tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-353486282024-03-13T10:59:16.719-04:00get-your-zsI'm going to continue to shoot blurbs into the ether and see if anyone responds. The chances of a response are probably slightly better than sending a message in a bottle out to sea.Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.comBlogger220125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-14683937139150169922012-04-20T21:48:00.000-04:002012-04-20T21:48:25.717-04:00Flibberty-jibbet<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've probably lost all my followers by now, so I can write any damn thing I want. And what I want to do is to complain. I want to bitch and moan. I'm bored. I'm lonely. I'm fucking HORNY! I was listening to some slow, grinding, sexy music tonight that had me climbing the walls. I don't like my life. I don't HATE my life, I just don't like it. And don't tell me (all you people out there who are not reading this) that I have no business complaining, because at least I don't live in god-forsaken Africa or Afghanistan or some other miserable hell hole where people are killing each other righ and left and they're starving and disease-ridden and being eaten alive by lions and tigers and bears, oh boy. I KNOW THAT, for heaven's sake! But at least they're not BORED! And anyway, I'm not comparing myself to anyone else. I am entirely self-absorbed and selfish. And my selfish self would like something interesting to happen. Something that would feel really good and be lots of fun, but wouldn't get me in trouble. Of course, the first part of that sentence and the last part are mutually exclusive. Shit.</span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-67931959707170370242012-01-21T09:25:00.001-05:002012-01-21T09:37:35.284-05:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">No, this isn't a true story, no matter how much I would like it to be. It was a challenge issued by the esteemed Mr. Pluck, at <a href="http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/2012/01/20/f3-cycle-64-bit-by-bit/">http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/2012/01/20/f3-cycle-64-bit-by-bit/</a></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial;">-</span></div><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My Computer, My Love</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have long regarded my computer as my best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's always there for me when I want it, it does whatever I ask it to do and it never talks back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It keeps me up to date with the news and safely stores my attempts at writing poetry and short stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It helps me correct any spelling errors, but never criticizes the content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a pal!</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But lately, I've become aware of a new dimension in our relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes, when my fingers are pressing against the keys, I can hear a melodious hum and the keys feel warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The screen has developed a soft, rosy tint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the mouse - oh dear- I know this sounds strange, but really...just now, the mouse has started vibrating ever so gently, in a sensual way.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now, I know what you're thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know that I live alone and haven't been with a man for over a year, so I'm probably pretty darned horny and my imagination is playing tricks on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Well, maybe so, but...wait a minute!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mouse is really throbbing now and there's a message on the screen!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It says, <strong>"We can be more than friends, my dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would you like that?"</strong></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Gosh, I don't know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe...</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The mouse is bouncing around like crazy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"<strong>Hold me!"</strong> the screen commands.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I wrap my hand around it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"<strong>Put me in a place that will feel good to both of us!"</strong></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay, how about here...OH, OH, OH GOD, OH GOD!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>YES!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>YES!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Images of fireworks are dancing across the screen.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I light a cigarette and exhale slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am so glad that I upgraded to Windows 69.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-44906301432159838362011-09-18T21:48:00.000-04:002011-09-18T21:48:55.817-04:00Forget About It!<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dem7ek7kqhY/Tnae7wpgZYI/AAAAAAAABHU/HdLaz_DAAKc/s1600/1+car+roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dem7ek7kqhY/Tnae7wpgZYI/AAAAAAAABHU/HdLaz_DAAKc/s320/1+car+roof.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A great deal of my days are spent looking for things that I <em>know</em> I just had in my hand two minutes ago. Other times, I find an item in a very inappropriate place, e.g. the car keys in the freezer. I get panicky then, thinking that Alzheimer's disease is just around the corner. But then, if I can REMEMBER to do it, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have ALWAYS been absent-minded. Here are some (but definitely not ALL) of the STOOPID things I have done in the past. Especially with my purse and with my car keys.</span></div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Purse:</strong></span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 16, I left my purse on the bumper of my dad’s pickup, when we were preparing to drive to town. By some miracle, it was still there when we got to our destination, 7 miles away.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 30, I left my purse on the table of a restaurant, as we were traveling from L.A. to Salt Lake City. By some miracle, it had been rescued by the waitress, and she mailed it to me.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 40 something, I left my purse on the ground of Musser Park, while I climbed a tree sculpture. By some miracle, it was still there when I remembered it on my way home, and went screaming back to the park.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 50 something, I left my purse on the roof of my car. No miracles occurred.</span></div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;">I no longer carry a purse. If what I'm carrying does not fit into my hip pocket, I don't need it.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Keys</strong>:</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 40 something, I left my car keys in the lock of the car door and went waltzing away to the Pizza Place to have dinner with some friends. Because the car was old and unattractive, the keys were still there when I returned.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On several occasions in the past few years, I have left the house key (on a key chain with my CAR keys) in the lock of the front door of my house, not discovering it until the next day.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Miscellaneous</strong>:</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I left a bag of groceries on the car roof and drove away. </span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I left a tray of cookies on the car roof and drove away.</span></div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;">I left a suitcase on the car roof and drove away.</span></div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back when I lived on my ex’s and my “farm,” I had gone into town for the once-a-month grocery shopping trip. It was my habit to bring the many bags of groceries into the kitchen, set them on the floor, then put put them away, one at a time. There was always one bag containing several packages of meat, which were to be placed in our freezer. On this particular occasion, the phone rang just as I was <u>almost</u> done. Only the bag containing the meat was still on the floor. I forgot about it. It was still on the floor when we went to bed. The next day, we discovered that our dog had treated himself to a carnivore’s frenzy. There were bloody wrappers all over the floor. He had eaten about three pounds of hamburger and several steaks. He was so full, that when he got to the pot roast, all he could do was sink his teeth into it over and over, but he couldn’t swallow any of it. When I cooked it, it was extra tender!</span></div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;">I have improved, in some ways. I no longer set anything on the car roof. As I mentioned, I no longer carry a purse. I work very hard to remember not to release the house key from my hand after I unlock the door. But darn it! Why the heck did I go into the kitchen just now? I stood there, blankly staring into space, gave up and came back here to finish whatever it is I'm doing with the keyboard of this contraption on my desk. </span></div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial;"></span> </div><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div> </div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-10966019125270837272011-09-11T23:21:00.000-04:002011-09-11T23:21:47.350-04:00Never Again<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tonight I watched the History Channel as it re-broadcast the ghastly events of 9/11/2001. It was horrifying, of course, and I felt almost like I was re-living that awful day. But a strange thing happened to me, as I was watching. I started thinking of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in August of 1945, which would make NYC on 9/11 look like a walk in the park. In each case, the U.S. was not the one to start the fight. But to the suicidal, homicidal maniacs in the planes of 9/11, the U.S. "deserved" to be attacked. And to the war-weary military planners in Washington in 1945, the Japanese had to be given a blow that would leave them no option, but to surrender. Over 3,000 people died on 9/11. Over 300,000 people died from the A-bombs dropped in 08/1945. The numbers don't matter. Each person, in both cases, was a living, breathing, human being who loved and was loved. None of them had anything to do with the motives of their killers. But, the many horrors and atrocities of WWII made all the countries involved wary of ever repeating such a catastrophic conflict</span>. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Muslim jihadists, however, seem driven to rain death and destruction on the infidel. I fervently hope that they will reject those beliefs and join the 21st century. </span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-43281715553076615932011-08-21T23:42:00.001-04:002011-08-21T23:44:11.579-04:00Life goes on, and then it doesn't<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Damn, damn, damn! One of the nicest, bravest, funniest, most good-hearted men I've ever known died two days ago. Yes, yes, I know...we all have to go sometime and he certainly had more than his share of risk factors. Age (over 70), diabetes (both legs amputated), he smoked (in spite of doctors' dire warnings), and ate anything he danged well pleased. But damn it! He should have lived a lot longer, because he made people feel good. You could never leave Buddy without a smile on your face, because he had a contagious smile of his own and lots of good stories to tell. Adversity paid Buddy</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">many visits, but Buddy never let him stay long. The 14th child of a sharecropper family in Missouri, he was picking cotton by the time he was 5 years old. He dropped out of school early and hit the road, having all kinds of adventures on his way to California, where he developed his "ladies' man" persona, which eventually swept my sister, Julie, into his arms. Six kids, several moves, lots of financial woes, health problems (including the loss of one of his legs) happened, and Julie kicked him out. Five years</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ago, he went back home to Missouri, where several of his kids and grandkids followed him. I lost track of him and heard very little about how he was doing, except that his other leg was amputated a couple of years ago. Not that a little thing like having no legs kept him down, however! He got around just fine, thank you, with a couple of prosthetics, according to my favorite nephew, who sent me a photo of Bud standing up, with his characteristic big smile.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But now, he and his smile are gone. Damn, damn, damn.</span><br />
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Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-81566778301258827352011-07-25T22:14:00.002-04:002011-07-25T22:33:02.383-04:00Rhyme Time<span style="color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm going to write a poem, or die in the attempt.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That would be an interesting way to commit suicide, wouldn't it?</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Damn! Can't come up with a poem, so I'll hold my breath until I die."</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If only it were that easy...</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hm. Can't think of a poem. (deep breath...) How about a limirick?</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iwFIxZfnB-I/Ti4mEKe1D6I/AAAAAAAABHQ/eIVRBoyCc3M/s1600/zelda+warrior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iwFIxZfnB-I/Ti4mEKe1D6I/AAAAAAAABHQ/eIVRBoyCc3M/s1600/zelda+warrior.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There once was a woman named Zelda.</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Who found there was no rhyme for a Zelda</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She threw down her pen</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And started again</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After changing her name to Cruelda.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Hey, Walt Whitman! Top that!</span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-60886945173668703222011-07-01T21:58:00.000-04:002011-07-01T21:58:33.214-04:00Little By Little<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I visited my "adopted" family for the fourth time today. Jamali has made excellent progress with his writing, I am happy to say. I had given him a tablet with lined paper and a chart of the printed alphabet, both capital and small letters, and told him to copy the alphabet on a sheet of the paper, each time I visit. He has done so, and I am amazed how much he has improved, in just two weeks. I wish I had a "before and after" to show you. He is slow with his reading, but I am optimistic, because he tries very hard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">One thing I have been reminded of, in my experience tutoring third-graders, is just how difficult and complicated English spelling is. It seems that for every rule, there are exceptions, and the only way you can dependably learn to read and spell is by memorizing. The letter "c" always makes Jamali hesitate. Who knows whether it is to be pronounced as "s", "k" or "ch"? How about "...ough" at the end of a word? Is it "uf" (as in tough) or "o" as in "though"? And don't get me started on the <u>vowels!</u></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But what I really want to talk about now, is my blunder in a conversation with Jamali's mother, Tunza, this morning. I had done a little research on Burundi, and saw that there are people of the Hutu and Tutsi tribes there. I asked Tunza if she and her family are from one of those tribes. She said yes, they are Hutus. I asked if the tribes are still fighting and she said yes. Then, like a big, thoughtless dumbbell (it just popped out), I asked if that's how her husband died. Tunza burst into tears, which she tried to hold back, and she looked so terribly distressed that I would have given anything to suck back my stupid question. I kept apologizing as she kept saying it's okay, until I was ready to run for the door. Fortunately, Jamali came back into the room then, and we were able to switch channels, back to reading.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So...<strong><u>I</u></strong> learned a lesson today that is as important as how to pronounce "antidisestablishmentarianism." And that is, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS! I just hope I will pass the test, if one is given.</span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-29919053878634199172011-06-22T21:39:00.001-04:002011-07-01T21:18:30.133-04:00I Hope I Can Help Them<div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShuS4Gi_nf8/Tf_vGOC5CHI/AAAAAAAABHM/KgDQR0SGTHo/s1600/1%2Bjamali.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620473750110144626" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShuS4Gi_nf8/Tf_vGOC5CHI/AAAAAAAABHM/KgDQR0SGTHo/s320/1%2Bjamali.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 129px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 161px;" /></a><span style="color: #330000; font-family: arial;">For the past four years I have been volunteering at the local elementary school, helping third-graders negotiate their way through the mazes of reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic. Third grade today is much more difficult than it was way back when I was eight years old. Children are expected to learn skills that I wasn't confronted with until I was in junior high. But I sit with the ones who are having trouble, and together we muddle through the muddy waters. </span><br />
<div><div><div><div><div><span style="color: #330000; font-family: arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #330000; font-family: arial;"> When this school session ended last week, I thought I was through for the summer. But on the last day, the principal took me aside and asked if I would like a "summer project." Before I could say, "No thanks,"she told me about a little boy whose family had recently emigrated here, as refugees, from Africa. He is eight years old and has been here for almost a year. He spoke no English at all when school started, but was placed in a third grade class ("immersion," I think they call it) and, with no special treatment, was expected to learn the same lessons as rest of the class. He has made remarkable progress, but is still way behind the other kids. In spite of that, he is being sent to <u>fourth</u> grade in the fall. Ms. Principal asked if I would like to visit his home once a week during the summer and help him with language and reading. She then introduced me to him and I was a goner. He is the sweetest little guy you could ever hope to meet. So of course, I agreed. Ms. Principal then mentioned that the boy's mother, who works nights as a cleaning woman, and speaks almost no English, might want to sit in on the lessons. That was fine with me.</span></div><div><span style="color: #330000; font-family: arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="color: #330000; font-family: arial;">We had our first session this morning. The little boy, Jamali, greeted me at the door. He was all smiles and very eager to get started. The mother, Tunza, came into the room, shy and smiling, and we introduced ourselves. I asked if she would like to sit with Jamali and me while we had our lesson and she eagerly accepted. So the three of us sat at their dining room table and began to discuss the alphabet (which Jamali knew fairly well, but Tunza did not), the sounds the letters make, and how to spell some simple words. Ms. Principal had provided me with some teaching materials from the school, which helped. I also had bought a tablet with bright colored paper and a mechanical pencil for Jamali, which pleased him. After about 1/2 hour of "lesson," I looked up and saw a girl a little older than Jamali, who was watching us. Jamali said, "That's my sister, Xani. She's in eighth grade." I invited her to sit with us, and she accepted...all smiles. So we continued with the lesson, which now had three students. When one or more of them did not understand something I said, one of the others would translate, as best as he/she could. Their language was completely unfamiliar to me. It sounded like bees buzzing, with occasional hiccups. A few minutes later, another girl appeared, looking just as eager and sweet as her sister. Jamali introduced me to her and said she would be in 10th grade. She spoke even less English than Jamali. I felt so sympathetic towards these children. How on earth could they keep up with their classes, if they could not understand the words the teacher and their textbooks used? But then I reminded myself that the U.S. is a country of immigrants! Few of them (except the ones from the British Isles) were fluent in English when they first got off the boats. But human beings have amazing brains and can learn things amazingly fast and well, when they are motivated. My grandparents didn't speak one word of English when they arrived on Ellis Island, from Norway, back in 1913. But they worked hard and learned what they needed to know to be successful and to raise 9 kids who were all successful. So I'm sure Jamali and his sisters and their mother will work hard and be successful too. And they will appreciate whatever I can do to help them and will make me feel like a queen!</span></div></div></div></div></div></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-48643083324261570932011-04-30T23:11:00.007-04:002011-04-30T23:49:37.862-04:00Nothing But Numbers<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pVeE_I9hego/TbzVm8m5M_I/AAAAAAAABHA/6tDtpYK8trc/s1600/money.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 101px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 130px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601586901623059442" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pVeE_I9hego/TbzVm8m5M_I/AAAAAAAABHA/6tDtpYK8trc/s320/money.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">Modern "money" is so bizarre. It's all numbers, stored in different computers, sent back and forth. Long ago, a man would be concerned wealthy if he owned great stores of precious metals and gems. Now, a man is wealthy if there are lots of zeros, preceded by a higher number, in his bank account(s). Of course, he probably buys precious metals and gems and fancy houses, cars and other stuff with those numbers in his bank accounts, but his net worth is all about the numbers. Think of it in terms of us everyday working stiffs. We get jobs. On Friday, we get paid. The "pay" consists of numbers, sent electronically to our banks. The numbers are added to whatever numbers that were left in our bank accounts from previous pays. Most of us have various bills (mortgage payments, utilities, etc) taken directly from our bank accounts. We don't even write a check to pay them. Numbers are just subtracted from our accounts and then added to our creditors' accounts. For the bills that we do pay by check, it's still just transfering numbers from our checking account to the creditor. No actual cash changes hands. If we go shopping or out to eat, we tend to pay by credit card. No cash, except perhaps to tip the waitress. </span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">- On the rare occasions we do use cash, it feels like it's tangible wealth; it looks valuable, it has heft. But really, it's just promisory notes from the U.S. government, not backed by anything of actual value. I remembered how shocked I was, way back in college when I was taking Economics I, and I was told that our currency was not backed by gold. Just the full faith and something-or-other of the U.S. government. Those greenbacks in my wallet suddenly felt lifeless. But compared to today's sterile numbers shuffling back and forth over the banking internet, currency still seems somehow more valuable. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">- How do <u>you</u> feel about it? If you were to win a million dollars in a lottery, would you feel richer if you were handed <u>one thousand</u> thousand dollar bills, or the number, $1,000,000, printed on your bank statement?</span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-24440007419861670272011-04-21T20:27:00.003-04:002011-04-21T20:57:01.250-04:00Next Time I'll Keep My Mouth Shut!<span style="font-family:arial;color:#330000;">Recently, I was walking home from town with a friend, when I felt a pain in my chest and then felt dizzy. I told my friend I needed to sit down for a while. Unfortunately, he had his cell phone handy, and the next thing I knew, I was being loaded into an ambulance. I was taken to a hospital and given lots of tests, which I passed with flying colors. I wrote the following nonsense while I was in the emergency room, waiting to be dismissed and suffering from extreme boredom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">When is a life worth saving?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">Is every life worth saving?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">Is my life worth saving?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">Five hours ago, I was fine.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">Walking down King Street, not a care in the world.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">Now I'm in the emergency room, connected to tubes and moniters,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">wondering if I'll leave here on my feet...or feet first.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">Will this be my "last write?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">Will a priest give me last rites?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">Will a lawyer read me my rights?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">Am I in the right?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">Will my good health be right back?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">I'm not writing with my right hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">For me, my left hand is the right hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">My right hand is the wrong hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">What is wrong with me?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#000066;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;">NOTHING!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;">I'm fine!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;">I'm good to go!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;">And when the paperwork is done,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;">I'm outta here!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;">------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#990000;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003300;">Since then, I have been traumatized by the results of that paperwork, the part that involves dollar signs. Lots and lots of dollar signs.</span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-36711699879045561742011-04-14T22:02:00.003-04:002011-04-14T22:44:01.940-04:00Stick 'em up!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fqfdvxRNXWw/Taewv7NibEI/AAAAAAAABG4/Sdysvmttpf4/s1600/a%2Bstickup.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 122px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 166px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595635399425944642" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fqfdvxRNXWw/Taewv7NibEI/AAAAAAAABG4/Sdysvmttpf4/s320/a%2Bstickup.jpg" /></a> <br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">There have been several holdups in Lancaster in the last few months. I often wonder how I would respond if a man shoved a gun in my ribs and told me to hand over my wallet. Being more disposed to discussion than violence, I'm pretty sure I would try to talk him out of it. I would explain to him the error of his ways. I would convince him to reconsider, to go back to school, to get a job, to go off drugs and eat right and exercise.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">He would then thank me, and with tears in his eyes, he would wave goodbye and go off to start his new life. Either that, or he'd pistol whip me, grab my wallet and shoot me in the head, just to shut me up.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">An alternate approach I have considered would be to tell him that I am a voodoo priestess, and if he harms me, I will come back from the dead and haunt him until <u>his</u> dying day. He'd probably still shoot me, but at least he'd feel a little uneasy about it.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#003300;">I could come up with some other ways to reason with the misguided fellow, but probably the wisest course of action would be to just hand him my goddamned wallet.</span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-12798516722374258572011-04-09T21:46:00.013-04:002011-04-09T23:58:11.046-04:00The Wine Is Fine, But Don't Ask Me to Walk a Straight Line<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g2pN3v366KM/TaEYmt6FSHI/AAAAAAAABGw/JDjyciZjAVg/s1600/0%2Bwine.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 111px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 108px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593779265608173682" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g2pN3v366KM/TaEYmt6FSHI/AAAAAAAABGw/JDjyciZjAVg/s320/0%2Bwine.jpg" /></a> <br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">So...what do you suppose happened when I, a definite light-weight in the alcohol department, was talked into having a glass of wine tonight? I <u>told</u> the hosts that if I were to drink a whole glass of wine that they would have to take me out to my car in a wheelbarrow, but did that make him give me a glass of cola instead? I think you can guess the answer to that rhetorical question.</span></div>- <br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">"It's just <u>wine,</u> Zelda, not straight whiskey!"</span> -</div>- <br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">"Yeah, but..."</span> <span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">"C'mon, it'll relax you!"</span>-</div>- <br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">"Well, I <u>have</u> had a stressful day. So give me just half a glass."</span> -</div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">Now, to me, a chronic pessimist, a half a glass means A HALF A GLASS! To my host, who wanted to be entertained, a half a glass meant A FULL GLASS, which was regularly re-filled as I sipped at its pleasantly dry red, relaxing contents.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">And then, we played cards. I was the scorekeeper. All I can say is that it's a good thing we weren't playing for money. My normally faultless arithmetic skills disolved into the winey mist. No one could remember whose turn it was to deal, how many cards were to be dealt or who had played what card. </span></div>- <br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;">But we had a good time, as far as I can remember. And someone, who could hold his liquor infinitely better than I could, drove me home. I think. Well...I'm home anyway. In one piece. And I'm smiling.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;color:#660000;"></span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-47807448150950170672011-03-30T20:59:00.002-04:002011-03-30T21:30:01.845-04:00I'm Not Moving Until I Write Something!<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#330033;">With that title, it's tempting to just say, "There! I wrote something. Good-bye." But I'm too stubborn to give in that easily.</span> <span style="color:#663366;">So what if I don't have any ideas?</span> <span style="color:#cc33cc;">Who cares if my brain is devoid of any creativity?</span> <span style="color:#6633ff;">Well, *I* care, but who cares what I care about?</span> <span style="color:#330099;">Are these rhetorical questions? </span><span style="color:#000099;">What the hell is a "rhetorical question," anyway?</span> <span style="color:#003333;">Who am I?</span> <span style="color:#009900;">What am I doing in the middle of a baseball diamond at midnight on the moon?</span> <span style="color:#33cc00;">I can't even play foosball! </span><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><span style="color:#993300;">Why can't I be young again, only not like I was when I *was* young, but more like someone who's really pretty and popular?</span> </span><span style="color:#cc6600;">Would I have been popular, if I had been pretty?</span> <span style="color:#660000;">Would I have been pretty, if I had been popular?</span> <span style="color:#990000;">Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all.</span> <span style="color:#cc0000;">So...if Mike's eye had had more beauty in it, would he have thought I was pretty?</span> <span style="color:#ff6600;">Would he have been beholden to me? </span><span style="color:#999900;"><span style="color:#666600;">If you are still reading this, do you feel like you have something in your eye?</span> </span><span style="color:#009900;">Don't rub it</span>! <span style="color:#006600;">That'll just make it worse!</span> <span style="color:#3333ff;">Try rinsing it with some Midol. </span><span style="color:#000066;">I'm getting cramps in my fingers, from typing so fast.</span> <span style="color:#330099;">How many fingers does it take to cross the road?</span> <span style="color:#6600cc;">To get to the other side, Silly!</span> <span style="color:#330033;">When is a riddle not a riddle?</span> <span style="color:#cc33cc;">When it's a rhetorical question!</span> <span style="color:#cc0000;">Whillikers!</span> </span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Am I done now?</span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-10627566358253362072011-03-24T21:20:00.006-04:002011-03-24T22:09:58.583-04:00A Fruit By Any Other Name<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_ovG5frAZ08/TYv4vDKBPII/AAAAAAAABGo/5DAfdiojzXE/s1600/sad%2Bhappy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 100px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 69px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587833249868102786" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_ovG5frAZ08/TYv4vDKBPII/AAAAAAAABGo/5DAfdiojzXE/s320/sad%2Bhappy.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ueKwC7AbwsM/TYv2p3Kd2-I/AAAAAAAABGg/RfFwcWqABtA/s1600/sad%2Bhappy.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#ff6600;"></span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;">A ripe orange is orange.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6600;">A green orange is not orange.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#663300;">A single nut is sane.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#663300;">More than one nut is nuts.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc9933;">One pear is not a pair.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc9933;">Two pears are a pair of pears.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc9933;"></span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6666;">A grapefruit is not a grape.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff6666;">But it is a fruit.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#663366;">A grape is a fruit.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#663366;">But it is not a grapefruit.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">An apple is a fruit.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">Unless it's a computer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">----Warning! It's about to get worse!------</span></strong></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#663300;">You can have a date,</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#663300;">and still be alone.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#999900;">The used car salesman sold me a lemon.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#999900;">I was ripe for the picking.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc9933;">I paid for the banana with three dimes and a nickel.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc9933;">I call it "the fruit of my coins."</span></div></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-89704519910551901672011-03-19T20:56:00.002-04:002011-03-19T21:33:32.598-04:00Marital Bliss - A Fairy Tale in one act<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iHRGi3BFuBQ/TYVZTI6SIZI/AAAAAAAABGY/jhFF8SoN1MI/s1600/rapunzel.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 108px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585969098167296402" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iHRGi3BFuBQ/TYVZTI6SIZI/AAAAAAAABGY/jhFF8SoN1MI/s320/rapunzel.jpg" /></a><br /><div><strong>Scene 1 - A living room in a modest home in Lancaster, PA. A middle-aged man and woman are standing in the middle of the room, looking agitated.</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: Cut your goddamn hair! You look like a hag!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: No! I like my hair long.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: Well...fine! Go live in Hagerstown, with all the other hags.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: If you're going to insist on insulting me, I'm going to stop holding back and start telling YOU to cut your goddman POT BELLY!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: I don't have a pot belly!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: Yes, you do! Why don't you go live in Pottstown? You'd fit right in.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: Wait...this isn't fun. Let's be nice to each other.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: Yeah, I agree. You leave me alone about my hair, and I won't mention your gut. Okay?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: Okay. But I really do wish you'd cut your hair.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: Yeah? Well, I really do wish you'd shut the fuck up about my hair!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: Stop yelling at me!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: I'm not yelling!..................Okay, I guess I did yell just then, but it's because you drive me crazy!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Man</strong>: You ARE crazy!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: So are you!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>(Man leaves room, slams door behind him.)</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong> (yelling): Come back here, you coward!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(Silence...)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Scene 2: Woman goes into bathroom and looks in the mirror.</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Woman</strong>: Shit! I DO look like a hag. But it's not because of my hair. It's because I'm fucking old! He just thinks it's because of my hair, because I had short hair when we first met. But he had a flat stomach back then, too. Well, I'm not cutting my hair, no matter what. I want it to get so long that I could wrap it around my neck and hang myself with it, like Rapunzel did to her stepmother. But before I do that, I could experiment with pulling it back really tight, and see if it would smooth out the wrinkles in my haggy, old face.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>(Bathroom door opens. Man peeks in...)</strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>Man:</strong> Honey...I'm sorry. I won't say anything more about your hair, if you don't say anything about my gut.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Woman: Gut? What gut? You look great, Sweetie-pie.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Man: So do you, Baby Doll.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>( Hugs...kisses...)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>And they lived happily ever after.</strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-63763149778672512912011-03-13T22:54:00.002-04:002011-03-13T23:13:35.032-04:00It's Lame, But I Have to Write SOMETHING!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">It's been a MONTH since I posted anything on this sorry excuse for a blog! I don't have any good ideas, but I have a couple of bad "poems," so I'll post them. I've lost most of my readers, anyway, so it doesn't really matter. I'll entertain myself, anyway.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"> _____________________________________________________________</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">My floor is a mirror</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">When I look into it</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">My world is upside down</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">I am walking on the ceiling</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">I see the sky through the windows</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">The windows are upside down</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">The birds are flying below me</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">The sun is rising in the west</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">I am growing younger by the minute.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> *****************</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I am a dragon</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I breathe fire</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I have sharp claws</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I have sharp teeth</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I have a whiplike tail</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I could destroy you</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">So be nice to me, please</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">Until I've had my coffee</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">I am a pussycat</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">I am soft and warm</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">I purr when I'm happy</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">I have claws, but they're hidden</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">So pet me, please</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">and I'll rub against you</span></span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-61522866745426595322011-02-15T20:53:00.005-05:002011-02-15T23:11:21.809-05:00Living Libido Loco<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nZyjqeGeqTs/TVtNpGghZZI/AAAAAAAABGQ/FTemNpZqR9o/s1600/vag.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 107px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 130px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574134332318115218" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nZyjqeGeqTs/TVtNpGghZZI/AAAAAAAABGQ/FTemNpZqR9o/s320/vag.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YSNscJOSWAQ/TVtL50uxVtI/AAAAAAAABGI/4UrE2k1ZKto/s1600/vag.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">My meno paused, then left for good.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">"Good riddance," declared my libido, unpacking her bags.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">I'm moving in.</span></div><span style="color:#cc0000;">-</span><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">She was lively, she was lustful.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Then depression jostled for space, dominating my moods.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Libido hid out.</span></div><span style="color:#cc0000;">-<br /></span><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Medication to the rescue!</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">SSRIs did the trick, evicting that nasty depression.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Come back, Libido!</span></div><span style="color:#cc0000;">-<br /></span><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Yeah, right. Read the label, sucker!</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Those meds and I can't live under the same roof.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Libido moved out.</span></div><span style="color:#cc0000;">-<br /></span><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">"I'll try something else," I pleaded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Look! This one says it will make me happy AND horny!</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">I lied, but it worked.</span></div><br /><div></div></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-63642884905086492742011-02-03T22:26:00.004-05:002011-02-03T23:43:09.581-05:00Hi Kuh! How Are You?<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TUuAV0kjz2I/AAAAAAAABGA/iWL6oFSdEeM/s1600/kissing%2Bmonkeys.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 120px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569686476551343970" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TUuAV0kjz2I/AAAAAAAABGA/iWL6oFSdEeM/s320/kissing%2Bmonkeys.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">I understand men.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">They are such simple creatures.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">All they want is sex.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#990000;">-</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">Though I'm a woman,</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">I don't understand women.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#990000;">We're complicated.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#990000;">-</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#990000;">Some of us use sex</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#990000;">To get what we want from men.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#990000;">It's a win, win deal!</span> </div><div>-</div><div><span style="color:#660000;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><div><span style="color:#660000;">-</span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#003333;">I dislike summer,</span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#003333;">but not as much as winter.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#003333;">Spring's okay though.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Courier New;color:#003333;">-</span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#003333;">Too hot or too cold. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#003333;">Is "just right" too much to ask?</span></div><div><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#003333;">Apparently so.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Courier New;color:#003333;">-</span></div><div><span style="color:#003300;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><div><span style="color:#003300;">-</span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">It's late and I'm tired.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">I'll go to bed now, and dream...</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#330033;">Dream of "just right" sex.</span> </div><div>-</div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-26540776660493199662011-01-26T22:04:00.005-05:002011-01-26T22:33:05.043-05:00'S no Fun!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TUDm0Kha9tI/AAAAAAAABF0/F7q3VxfGf6I/s1600/1%2BBLIZZARD.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 296px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 175px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566702923282052818" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TUDm0Kha9tI/AAAAAAAABF0/F7q3VxfGf6I/s320/1%2BBLIZZARD.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">It's snowing again. We don't need any more snow, goddamnit! There was plenty of snow on the ground yesterday, then more was dumped on us this morning. It finally stopped around 2 pm and I thought it was done. But NOOOOO! That witch, Mother Nature had to flex her stupid snow muscles again, and now I don't even want to look outside, for fear the goddamn house is being buried in the disgusting stuff. </span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">I thought global warming was supposed to take care of this unpleasantness. Surely by now we in the mid-state region should be able to grow orchids outside in the middle of winter. But all we can grow now is gigantic icicles! I actually saw some icicles yesterday that reached from the eaves of a neighbor's house, all the way to the ground.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000066;">One week from today is Groundhog Day. That little bastard better not see his shadow, or he's going into my stew pot!</span></div></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-13677272817586763292011-01-19T20:42:00.002-05:002011-01-19T21:53:39.600-05:00Earth vs. Moon<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TTejP5txFAI/AAAAAAAABFk/eVb_etEfQLo/s1600/a%2Bfull%2Bmoon.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 138px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 160px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564095358225683458" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TTejP5txFAI/AAAAAAAABFk/eVb_etEfQLo/s320/a%2Bfull%2Bmoon.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000066;">I'd much rather live on the Earth than the moon. Sure, the moon looks pretty from a distance, especially when it's full, like tonight, but up close, it's just a big, ugly rock. Of course, the Earth has some big, ugly places too, like the Bronx and most of Afghanistan, but it has a lot of really pretty places too. Especially in the Spring, in my back yard. In fact, my back yard is pretty for nine months of the year - Spring through Autumn. Winter sucks, but even when it's ickky Winter up here in the northern hemisphere, it's Summer down in the southern half of good old Earth. On the far side of the moon, it's always winter, cold and dark. </span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000066;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000066;">Here on Earth, the best things in life are free - flowers, butterflies, blue skies, sunshine, love and sex (if you're lucky). On the moon, you'd have to pay a hell of a lot to import most of that, and it wouldn't last long, with no atmosphere. Atmosphere is especially important for good sex. On Earth, moonlight provides some good atmosphere, but on the moon, you'd be either in the too-bright sunlight or total darkness. Also, you'd be confined to those bulky spacesuits and helmets, which would be a real downer, if you know what I mean.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000066;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000066;">There would be some advantages to moon life, the absence of talk radio and drivers-yakking-on-cell-phones, for instance. But for now, I'm staying right here, enjoying the lovely light of the full moon from a safe distance.</span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-13303314625660473682011-01-11T20:45:00.004-05:002011-01-11T21:29:03.879-05:00Taxation Without Precipitation<div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TS0Oz7kBC8I/AAAAAAAABFU/aOXtYYeBx0I/s1600/money.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 101px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 130px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561117400197303234" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TS0Oz7kBC8I/AAAAAAAABFU/aOXtYYeBx0I/s320/money.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">Mark Twain said, "Everybody talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it." Well, that was then and this is now. I have a suggestion for our clueless government: <strong>Tax the weather</strong>!</span></div><div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">There could be different rates and different measures for different kinds of weather. Pleasant, sunny days should be taxed at the highest rate, since people would be in a better mood on those days, and less apt to complain. Extremely hot, humid days would have a lower rate per hour, but we could make up for the reduced income to the state by taxing sweat. Granted, it may be difficult to accurately measure the individual taxpayer's sweat, but I'm sure our brilliant legislators could come up with a method.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">Taxing rain should be easy. The government could install computerized rain gauges on every taxpayer's property, which would not only measure the number of inches in the gauge, but automatically compute the amount of rain falling on the entire property. The per-unit charge would be higher after a drought and lower after generalized flooding.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">Snow taxation presents more of a challenge, since most people over the age of 10 tend to think of snow as a curse, not a benefit. Of course, the same could be said of many people's attitude toward government, but we must remind ourselves that, without taxation, we would not have a government, and vice-versa. So, to ensure that the government will survive the winter, we must impose a tax on the snow we receive. Very light snows may be taxed by the snowflake. Heavier snows could be taxed by the foot, with a special surcharge imposed after the depth reaches the roof of your car.</span><br />-<br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#330033;">I urge all concerned citizens to write their representatives with these suggestions. If the weather tax is successful, perhaps we could find a way to measure and tax the air we breathe and the tears we shed!<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 184px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 158px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561120008495066450" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TS0RLwOqbVI/AAAAAAAABFc/mAQ0y3gkQR8/s320/0%2Bboehner%2Bcrying.jpg" /></span></div></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-85715540171985302482011-01-03T22:13:00.002-05:002011-01-03T22:30:48.399-05:00Stupid Stuff<span style="font-family:arial;color:#330000;">Today is January 3, 2011. Twenty-eleven. What kind of stupid year-number is that? Year-numbers are supposed to start with "Nineteen!" Nineteen eighty-seven was a very good year. That was the year I left my first husband and started a new life. Nineteen ninety was a good year, too. That was the year I met my second husband. The last good year was nineteen ninety-nine. Then came stupid Two-thousand. It wasn't bad enough that the year-name was stupid. I had to go and get married, which was really dumb! We got along just fine as significant others, each with his own territory. Oh well. Back to the year thing. Isn't it funny how it changed from "two thousand, two thousand one, two thousand two, etc, until January 1, 2011, when the year name changed to TWENTY eleven, enstead of two thousand eleven? At least I THINK it changed...maybe it's just the way *I* say it now! I'm trying to remember if I've heard anyone pronounce the new year name yet. Maybe it's only I who say twenty-eleven. Shit. I'm going to bed.</span>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-90177783323170066082010-12-11T20:54:00.002-05:002010-12-14T16:54:04.386-05:00Red, White and Blue Christmas<div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">by Harry Sanderford and Zelda Martin</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">-</span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">Archie couldn't help but regret all the years he'd wasted competing for Veronica's affections with arch-rival Reggie, only to have her drop them both for Jughead, when his stack-pizzas-like-pancakes, eat burgers-by-the-platterful, wear-a-funny-hat and stay "Skinny Like Me" program went from small time scam to publicly traded empire. And now, this unexpected sighting of <u>Betty</u> on the mall Santa's lap, laughing and kissing his rosy cheek, the Rockwell embodiment of the Christmas Spirit, only served to deepen the shade of Archie's holiday blues.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">-</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">Little did he know that Betty was, at that very moment, asking jolly old Santa to bring her a bottle of "Love Potion Number Nine" for Christmas, just so she could use it to attract her secret love, the very same hunky, freckle-faced redhead, Archie.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">-</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">As Archie stood watching, he saw Betty's face suddenly turn white, then red, while that naughty Santa, so lively and quick, looked even jollier than he had been before. A little <em>too</em> damn jolly, Archie thought, and seizing his big chance to win Betty's love, he rushed to her rescue, just as Betty jumped off of Santa's lap and slapped that cheeky old elf hard, right across his merry old dimples.</span></div>-<br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">Betty wheeled around, steaming mad, and ran right into Archie's open arms, where, wouldn't you know, the frown on Betty's face cheered up, the rain cloud over Archie's head cleared up, and ...here it comes...wait for it...was replaced by one of those great big damn cartoon hearts!</span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;"></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 166px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 161px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549612407377775218" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TQQvFNbaSnI/AAAAAAAABFI/NlFf624F_YA/s320/a%2Barchie.jpg" /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003300;">Merry Christmas, everyone!</span></div><br /><div align="left"></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-21068558862640129122010-12-03T11:22:00.000-05:002010-12-03T12:15:28.384-05:00<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;"><strong>16 Candles - or Babies - or Something</strong></span></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TPkkuhgokuI/AAAAAAAABFA/zVMRSIY9MTc/s1600/1%2Bbabies.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 160px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 108px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546504797771305698" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TPkkuhgokuI/AAAAAAAABFA/zVMRSIY9MTc/s320/1%2Bbabies.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;">Today, my best friend's daughter turned 16. That event made me recall my own year of being 16. I then came to this conclusion: For humans, 16 is a difficult age. Most other animals are old by then. They are babies for a few months or a year, then they're grown-up and on their own, having babies of their own every few months or years and definitely making their own decisions and taking full responsibility for their lives. By the time they're 16, they've had 8 or many more batches of kids, who've gone on to have kids and grandkids of their own. A mouse, if it lived to age 16, would probably have about a million descendents. An ape might have 40. </span><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;">But a human is still considered a child, at least by his or her parents, has been coddled and protected and is certainly not ready to reproduce (at least in her parents' opinion). The 16 year-old herself thinks that she is quite grown-up and capable of taking care of herself and making her own decisions. What do parents know, anyway? Those stodgy old farts were never young! With such divergent attitudes, there are bound to be problems.</span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;">If a 16 year old girl (ahem) becomes enamored of her 32 year old history teacher, and the teacher senses her receptive nature, the stage is set for early reproduction. By the time the girl is 48, she could have at least 48 descendents. And while the mouse has far exceeded her reproductive capacity, fewer of the human's descendents would be eaten by cats.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;"></span></div>-<br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#330033;">If there is a moral to this story, I don't know what it is, but I am glad I'm not 16 anymore. I'm also glad I'm not a mouse.</span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348628.post-30995574389920910042010-11-08T21:25:00.000-05:002010-11-08T22:27:56.422-05:00<div><span style="font-family:arial;">Here's a tandem exercise I wrote with Harry Sanderford last winter. He didn't feel that it was up to our usual high standards, so we didn't post it. But the older I get, the lower my standards become, so I say...To Hell with standards! Let 'er rip!</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TNi-G4U0_NI/AAAAAAAABEw/QhDzURFLQb4/s1600/0%2Bbuffalo.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 160px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 124px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537384767260261586" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TNi-G4U0_NI/AAAAAAAABEw/QhDzURFLQb4/s320/0%2Bbuffalo.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TNi-RDE484I/AAAAAAAABE4/NDJIdOTnR_k/s1600/0%2Bflorida.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 160px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537384941944894338" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7YAP8wwSFEI/TNi-RDE484I/AAAAAAAABE4/NDJIdOTnR_k/s320/0%2Bflorida.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003300;">Through the Window Glass</span></strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000099;">Maggie leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the Greyhound bus window. <em>Over the river and through the woods, </em>she thought, watching the snow east of Interstate 95 gradually melt away</span> <span style="color:#003333;">into skinny pine trees and palmettos.</span></span><br />-</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000099;">Finally, after two days and two nights of hard riding, stopping only for bathroom breaks and scrumptious bus depot meals,</span> <span style="color:#003300;">Maggie's heart skipped a beat and she felt something like a smile forming on her formerly gloomy face when she saw the sign on the highway that read, "FLORIDA - </span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#003300;">1 mile."</span></span><br />-</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#003300;">Florida was a coin burning a hole in Maggie's pocket. After all, her name was short for "Magnolia," <em>not </em>"Margaret," like most people guessed,</span> <span style="color:#000066;">and freezing NY winters spent with cold company had taught her one thing; not every tree is meant to drop its leaves and stand stoically awaiting the arrival of spring.</span></span><br />-</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#003300;">As the bus rolled into Jacksonville, she was tempted to jump out and start dropping some of <em>her </em>leaves, but she fought the urge and held on to her seat. She was headed for Kissimmee, her old home town, where she had arranged to re-connect with Bubba, her high school sweetheart</span>.</span><br />-</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003333;">Twenty years ago, with youthful curiosity and ambitions far too great to be contained in any small town, Maggie had grabbed her diploma, loaded her Chevy and left Kissimmee and Bubba behind, like shoes that no longer fit, to run barefoot out into the world.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#003333;">-</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#003300;">But now, with sore feet and aching heart, she was back in town, pulling into the bus station, and looking for love. Then, through the steamy bus window, she saw Bubba, all 300 pounds of him, none of which included any hair on his head. Bubba, spitting tobacco onto the sidewalk while scratching his huge ass,</span> <span style="color:#000066;">and Maggie suddenly realized that snow and ice weren't so bad after all. She dived under her seat and rode that bus all the way back to Buffalo, where she lived happily ever after.</span></span></div>Madam Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136166772469538966noreply@blogger.com6