of a woman knowing her duties since I had already voiced my displeasure in the stereotypical and all the baggage that goes with it.

A collector of antiquities, he was fascinated with my massive collections of bound redundancies. His cursory regard a red herring that led to a homily on the per pound rate for paper at the local recycling plant ( a guy with a scale, a school bus and two storage sheds).

When his toothpick swung round to the 'tother side `o his mouth I could sense the shift in conversation coming with the next heave of his chest. He asked if I had any shoe buttoners.

"Ya know what a mean don't cha?"
"Of course", I ventured,"I found lots of old shoe leathers from those button top shoes when we cleaned out the barn, but no buttoners. "
"I c'lect `em, the buttonin' wands. I got 'em ferm all over...Missouri, Tennessee, Oklahoma. Never found one ferm Arkansas. Ya know why? They din't wear many shoes in Arkansas. Couldn't 'o, er I would a found least ways one. Mebe, i's got sumpin' ta do with their feets..."

In Missouri, people are merciless with the jokes about Arkansasrins. Apparently, at the southern border of our fair state, there is an invisible line that divides the hominids from the direct descendent's of Neanderthal Man. At least, the way they tell it.

When he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his over-all's, the toothpick swung back around.

"Ya know this boy here, don't know his mathematician. Yep, I've a taught 'im what a could. He din't even know... hey, ya know what half `o 12 is?"

I knew there had to be a catch, so far he had carefully led us in one direction and then bushwhacked from the rear on every subject.

"Why don't you tell me. Better yet, show me."
"Gots a pen n paper?" He drew out the number 12 in Roman numerals (xii), then asked me what that was. Then he drew a line through it ( xii ). "Nahow, wha's that?".

What a character.
7/29/2005 3:0 AM
word count 719

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Squeezing Water Out Of A Turnip Truck

One mournful sigh left me like air escapes a bellows, only not as constructively. Would I ever get to sleep? Why couldn’t I control my lack-of-sleep habits? I had a bottle of pills for that, only at the late hour, if I were to take one I would sleep clear up until supper the next day, so the only real choice I had was to stretch my cramping fingers in a frantic caressing of my QuikPAD, pumping out words in strangely affectionate strokes.

I spend way too many nights just like last night. All the quiet is so deafening I have to put it somewhere, so I feed it to my word processor, then follow it around with a baggie and pooper-scooper for the next three days waiting for the payoff. Kind of like that time I caught a brief glint of gold flash as my ring careened down the throat of my daughters puppy. Messy business. I’d much rather try to squeeze water out of a turnip truck.

I blame my love affair with inanimates on a fear of commitment. That’s right, I have hang-ups just like the next person.

I’ve heard women moan about how their husband is more in love with his car or TV remote, more so than with she, his wife, or how a woman kicked her boyfriend out over a water ring on her beloved Chippendale. If a man is so into his car that he can’t remember his spouses name then let him sleep with it…in the garage. If he’s the kind to stop at nothing to maintain controlling interest in the remote for the sake of dictatorship, toss it to him and tell him to hop on top of it next time he feels frisky.

If your guy gets the boot for leaving his mark on your Chippendale, I’ve got one question for you, “If you’ve got a drop-dead gorgeous male stripper lounging in your living room in nothing but a black bow-tie what are you doing letting the inferior specimen in?“ What are you….nuts? Dump the bum and keep the stripper. You won’t even care where he puts his glass as long as he’s wearing those rip away pants.

Ah…wait a minute, if the stud-muffin just lays there while another man sets his beer on him you lose either way, if you know what I mean…girlfriend.

Let’s get back to my main topic; I’m not the only one that prefers the company of things I own outright over that of the opposite sex. Somehow, that didn’t come out right. What I meant to say was, if a man does not please me, I can’t sell him for a profit, unlike his battery operated competitor. No, that sounded really-really wrong. How about, the only words that come out of my technological companions are the ones I put into them? Now I’m making my techno-toys sound like a bad date. This is where I would usually bow my head back to my work at hand and mumble something barely audible, so that my hard of hearing companion thinks I am actually paying attention to him, so I can continue to ignore him in peace. He hates to admit he can’t hear what I say, for fear of hearing about his lack of hearing and how he should get it fixed, so he just follows my lead and retreats while making an effort to disguise random verbalizations as an answer to the question that he thinks he didn‘t hear.

With men, it all boils down to power. Tim the-tool-man Taylor summed it up in 20 minutes weekly, with common male misinterpretations , splitting hairs like a blow-drier. It just goes to show that high levels of testosterone cannot coexist within the same body mass as philosophical prowess. If anyone can point out a man that possesses both, I’ll trade in my Ken doll in a heart-beat.

My only other quiet-time diversion would be reading, which I did for a couple of hours before stuffing thoughts into my flash card. I made the mistake of choosing an intriguing trade publications to wile away the time and that’s why , at 5 am, I was still awake. I read an article on editing by a successful agent with an amazing track record and I couldn’t wait to pull out my in-progress works and start assaulting adverbs and morphing adjectives.

When the miracle of darkness began to fade, I eventually got to sleep. I was up by noon and eating at my favorite restaurant by 2pm, then wandered the grocers aimlessly, chucking things into my basket at carefully plotted intervals, so it would look like I knew what I was doing. I was freed from the yearly bonding ritual much to my relief, when John hustled off to a local truck and tractor pull with a pal this time. Not that I don’t enjoy his company, it’s just too hot out there at 90, with 80 percent humidity, and besides… I really need to polish my keyboard tonight.
7/16/2005 7:13 PM
word count 846

To Indulge My Wonton Doodling Desires

I was so happy when I won the bid for a new Summa Sketch. It’s been a year or two since I blew up the last one. The best part is, this one is factory sealed, never used. The first one was a used model that was advertised as new-in-box. I was a disappointed Ebayer when it arrived and I found it to be in less than new condition. You could say I was ready for a repeat performance of that purchase. Sometimes it’s great to be wrong, isn’t it? I love my office equipment. Maybe too much so. I come by it honestly…actually…genetically. My Dad loved his techno-toys. I never thought I would inherit that. I never thought I’d inherit a lot of things, like varicose veins, facial hair or organizational skills. I realize the latter is something most would call a learned skill and not genetically coded. I disagree.

Like my daughter, Destiny, I fought the urge to create a file system for such nonsensicals as used batteries with yet a breath or two of life left in them, enough to jump start a thread-bare Barney in a pinch. I’m constantly re-systematizing, unscrambling the organized jumble of my entire catalog of used and discarded genius. Like myself, she rebelled against the swelling yen of domesticity only to fold under the pressure of obsessive compulsion.

My purchase now sits before me all shiny and new whispering sweet nothings, pleading me to pick up the stylus and create, in remonstration of the clickety-clunking of my fingers in their intimate dance with it’s adversary, the keyboard.

Like the color-coding fanatic that I am, I have stuck to my horse-feathers and poppycock list of prerequisite to-do’s that rated a scratch or two higher than playing with my new toy. Hopefully, tomorrow I will free up enough guilt-free time to indulge my wonton doodling desires. In the mean time I’ll post my ramblings and hustle off to bed in my dutifully meandering manner, before drifting into la-la land. Most importantly, I’ll be sure and not blow up this one. There’s no way I can possibly cross up any wires this time; I spray painted the Summa Sketch cords red from plug to jack!
7/14/2005 2:10 AM
word count 396

My Rosy Revlon Pie Whole

Have you ever been in such a good mood that everything that comes out of your mouth is silly? I'm having one of those days...or, I was. My whole world has been a natural high lately. I started to feel like Superman, I could do no wrong. The euphoria lowered my defenses, which turned this cancerian into a soft shell crab. I get goofy when I'm happy. Unfortunately, exuberance comes at a cost.

I have a bad habit of verbally jousting everybody. I'm just funnin' with people and those who know me are aware of that and participate in the ritualistic game of clever conversational exchanges, but the occasional individual is taken off guard when the witty rejoinders begin to flow freely from my rosy Revlon pie whole. I begin the lively exchange and get stonewalled. That can bring me down quicker than an explosive toting terrorist. That was my experience today. Someone called today that hasn't seen me in years, asking for a phone number. While I was fumbling for the information I tried to break the ice with one of my moronic responses I'm so famous for when giddy. I then realized he was in no mood for humor and I was met curtly then disengaged. Ouch.

While it laid me out for a moment or two, I quickly recuperated and went about my nonsense toying with my chair adjustments and spinning in circles. I don't like to dwell in the cesspool of negative emotions. I'm sorry someone out there finds my humor hostile, but I know me, I won't give up hope that the next time we speak I won't have to pretend I'm a dry, unresponsive curmudgeon for fear of retribution. Fear is another one of those emotions I give little time to.

Who knows, maybe he'll have a good day and feel silly, and enjoy the repartee.
7/3/2005 7:4 PM
word count 331