get-your-zs

2012-01-21T09:25:00.001-05:00

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 http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/2012/01/20/f3-cycle-64-bit-by-bit/

My Computer, My Love

I have long regarded my computer as my best friend. It's always there for me when I want it, it does whatever I ask it to do and it never talks back. It keeps me up to date with the news and safely stores my attempts at writing poetry and short stories. It helps me correct any spelling errors, but never criticizes the content. What a pal!

But lately, I've become aware of a new dimension in our relationship. Sometimes, when my fingers are pressing against the keys, I can hear a melodious hum and the keys feel warm. The screen has developed a soft, rosy tint. 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.

Now, I know what you're thinking. 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.

Well, maybe so, but...wait a minute! The mouse is really throbbing now and there's a message on the screen! It says, "We can be more than friends, my dear. Would you like that?"

Gosh, I don't know. Maybe...

The mouse is bouncing around like crazy! "Hold me!" the screen commands.

I wrap my hand around it.

"Put me in a place that will feel good to both of us!"

Okay, how about here...OH, OH, OH GOD, OH GOD! YES! YES!

Images of fireworks are dancing across the screen.

I light a cigarette and exhale slowly. I am so glad that I upgraded to Windows 69.

Forget About It!

2011-09-18T21:48:00.000-04:00

A great deal of my days are spent looking for things that I know 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.

Purse:

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.

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.

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.

When I was 50 something, I left my purse on the roof of my car. No miracles occurred.

I no longer carry a purse. If what I'm carrying does not fit into my hip pocket, I don't need it.

Keys:

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.

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.

Miscellaneous:

I left a bag of groceries on the car roof and drove away.

I left a tray of cookies on the car roof and drove away.

I left a suitcase on the car roof and drove away.

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 almost 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!

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.

Never Again

2011-09-11T23:21:00.000-04:00

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. 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.

Life goes on, and then it doesn't

2011-08-21T23:42:00.001-04:00

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 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 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.

But now, he and his smile are gone. Damn, damn, damn.

Rhyme Time

2011-07-25T22:14:00.002-04:00

I'm going to write a poem, or die in the attempt.
That would be an interesting way to commit suicide, wouldn't it?
"Damn! Can't come up with a poem, so I'll hold my breath until I die."
If only it were that easy...
Hm. Can't think of a poem. (deep breath...) How about a limirick?

There once was a woman named Zelda.
Who found there was no rhyme for a Zelda
She threw down her pen
And started again
After changing her name to Cruelda.

Hey, Walt Whitman! Top that!

Little By Little

2011-07-01T21:58:00.000-04:00

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.

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 vowels!

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.

So...I 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.

I Hope I Can Help Them

2011-06-22T21:39:00.001-04:00

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.

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 fourth 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.

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!

Nothing But Numbers

2011-04-30T23:11:00.007-04:00

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.

- 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.

- How do you feel about it? If you were to win a million dollars in a lottery, would you feel richer if you were handed one thousand thousand dollar bills, or the number, $1,000,000, printed on your bank statement?

Next Time I'll Keep My Mouth Shut!

2011-04-21T20:27:00.003-04:00

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.

When is a life worth saving?
Is every life worth saving?
Is my life worth saving?

Five hours ago, I was fine.
Walking down King Street, not a care in the world.
Now I'm in the emergency room, connected to tubes and moniters,
wondering if I'll leave here on my feet...or feet first.

Will this be my "last write?"
Will a priest give me last rites?
Will a lawyer read me my rights?
Am I in the right?
Will my good health be right back?

I'm not writing with my right hand.
For me, my left hand is the right hand.
My right hand is the wrong hand.
What is wrong with me?

NOTHING!
I'm fine!
I'm good to go!
And when the paperwork is done,
I'm outta here!

------------------------------------------------------------

Since then, I have been traumatized by the results of that paperwork, the part that involves dollar signs. Lots and lots of dollar signs.

Stick 'em up!

2011-04-14T22:02:00.003-04:00

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. 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. 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 his dying day. He'd probably still shoot me, but at least he'd feel a little uneasy about it. 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.

The Wine Is Fine, But Don't Ask Me to Walk a Straight Line

2011-04-09T21:46:00.013-04:00

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 told 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.

"It's just wine, Zelda, not straight whiskey!" -

"Yeah, but..." "C'mon, it'll relax you!"-

"Well, I have had a stressful day. So give me just half a glass." -

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. 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.

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.

I'm Not Moving Until I Write Something!

2011-03-30T20:59:00.002-04:00

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. So what if I don't have any ideas? Who cares if my brain is devoid of any creativity? Well, *I* care, but who cares what I care about? Are these rhetorical questions? What the hell is a "rhetorical question," anyway? Who am I? What am I doing in the middle of a baseball diamond at midnight on the moon? I can't even play foosball! 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? Would I have been popular, if I had been pretty? Would I have been pretty, if I had been popular? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. So...if Mike's eye had had more beauty in it, would he have thought I was pretty? Would he have been beholden to me? If you are still reading this, do you feel like you have something in your eye? Don't rub it! That'll just make it worse! Try rinsing it with some Midol. I'm getting cramps in my fingers, from typing so fast. How many fingers does it take to cross the road? To get to the other side, Silly! When is a riddle not a riddle? When it's a rhetorical question! Whillikers! Am I done now?

A Fruit By Any Other Name

2011-03-24T21:20:00.006-04:00

A ripe orange is orange.

A green orange is not orange.

A single nut is sane.

More than one nut is nuts.

One pear is not a pair.

Two pears are a pair of pears.

A grapefruit is not a grape.

But it is a fruit.

A grape is a fruit.

But it is not a grapefruit.

An apple is a fruit.

Unless it's a computer.

----Warning! It's about to get worse!------

You can have a date,

and still be alone.

The used car salesman sold me a lemon.

I was ripe for the picking.

I paid for the banana with three dimes and a nickel.

I call it "the fruit of my coins."

Marital Bliss - A Fairy Tale in one act

2011-03-19T20:56:00.002-04:00

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.

Man: Cut your goddamn hair! You look like a hag!

Woman: No! I like my hair long.

Man: Well...fine! Go live in Hagerstown, with all the other hags.

Woman: 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!

Man: I don't have a pot belly!

Woman: Yes, you do! Why don't you go live in Pottstown? You'd fit right in.

Man: Wait...this isn't fun. Let's be nice to each other.

Woman: Yeah, I agree. You leave me alone about my hair, and I won't mention your gut. Okay?

Man: Okay. But I really do wish you'd cut your hair.

Woman: Yeah? Well, I really do wish you'd shut the fuck up about my hair!

Man: Stop yelling at me!

Woman: I'm not yelling!..................Okay, I guess I did yell just then, but it's because you drive me crazy!

Man: You ARE crazy!

Woman: So are you!

(Man leaves room, slams door behind him.)

Woman (yelling): Come back here, you coward!

(Silence...)

Scene 2: Woman goes into bathroom and looks in the mirror.

Woman: 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.

(Bathroom door opens. Man peeks in...)

Man: Honey...I'm sorry. I won't say anything more about your hair, if you don't say anything about my gut.

Woman: Gut? What gut? You look great, Sweetie-pie.

Man: So do you, Baby Doll.

( Hugs...kisses...)

And they lived happily ever after.

It's Lame, But I Have to Write SOMETHING!

2011-03-13T22:54:00.002-04:00

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.

_____________________________________________________________

My floor is a mirror

When I look into it

My world is upside down

I am walking on the ceiling

I see the sky through the windows

The windows are upside down

The birds are flying below me

The sun is rising in the west

I am growing younger by the minute.

*****************

I am a dragon

I breathe fire

I have sharp claws

I have sharp teeth

I have a whiplike tail

I could destroy you

So be nice to me, please

Until I've had my coffee

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am a pussycat

I am soft and warm

I purr when I'm happy

I have claws, but they're hidden

So pet me, please

and I'll rub against you

Living Libido Loco

2011-02-15T20:53:00.005-05:00

My meno paused, then left for good.

"Good riddance," declared my libido, unpacking her bags.

I'm moving in.

She was lively, she was lustful.

Then depression jostled for space, dominating my moods.

Libido hid out.

Medication to the rescue!

SSRIs did the trick, evicting that nasty depression.

Come back, Libido!

Yeah, right. Read the label, sucker!

Those meds and I can't live under the same roof.

Libido moved out.

"I'll try something else," I pleaded.

Look! This one says it will make me happy AND horny!

I lied, but it worked.

Hi Kuh! How Are You?

2011-02-03T22:26:00.004-05:00

I understand men.

They are such simple creatures.

All they want is sex.

Though I'm a woman,

I don't understand women.

We're complicated.

Some of us use sex

To get what we want from men.

It's a win, win deal!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I dislike summer,

but not as much as winter.

Spring's okay though.

Too hot or too cold.

Is "just right" too much to ask?

Apparently so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's late and I'm tired.

I'll go to bed now, and dream...

Dream of "just right" sex.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'S no Fun!

2011-01-26T22:04:00.005-05:00

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.

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.

One week from today is Groundhog Day. That little bastard better not see his shadow, or he's going into my stew pot!

Earth vs. Moon

2011-01-19T20:42:00.002-05:00

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.

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.

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.

Taxation Without Precipitation

2011-01-11T20:45:00.004-05:00

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: Tax the weather!

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.

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.

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.
-
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!

Stupid Stuff

2011-01-03T22:13:00.002-05:00

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.

Red, White and Blue Christmas

2010-12-11T20:54:00.002-05:00

by Harry Sanderford and Zelda Martin

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 Betty 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.

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.

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 too 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.

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!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

2010-12-03T11:22:00.000-05:00

16 Candles - or Babies - or Something

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.

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.

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.

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.

2010-11-08T21:25:00.000-05:00

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!

Through the Window Glass

Maggie leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the Greyhound bus window. Over the river and through the woods, she thought, watching the snow east of Interstate 95 gradually melt away into skinny pine trees and palmettos.
-

Finally, after two days and two nights of hard riding, stopping only for bathroom breaks and scrumptious bus depot meals, 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 - 1 mile."
-

Florida was a coin burning a hole in Maggie's pocket. After all, her name was short for "Magnolia," not "Margaret," like most people guessed, 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.
-

As the bus rolled into Jacksonville, she was tempted to jump out and start dropping some of her 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.
-

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.

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, 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.

2010-10-31T21:06:00.000-04:00

It's Halloween, my favorite holiday. Tonight we celebrate the dead and the undead. We pretend to believe that the undead are alive. But most of know, deep in our black hearts, that the dead are not undead, they are un-alive...which means...are you ready...they are DEAD! Do you hear me, you superstitious fools? Do you wish to be undead when you die? Would you want to drag your crumbling corpse out of its comfy coffin and go gallivanting around the graveyard and scaring the living to death? Okay, I admit that it beats just lying there forever, with nothing to do but rot, but we have to be realistic here. Like, how the hell are you going to lift the lid of that coffin, when it's got six feet of heavy dirt piled on top of it, even if you do happen to be undead? Hm? Give up?

Now I suppose you're going to trot out the old "spirit" business. "The spirit lives on, though the body decays." I'm sorry, sonny, but I'd rather drink my spirits than communicate with them. I do admit that sometimes my steely certainty is compromised by certain unexplainable events. For instance, tonight I made my traditional trek through the cemetary, down by the abandoned church. I do this every Halloween night, to demonstrate my haughty disbelief in such silliness as spirits hovering over the gravesites. I strode confidently down the path through the center of the cemetary and was feeling quite frisky. But then, I felt a bit of a breeze, no...it was almost like a soft breath, brush across my forehead, and then the back of my neck. It made me just a tiny bit nervous, but I brushed if off and walked on. Then, there was another breath, and another. I turned around and saw a tiny, bluish light, bobbing around, just out of my reach. I blinked, thinking it was my imagination, and then opened my eyes WIDE, as more soft sparks of blue glimmered in the air, all around me. I felt like I was slowly spinning, propelled by soft puffs of air circling me. At that point, I almost succumbed to superstition, but somehow managed to pull myself together and took off running as fast as my puny legs could go. I reached the groaning gate just as the church's chimes struck twelve.

Once outside, I regained my reason, and scoffed at my foray into fright. And next Halloween, I will take my traditional trip through the cemetary once more, but at midday, not midnight.

2010-10-24T22:14:00.000-04:00

Ha Ha Haiku!

I am not pretty.
True, but I am pretty old!
I did not die young.

The older I get,
The less I care about looks.
Wrinkles hide my flaws.

You can't see me now,
Hiding behind my wrinkles.
That's how I like it.

What happened to me,
The old me, when I was young?
The new me is old.

I have one question.
What is the meaning of life?
There is no answer.

We live and we die.
Don't bother looking for more.
Life has no meaning.

The ocean charms me
Its blue depths, deep as the sky
Full of life and death

Eat or be eaten
Bigger fish eats smaller fish
Prime law of the sea

It's the same on land
Some die, so others can live
We all have to eat

2010-10-13T23:42:00.000-04:00

Say What?

One of my favorite bloggers, Anthony Venetulo, alerted his devoted followers to the blog of Micael Chadwick, "The Journey." Micael is inviting his readers to answer 10 questions and link them to his blog. The questions, along with my answers, follow:

1. What is your favorite word?
My favorite word, partly because of what it means and partly because I love to say it, slowly and laciviously is...LUST.

2. What is your least favorite word?
My least favorite word is HATE! I HATE hate!

3. What turns you on, creatively, spiritually and emotionally?
The full moon.

4. What turns you off?
A messy, filthy kitchen with a sink full of crusty, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck! Fuckety, fuck fuck!

6. What sound or noise do you love?
Birds singing.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Loud, blubbery farts.

8. What profession, other than your own, would you like to attempt?
Absolute dictator of the USA!

9. What profession would you not like to do?
A garbage collector.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Thank heavens, you're here! Johnny Depp has been waiting for you!"

micaelchadwick.com

2010-10-09T21:37:00.000-04:00

POWER!

Are you powerful, or powerless? Would you like to be a SUPERpower? Well, power UP! More power to you! Raise your fists and repeat after me: Power to the people! I'm not just talking about MANpower, either. We WOMEN have to get on the power ball. We need a balance of power! A house divided is not a powerhouse.

So let's all get on the power grid. It's my job to guide you, using power steering. I'll show you the power and light. And no, I'm not just full of wind power, and this isn't a power play. I am inspired by a higher power...the almighty SUN! Yes! Solar power is my power within.

Don't worry, it's not all work and no power play. Women, enjoy the show, as your suitor delivers his power lines. Men, show your women that you have STAYING POWER! Your power tools will put horsepower to shame.

In conclusion, I have this cautionary note. Do not always attempt to overpower everyone, or you may find yourself in a power-gridlock. Remember, absolute power corrupts absolutely!

2010-10-01T21:30:00.000-04:00

Here's a "flash" I wrote for a contest that asked for a story inspired by the line, "The lady does protest too much, methinks." Unfortunately, I didn't get it submitted in time, so I'll post it here.

Lend Me Your Ears

Once again, Stan was eating dinner alone, while Sadie was out marching, protesting against something or other. Stan had given up trying to keep track of what was riling her up. There was always something she was upset about, something that must be demonstrated against, and some group she could join that felt the same as she did about a particular issue. Some of the groups were small, and marched on city hall. Others were larger, and marched on the state capitol. Today, Sadie had boarded a bus and headed off to Washington to protest the war, or deficit spending, or capital punishment or any of a number of other causes. Who knows? Stan thought. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I'm going to have a talk with her when she gets home.

He decided to wait up for her, and while he waited, he tried to think of the best way to present his case. He had to be very careful not to antagonize her, or she'd be marching on him next! He knew it would not be productive to come out and tell her that he was tired of being alone so often and that he felt that she cared more for her causes than she did for him. She would accuse him of being selfish and uncaring. And then, he would not be able to resist telling her that it was she who was being selfish and uncaring and they'd end up angry and sleeping in separate beds, which was definitely not what he wanted. He pondered some more, and finally, he experienced an "ah-ha!" moment, just as he heard Sadie opening the front door.

He rushed to greet her, pulling her into his arms as she set down her handbag and jacket. "Not now, Stan," Sadie said. "I'm tired." She sighed heavily and turned away.

"Of course, you're tired, poor baby. It's been a long day. I've made some hot chocolate for you. Let's sit down and relax, and you can talk about the march if you feel like it."

"I don't feel like it, Stan. But the hot chocolate sounds good."

Stan guided her to the couch, and went to the kitchen to get the drinks. He handed Sadie her cup, with a graceful flourish. "For you, Madam!"

Sadie smiled. "Oh my! With marshmallows even! This will be the best part of my day."

They sat quietly, sipping their drinks. Stan decided to make his move. "Sadie, honey, I've been thinking."

"Uh-oh..."

"No, no...it's good! Just hear me out. It seems to me that you're alway demonstrating against something. You're showing the powers-that-be what you think is wrong with what they're doing. How about this? Instead of 'pro-testing,' how about 'testing-pro'! Try being pro some cause, be for something. Instead of being anti-war, for instance, be pro-peace! Instead of being anti-drilling in Anwar, be pro-drilling someplace less attractive. Do you see what I'm getting at? Honey? Sadie?"

Sadie opened her eyes and yawned. "Oh Stan, I'm soooo sleepy. Let's go to bed. I have to get up early, because I'm marching on City Hall tomorrow. We're protesting something or other."

2010-09-24T22:40:00.000-04:00

(This is what can happen if you've had too much wine before posting on your blog.)

Why did I leave California, if I liked it so much, you ask. Hmph! I was dragged, I tell you! Dragged, from my California home, my fingers digging into the rich soil, over the mountains and through the woods, leaving civilization behind forever, forced to follow the man I didn't love, into the wilds of godforsaken UTAH! Utah - land of the setting sun. Dark superstition and light madness. There was nowhere to run, no one to turn to as I battled the demons of the desert.

But was that bad enough? No! Of course not! Five years later, when my torn and ragged fingers had finally healed, the March of Whines was resumed. Off into the always rising sun we drove, finally stopping at the Beast of the East, Lancaster Pennsylvania.

After several more years of suffering, my wild ride was resumed, this time led by a Greek God, truly, the God of Lust, who rose from the ashes of my incinerated libido and raised me to heights never known in the Mountain State. I became a poet!

I am Zeldor! See me soar!
Never again shall I muffle my voice or deny my choice!
I will lead the parade in the March of Rhymes.
I will reside in the middle of the riddle.
There can be no worse verse.
I will pine for the sublime.
But I will never be clever.
I will moan alone.
I won't try.
Goodbye.

2010-09-03T21:12:00.000-04:00

Take Me To Your Lender

I was flat broke and needed some money to pay the rent. So, I hailed a cab and told the Arab, or Indian, or whatever the hell he was - he had brown skin and some kind of fucking accent I couldn't understand, and even though I was a skank, I wanted to be polite - anyway, I asked him to take me to the Screw U Mortgage and Loan Company on 69th St. Now...we started out on 35th St, and this Raghead starts driving south toward the lower numbers instead of north, toward 69th! I said, "Wait a minute, you're going the wrong way!" He have me some ishkabibble about road work or something, and I said, "Look, Mister, if I had money to burn, I wouldn't be going to a fucking loan company, would I? Now turn this fucker around, or I'm going to shoot myself in the goddamn head!"

"Oh no! Please don't do that, Madam. My last customer did that and it cost me the price of a camel to clean up the mess!"

Then he turned around and re-set the meter, if you can believe it. So I had to give him credit for that, and resolved not to call him a Raghead anymore, even if I hadn't actually said it out loud. Not that I would have anyway, you see, because to me, "a rag" means a Kotex! You know, like when you're in your period, you say, "I can't fuck you tonight, Johnny, because I'm on the rag."

So anyway, we got to the mortgage company and I paid the Kotex-head his lousy $20 and even gave him a tip, "Kelso in the 4th," but he didn't get it, so I called him Poopy-head douchebag, and the cab took off like a camel in heat.

It was hot in the mortgage office too. I sat in front of a desk, with some little twerp in horn-rimmed glasses looking at me like I had just crawled out of a toilet and was sullying his dainty office chair. I started out being quiet and deferential, but after that schmuckette turned me down, I started yelling at him, which felt really good. I could feel the power boiling up in my gut and I reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels. "Lend THIS, Asswipe," and spit in his face.

Of course, I had to get out of there fast, after that. I hailed a cab and told the new raghead to take me to the racetrack. I was going to put my last 20 bucks on Kelso in the 4th.

2010-08-26T22:00:00.000-04:00

The Coffee Chronicles - Part 2

I'm sitting outside, at a wet table

My skirt is absorbing the rainwater on the wet chair

I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, while listening to a folk-singer

She's strumming her guitar and singing corny lyrics, of her own composition
-

She's very self-confident, I think

Though few people at the little street festival are listening to her

I wouldn't be listening, if I could avoid it, but I can't

Unless I give up and go home, which I don't want to do
-

I feel alive here, at the sidewalk cafe

Watching people walk by, even though no one sees me

I am invisible, which is fine - I don't want people to look at me

To look is to judge, and I don't like to be judged
-

But I do like to be invisible

I can look, without being looked at

I am looking now at a young man in a t-shirt and shorts

He is muscular, with a hairy chest and dark eyes

I wish he would stay nearby, so I could continue to look

I want to commit his firm, sexy body to memory

to be drawn upon later, when I'm lying alone in bed

needing some imaginary company

Apparently, that is too much to ask; he has moved on

Now my coffee has grown cool, and the music has stopped

There's nothing else to do here, so I'll go home

And be invisible, all by myself

2010-08-15T20:56:00.000-04:00

Bitter

It's hot here, sitting outside of Starbucks

at a wobbly table, near the highway

with unpleasant music piped from a speaker

right above my head

I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, but I don't know why

I could have ordered iced, sweet coffee

I could have sat inside the cafe

in luxurious cool, conditioned air

But - there were too many people inside

I don't like too many people

I don't like many people, either

I am hot and bitter

I wish I were cool and sweet, but it's too late

I was never cool, no matter how hard I tried

So, I might as well be hot, hot and sweaty

gasping for breath, but resisting my urges

If I must be hot and sweaty,

why can't I be in the arms of a hot sweaty man

Why can't I have a smooth, creamy man inside me,

instead of a hot, bitter cup of coffee

Next time, I'll go to Sexy Bucks, instead of Starbucks

where I'll order something sweet and filling

And I'll stay inside the cafe, where it's cool

so I can be hot in comfort

2010-08-08T21:10:00.000-04:00

A Night in the Life of an Art-loving, Claustrophobic Nymphomaniac

There were only a few people in the art gallery when I first entered. I was able to peruse the paintings in peace, with no one brushing against me or breathing on me. I moved slowly down the corridor, crossing the aisle when anyone came too close. But gradually, more and more people entered the room, sucking up the oxygen, raising the temperature, and talking, talking, talking incessantly. I felt the nerves along my spine start to quiver. I tried to rein in my rising discomfort, but as more and more bodies pressed in around me, I began to feel breathless and anxious. It would be only a matter of time before someone actually would touch me and I knew I would lose control if that happened. I tried to breathe deeply and relax, but it felt like there was no air left in the room. I had to get out, but how? I was surrounded by people. There was no clear path to the exit. I looked around frantically, trying to find an opening between any two bodies that I could slip through, without touching anyone, hoping desperately that one clear path would lead to another and I could carefully zig-zag my way to the door. It was getting hotter by the minute and I was sweating and shaking.

Just then, I realized that I was standing right next to a man who looked just like Johnny Depp, but with a great build. He was wearing tight pants and an Italian-style shirt, open at the collar. In a flash of inspiration, I realized that pressing against him wouldn't be intimidating at all. In fact, it seemed like a really good idea. I caught his eye and brushed against him, saying, "Excuse me, Mr. Depp." He said, "No problemo, signorina," and embraced me. I swooned in his arms. The crowd parted, as he carried me outside, into the cool, moonlit night.

2010-07-26T23:11:00.000-04:00

Although I usually appear docile, with a slight build and a soft voice, I have a violent temper. Small provacations can result in me bellowing obscenities at the offender. If the offender is not adequately chastened, and continues to annoy me, he is almost certain to regret his actions.

For example, this afternoon, as I attempted to park my car in front of my psychiatrist's office, another driver decided that my parking space belonged to him. As I backed in, he nosed forward. We were locked in an unpleasant, metallic embrace. I rolled down my window and shouted at him, "Get out of here, you fucking moron! I was here first!"

He, however, did not relent. On the contrary, he dared to yell back at me, "You are mistaken, madam. This is my space."

I felt my blood pressure rising. "I'm counting to three, asshole. Back out now, or you'll be sorry."

I don't know if it was the tone of my voice, or the 357 Magnum I pointed at him, but he backed down and out, and I backed up and in.

I feel calm again now, so don't be afraid. Unless, of course, you are planning to annoy me in some way.

2010-07-03T22:10:00.000-04:00

Someday, I will post a new entry. Someday SOON I hope. But not tonight. I'm fagged and shagged. What the hell does that mean? It just popped into my head, when I was trying to think of a way to describe how tired I am. But now it sounds like some kind of sex act, which is far from what I was doing that made me so tired. I was planting flowers and then making a huge batch of potato salad for tomorrow's festivities. How unsexy is that??

2010-06-07T23:21:00.000-04:00

Things That Make Life Worth Living

Love

Sex (especially if associated with Love)

Chocolate

Flowers

Friends and family

Sunny, blue skies

Johnny Depp

Tree-ripened fruit (when I can find it...not an easy task, nowadays)

Music (narrowly defined to the kinds I like)

Birds singing

Moonlight

Good coffee

Things I Could Do Without

Angry people

Traffic

People who want to kill other people

Weeds in my garden

Pedophiles

Religion - all varieties

Glen Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity

Blizzards, tornadoes, hurricanes

Birds who crap on my car

Women who wear fake fingernails

Decaf coffee - I mean, really! What's the point??

2010-05-26T22:53:00.000-04:00

Help For the Malcontent...Whiners Anonymous of America

Hi. My name is Zelda, and I'm a whiner.
-

Welcome, Zelda! What do you whine about?

Oh, jeez. Don't get me started...

Our motto here at W.A.A. is "Change what you can, accept what you can't, and shut up about the rest."

Yeah, that sounds great. But I just can't accept that Life Isn't Fair!

Zelda, we all felt that way at one time. But we help each other realize that no one important actually ever said that life is fair. Once you get over that hurdle, you stop expecting fairness, or even looking for it! If you find yourself yearning for justice, just call one of us. We'll talk you through it. Just remember, "fair" is a four-letter word.

But it's so hard! I've been whining for years. It gets worse, the older I get. In fact, getting old is one of the major reasons for my whining. Why can't I be young and pretty? Look at my hands, all wrinkled and ugly. My face is sagging, my tits are drooping, and my arches are falling. My skin was smooth once, at least I think so, but it's been so long, I don't remember for sure. And that's another thing! My memory is shot. LIFE ISN'T FAIR! The wrinkled part is so much longer than the smooth part!

It is, if you're lucky! If you die young, there's no wrinkley part, but the whole part is too short. Just remember, no matter how bad things are, they could be a lot worse.

Thank you, guys. I feel a lot better now.

That's what we're here for, Zelda. I know it's tough. I haven't whined for three years now, but I think about it every day. At our last meeting we had a new member who kept using the f-word so much that I could feel myself longing for fairness, and the whine was almost to my lips, when Joe, here, saw it coming and slapped me hard. Thank you, Joe.

Wow! You guys are an inspiration. From now on, whenever I feel myself wanting to ask, "Why does life suck?" I'll just give myself a hard slap and say, "Whine not!"

2010-05-17T22:46:00.000-04:00

I stare forlornly at the blank page. It dares me to write something on it; it mocks me, whispering..."You have nothing to say, Bitch! Just give it up and go to bed. You know that's what you want to do, so leave me alone in my pristine whiteness. Don't sully my surface with your silly scratchings."

"Hey!" I declare defiantly, "Who do think you are, telling me what to do?"

I attack the page with my sharp pen, scratching out "i's" crossing "t's" and scrawling "f - u's."

Unfortunately, no actual words come out of the assault, but I'm sure kicking that blank page's butt!

2010-05-05T22:16:00.000-04:00

When All Else Fails, HAIKU!

It's a sunny day

But I'm all gray and cloudy

and soon, tears may fall

No, I'm just kidding

I'm actally quite cheerful

Some say - "Bi-polar"

My mind is calm now

Writing haiku is pleasant

Except when it's not

Why do I do it?

I should be writing stories!

But I'm too lazy

No, that's not the word

Not lazy, just idea-less

I must try harder

I will try harder

But...that sounds like lots of work

And I'm so lazy

Yes, really lazy

You've no idea how lazy

Lazy like a fox!

Fooled you, didn't I?

You think I won't write one thing

But you're mistaken

My brain is stirring

I'm getting an idea now

And another one

But first, I must rest

Getting ideas is hard work

and I'm exhausted

2010-04-28T21:02:00.000-04:00

If variety is the spice of life (and who would argue against that time-honored axiom?), why does our society demand monogamy in marriage? How many times can you "be" with the same person, before you know every move, every sight, by heart? How can you continue to "get it up" when you've been up that road so many times before? Just look at the numbers...three times a week for 52 weeks, that's 156 times a year. In 6 1/2 years you've done it with the same person over 1,000 times! Even if you both try really hard to inject a little variety into the act, it's still going to be pretty dull after 1,000 times. Maybe that magic number explains the proverbial "7 year itch" that afflicts so many unions.

Not that I'm any kind of authority, you understand, since I do not trouble myself with matters of the flesh, so I could be mistaken. And, I have a good friend who claims to have "been with more men than you could shake a stick at," and she says that basically, they're all the same, so I guess that variety wouldn't make much difference, one way or the other. Unless, of course, you're talking about chocolates, in which case it's easy and socially acceptable to fill yourself with a delectable, mouthwatering, lip smacking variety of smooth, creamy treats in all sorts of colors, shapes and sizes. Mmmmm...I'm getting hungry.

2010-04-19T09:37:00.000-04:00

Can anyone out there in Blogland give me a convincing argument why the possession and use of marijuana should be illegal? Well...I'm waiting...

Ha! I didn't think so!!

Think about it. Smoking MJ feels good, it's relaxing, it doesn't smell as bad as cigarettes, it doesn't give you lung cancer, it doesn't make you loud and angry and prone to wreck your car, like alcohol does. So what's not to like? I ask people this question all the time, an no one has a good answer. About all they can come up with is something about it being a "gateway drug." It'll lead to taking worse things.

Well, listen up, guys. Life is a gateway drug! Everything you do leads to something else that's worse than the last thing. When you're a baby, you start out drinking milk, and the next thing you know you're eating cholesterol-laden butter and cheese. Omigod, the cheese! It's everywhere! Then you start out riding your pollution-free bicycle and when you grow up you go on to driving a smoke-belching Hummer. When you reach puberty, you harmlessly jack off, and by the time you're 17 you're impregnating every girl in your class.

There's nothing in life that's free of consequences, so why outlaw a little weed that can make you forget, for a few precious minutes, how fucked up everything is?

I shouldn't bother asking this question. I know at least one of the answers. People who don't drink or smoke or dance or make-love-for-pleasure-instead-of-procreation don't enjoy life, and they want to make sure no one else does either. They would like to legislate against anything and everything that could bring joy to the lives of people who are capable of experiencing it. But as long as the pleasure-seekers continue to seek ways to enhance that pleasure, they will defy the senseless law and obtain the means to that end. The Temperance advocates succeeded in passing the 18th amendment to the U.S. constitution, and we all know how well that worked out. Thirteen years of chaos, as citizens continued to seek alcohol and crime flourished. A strong demand will always be supplied.

IMHO, marijuana should be legal. It could be regulated and taxed, as are alcohol and tobacco. Think of the potential revenue, all you legislators who are reading this! (Yeah, right. Legislators read my blog religiously.) Prison overcrowding could be substantially reduced. Some dealers may have to get real jobs!

And then we can move on to considering legalizing other drugs as well. Can you just imagine the reduction in world-wide crime if marijuana and coca-derived drugs were legalized? The drug cartels in Mexico? Pfffft! All gone! Street thugs in the U.S.? Considerably reduced. If their drugs were legal, they would probably be cheaper and the users wouldn't have to steal as much to supply themselves. Poppy farmers in Afghanistan would not have to worry about their crops being confiscated. Just imagine the RAGE in the plains states in the U.S. if suddenly the diet police passed a law making wheat illegal?

I could go on and on, but I don't want to tax your patience.

2010-04-07T21:42:00.000-04:00

I am pondering the possibliity of posting something to my bleak blog. But what can I write? My mind is a muddle of decayed dreams and hopeless hopes. There are a few festering fantasies still fluttering through, and a woeful wish or two, but no intact ideas, no dynamic designs.

I must make room for my ruminations! I will clear the clutter, cleanse my cranium! How should I hose it? With a fearless flush? Or a controlled clearing? A wanton winnowing, or a wishy-washing? Am I asking for amnesia, or mustering my muse?

Ha! My muse is not amused, but I am. He says I'm no poet, and I say I know it, but I don't care, I'm on a tear.

My brain was in pain

I could not explain

But then I knew why

and thought I should try

to lighten its load

so t'wouldn't explode

I flushed out the junk

and found a small hunk

of undamaged cells

veritable wells

full of untold tales

Or something like that...

2010-03-28T21:57:00.000-04:00

What's In a Name?

I have a confession to make. My "legal" name is not Zelda Zapp, no matter how much I wish it were. My incredibly boring, undistinguished name is...Patricia Martin. My parents gave me and my sisters plain, ordinary names, because they both disliked their own unusual names. Mom's name was Evie Easter Willis and Dad's name was...are you ready?...Knut Fagerbakke. They were both teased unmercifully about their names, all through school. As soon as he turned 21, Dad changed his name to Kenneth Martin. And when the babies started arriving, he and Mom agreed to give us unnoteworthy names, to reduce the chances of peer harrassment. Of course kids, being as creative and evil as they are, found plenty of other subjects to torment us about, but our names were not one of them.

My sisters and I did not, however, appreciate our parents's thoughtfulness and wished we had more interesting names. I experimented with different names over the years, using my middle name, Marie, for a while, but I didn't feel like a Marie, and it was too common also. I tried Maggie, and Sadie, but they didn't feel right either. And then, one day when I was in my thirties, the name ZELDA came to me, out of the blue, and I knew that was me! ZELDA! WOMAN WARRIOR!

Now, if only I could summon up the ambition to make it legal. The last name, of course, would be Zapp. I don't know if my father would approve, or not. Probably not.

2010-03-13T21:39:00.000-05:00

When I told my therapist about Raul, he sighed heavily. "Zelda, oh wait...it's still 'Zelda' isn't it? NO, I refuse to call you Sadie! All right, all right! SADIE!
-

So, Sadie...do you remember the last time we talked and you told me you were not going to expand your 'fuckable-age-range' again? I thought we had agreed that you should not be with any men less than half-your-age-plus-5. Raul is only 25! I'm not sure exactly how old you are, but I'm pretty darned sure you're over 40!
-

Well sure, I'd like to fuck someone who's only 25 years old, but I wouldn't! Wait a minute! Who's analyzing whom here?
-

Okay - back to Raul. Why did you go out with him? No, I don't want to see the photos you took of him! Oh geez, all right! (pause) Okay, I suppose he is gorgeous, but there are many gorgeous young men out there. You're not going to fuck all of them, are you?
-

Oh...I see. When you're 'Zelda' you keep your legs together, but when you're Sadie, all bets are off. Well, Zelda - note the emphasis, please - I think you'd better start settling down again. Stop all this travel to exotic places, places with all those muscular, brown-skinned men walking around wearing tiny swim trunks. Next time you want to take a vacation, try the Poconos! There's a nice Holiday Inn there, and the employees are all flabby, white guys who won't bring out the 'Sadie' in you. You can go swimming in a nice, warm swimming pool and then take a walk around the parking lot. There will probably be lots of friendly, older people there - you know...people your age - and you could drum up a game of pinochle after dinner.
-

Zelda - wait! Don't cry! Where are you going? Your hour isn't up!"

2010-02-24T17:37:00.000-05:00

Tiger is a lion cheetah!

2010-02-21T20:28:00.000-05:00

Nothing Revealed

I have nothing to say, and by god, I'm going to say it! No, don't try to talk me out of it. My mind's made up. I've been thinking about it all day and I can't hold back any longer. I know what you're thinking...she won't do it...she doesn't have the guts. Well, I've got news for you, Jack! "Guts " is my middle name. I've been intimidated by lack of ideas for too long! I've hung back, waiting for inspiration, while millions of other bloggers post every day, whether they have anything to say or not. I must confess, however, that I owe a good bit of my resolve to the fact that there are various loathsome household chores jostling for my attention, and I must demonstrate to them and to myself that tonight, writing about "Nothing" is far more important than washing dishes or ironing a long-neglected pile of shirts and trousers. And I have until April 15 to do those depressing taxes, thank you very much for reminding me, you dirty rat!
-
Okay, are you ready? All right, go to the bathroom and get a drink first. I'll wait...
...

That was quick. Okay, here goes nothing!

2010-02-17T17:42:00.000-05:00

As soon as I figure out the answer to this question, I will let you know. I will post a lengthy rant on this critical dilemma of all of us liberated women out there. And for all you men out there, now you know what Wonder Woman was wondering about.

2010-02-08T08:32:00.000-05:00

Bad Dog!

It's been a long time since I had a dog, but not nearly long enough! The crazed canine that put an end to my dog-owning desires (after 13 l-o-n-g years) was "Benny," a male wirehair fox terrier. We got him when he was an adorable puppy, all white, orange and grey fluff, with big brown eyes and an eager, playful personality. He remained a lovable, friendly, entertaining dog while he was in the house, with my husband, kids and I, but as soon as he would step out the door, there'd be trouble. (I should mention that this was back in the 'seventies, in a town where there were no leash laws.) Benny lived for two activities: fighting and fucking. He was the cave man of dogs. Any male dog who ventured near our yard was fair game. In spite of Benny's small stature, he was so ferocious and had such long, sharp teeth, that he usually came out on top. It was horrifying to see and very difficult to break up those fights. I won't go into the grisly details here.

Female dogs, on the other hand, were treated with enthusiastic affection. One particularly entertaining event stands out in my memory. At the time, we were living in a nice, Mormon neighborhood in Salt Lake City. Our neighbors across the street had several kids, the oldest of whom was a 7 year-old girl (Kathy). They also had a girl dog (Suzy). One afternoon, kids and dogs were outside playing. I heard a knock on the door. It was Kathy, looking agitated.

"Mrs. M! Your dog is stuck in our dog!"

I looked outside, and there was Benny, "stuck" in Suzy. Apparently, the fun part was over, but deflation had not happened yet. The funniest part was that they were facing away from each other, looking quite uncomfortable, even embarrassed, if you will forgive me for anthropomorphizing.

I told Kathy not to worry, that her doggy wasn't hurting, and they would get "unstuck" soon, which they did, of course. But a few months later, Kathy's family was "stuck" with a litter of fluffy puppies.

Thinking back on those times, I am amazed that no one ever shot our dog, or called the police, or at least demanded that we lock the horny little S.O.B. up. And I am more than a little ashamed of how irresponsible we were to have let him run free. In my defense, I will say that I begged my (now ex) husband to have Benny neutered, but he refused. Actually, I would have been happy to neuter both Benny and my husband, but I didn't have the balls.

2010-02-04T23:48:00.000-05:00

Why does winter have to be so damn cold? Why the hell did I ever leave California? I hate winter! I hate snow! I really, really hate ICE! (Except in small cubes, in my whiskey) And don't get me started on ice-cold WIND! Why did the goddamn groundhog have to see his goddamn shadow? Why can't I move to Florida? IT'S NOT FAIR!

2010-01-24T21:13:00.000-05:00

I Had a Dream

I woke up screaming, but I didn't know why! I was consumed with terror. I opened my eyes and saw nothing to warrant my panic. I was in a small, well-lit room, perhaps a hotel room. The furniture had that unremarkable, but not unpleasing, sterile look I associate with inexpensive hotels. I was lying on my back, on the floor. I sat up slowly, feeling a bit dizzy, but otherwise okay. The clock on the nightstand said 8:30. The last thing I could remember was sitting in the L.A. airport, waiting for my plane to Shanghai. Had I been shangaied? No, it couldn't be, or I would be in the hold of a ship, not on the floor of a hotel.

I stood up carefully, my head throbbing. I walked to the window and, with fear welling up in my chest, I pulled open the heavy drapes. The window looked out onto a courtyard that was dominated by a large, flaming pit. It was odd...it looked like a typical hotel courtyard, which ordinarily would have a swimming pool as its centerpiece. But instead of blue water in the "pool," there were red flames leaping into the air. People were sitting around on deck chairs and beach towels, and now and then one of them would stand up and walk to the edge of the fire pool and dive in. I could see several people in the shallow end, laughing and talking as the flames licked their skin and smoke puffed from their burning hair.

Something was dreadfully wrong. I crawled back into bed and resolved to never, ever again eat jolokia peppers right before bedtime.

2010-01-16T21:24:00.000-05:00

"No one can get to the phone right now, so please leave a message." BEEP!

What do you mean, no one can get to the phone right now? You live ALONE! You don't even have a cat! Just say YOU can't get to the phone, dammit!

No, of course I didn't actually say those words out loud. But I was so irritated by the message that I almost forgot why I called. Oh yeah, now I remember...dinner...I have to invite her to dinner, because we're having Nick over, and it's uncomfortable having an odd number of people around the table. Especially when they're all odd, which we are. An even number of odd people evens things out, softens the edges. So, I leave a message.

"Hi Suzy. How're you doin'? I'm sorry you can't get to the phone right now, because I have an important message for you. Can you join us for dinner Sat...BEEP!"

Shit! Well, she'll call back and I'll fill in the details then. And she DID call back, but of course I was outside shoveling snow at the time, and couldn't hear the phone, or anything else except my non-stop cursing of everything about life in miserable, goddamned Pennsylvania. When I went back into the house to defrost my fingers, I saw the blinking light on the telephone.

"Zelda? When is the dinner? You didn't say. I can't answer if I don't know when it is. Call me."

So I called her again. "No one can get to the phone right now..."

"Suzy, where the hell are you? Pick up the goddamned phone! The dinner's on Sat..." BEEP!

Shit! I'd send her a goddamned letter, but there'd probably be a message in her mailbox saying, "No one can get to the mailbox right now." I'm going to cancel the whole thing! I'll just call Nick and tell him we'll do it some other time.

"Hi! This is Nick. I can't get the phone right now, so please leave a message."

2010-01-09T00:13:00.000-05:00

I've got NEWS for you geniuses in the news media - Michael Jackson is dead!

D - E - A - D....DEAD

Why am I still being subjected to photos of his poor, old, bleached, re-formed, de-formed, make--upped pseudo face?

If I have to see photos of men every time I pick up a magazine or turn on the computer, let it be photos of LIVING men, preferably MANLY men, muscly, square-jawed, natural men. If they happen to be singers, let them be singers with deep, manly voices, not trembly falsettos.

And if and when any of them dies,give them no more than a week of tribute, and move on. Make room for the living, and stop making me dwell on my own mortality.

2010-01-02T20:46:00.000-05:00

Pat, Pat, Pat

All the recent fuss about increased airport securtity reminded me of what happened to me a few years ago, shortly after that goofball "shoe bomber" was apprehended. I was going to fly from Baltimore to L.A. and was waiting to board the plane at a terminal in BWI. I had passed through the scanning booth with no problems that I knew of and sat down in the crowded waiting area. A nice-looking young man was sitting a couple seats down from me. I couldn't help but notice that he was engrossed in "reading" a girlie magazine of some sort. Suddenly, a person from behind the counter approached the young man and whispered something to him. They both turned to look at me and the young man stood up. First, he carefully placed his magazine, open to the place he had been perusing, face down on the seat of his chair. Then he pulled a scanning wand from his belt and spoke to me. He told me that he had been instructed to scan me and that I should step over to the side of the waiting area. I was dumbfounded! I had no idea why I had been selected, but I followed orders. He told me to hold my arms out from my sides while he slid that wand over my body. Picture this! A middle-aged woman, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, standing spread-eagled in front of a whole waiting area full of people, while a young man runs a wand over, under and all around her whole body. And then! A pat-down. Fortunately for both of us, he didn't "pat" any private parts. If he had, he would have met some serious resistance from Zelda the kung-fu-fighter. When he failed to find anything suspicious, he dismissed me and went back to his seat and his Hustler magazine.

I found a seat on the opposite side of the room and felt thankful that I had remembered to remove my diaphragm before going to the airport.

2009-12-27T22:58:00.000-05:00

Okay, here's one more trek down memory lane. Don't worry, this trek is less treacly than the first two.

Smitten

I don't remember her name, but if I were to give her one, it would be "Godzilla." I was a puny five-year old, and she was about eight or nine. She was huge and hard. Even the boys in the neighborhood gave her a wide berth.

One day, I was innocently playing in my front yard. I felt the ground shake and I looked up. It was Godzilla. She was carrying a 2" by 4". "I'm going to hit you with this," she announced, matter-of-factly.

I was filled with a sense of the unfairness of the situation. "But I don't have a weapon," I complained.

"Well, go get one! I'll wait."

I ran into the house. As an adult, looking back, I can't imagine why I didn't just stay in the house! Instead, I looked around hurriedly for something with which to defend myself. "What are you doing?" my mother asked.

"Nothing!" I replied, and ran back outside carrying a broom, the nearest thing to a weapon I could find. I confronted Godzilla. She laughed out loud and whacked me across the head with the 2" by 4".

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the couch, with my tearful mother bathing my face with a wet rag. "Who did this to you?" she sobbed.

"It was Godzilla."

"You mean that big girl with the long, black hair?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Yes."

"Well, you show me where her house is, and I'm going to talk to her parents. She's not going to get away with this."

I lifted my throbbing head from the pillow and stood up, pleased that justice was about to be served. Mommy held my hand as we marched down the street and around the corner to Godzilla's house. I could hardly contain my excitement. We walked up to the front door and Mommy knocked loudly. One thing I should mention here is that my mother stood about 5' 3" and had a small, dainty build. No one answered the door. Mommy knocked again, harder this time.

Suddenly, the door flew open and a woman at least the size of King Kong appeared. She had bristly, black hair that stood out every which way, and her face was contorted.

"What do you want" she bellowed.

My mother looked up at Kong, trembled slightly, and said, "Nothing!"

Gripping my hand tightly, she turned around quickly and walked us away from the ogre's den as fast as our short legs could go. I felt a crushing sense of disappointment.

"But Mommy," I cried. "You didn't tell Kong what Godzilla did to me."

I'm sorry, Zelda. Someday, you'll understand."

She was right.

2009-12-23T15:40:00.000-05:00

Well, the memoir idea went over like a lead balloon! Okay friends, no more treacly tales. Keep it light! That's my motto. How 'bout those 'sixers? Cold enough for ya? Merrrrrry Christmas!

2009-12-21T21:12:00.000-05:00

Okay, here's the second installment. Daddy left his job with the railroad and went to work in the shipyards, in Oakland. So, we moved from the boxcar to a ramshackle place near the bay.

In the Beginning

During my first sixteen months on earth, I was the apple of my parents' eyes. I was number one, the first-born, slightly defective, but still pretty cute, brown-eyed and blond. Then, along came Judy. Judy, with her dark curly hair, big blue eyes, dimples, perfect little mouth...pretty and cute. I was yesterday's news, old before my time, consigned to the sidelines. Judy was serene, happily accepting the parental devotion heaped upon her. Strangers stopped my mother on the street, just to exclaim over the perfection of the "little doll," while I hung onto mommy's skirt, twisting my tongue into a knot.

Still, I had it better than Marilyn, number three, the third girl born in two and a half years, when Daddy had wanted a boy, and Mommy had wanted to stop the baby parade after Judy was born. Mommy persuaded the doctor to remove her overly fruitful uterus, shortly after Marilyn's birth. There would be no additional pesky kids, robbing her of her youth and freedom. Not that Marilyn made many demands. She lay in her crib, smiling happily in response to any shred of attention paid her, requesting no more than Mom was willing to give, which was very little. Mom was very busy visiting with other young housewives in the neighborhood, drinking lots of coffee and discussing the inadequacies of her husband and her life in general. Then Daddy would come home from his job in the Oakland shipyard, find Marilyn lying in her crib, with an overflowing diaper, and yell at Mom for not taking care of the baby. I remember him holding the baby in the bathroom sink, rinsing her off under the faucet. Mom would yell back at him, asking him how he'd like it if he were stuck in the house all day with a bunch of kids and nothing to do except housework. Then he would say how it sure didn't look like she had been doing any housework, and just what did she do all day, anyway?

During one of these oft-repeated discussions, I saw little Judy heading for the open front door. Since the adults were not paying attention, I decided that I should administer some much-needed discipline. I grabbed a candlestick from its holder and proceeded to whack her on the head until she stopped walking and started crying. Those big, blue eyes were overflowing, by the time Mommy and Daddy heard the ruckus. And, in the first of many unjust reactions to my earnest attempts to improve my sister's behavior, I got a spanking, while the miscreant was comforted.

Housing in the Bay area was tight, and Dad decided to make a little extra money, by renting out our third bedroom. Marge and Elaine became part of our little family. At that point, two sailors became frequent visitors to our house. I thought they were very handsome, with their bell-bottomed trousers and white caps. They were Alf and Harold, Daddy's cousins, who were stationed in San Francisco. They quickly hooked up with Elaine and Marge, and romance was in the air. Mommy talked a lot with Elaine and Marge, and sometimes there were more than two sailors in the house, and sometimes Mommy went for drives with the sailors. Mommy and Daddy fought a lot, and Daddy said that if she could go for drives with sailors, maybe he should go for drives with Marge. I just wished they would stop fighting and that someone would change Marilyn's diaper, because she didn't smell so good.

2009-12-20T20:36:00.000-05:00

Okay, ready or not, here's the first chapter of my memoir, entitled "Born in a Boxcar." I should explain that I wasn't actually born in a boxcar, but I was conceived in a boxcar and that same boxcar was my first home. But somehow, the titles "Conceived in a Boxcar" or "Lived in a Boxcar" didn't seem as catchy as "Born in a Boxcar," so there you have it. This first chapter should probably be called, "Born in the Hospital That Was Closest to the Boxcar at the Time."
It is the story of my birth, as told to me by my father.

...

Old Doc Sullivan didn't perform episiotomies. "If God had wanted a woman to have an extra slit down there he would have given her one," he explained to my father as Daddy stood awkwardly by, watching the painful labor. So, when my big head had stretched my teen-aged mother's vagina as far as it would go without help, Doc Sullivan inserted his gloved finger gently between my head and my mother's taut skin and slowly and carefully moved his finger around and around the perimeter, stretching the skin gradually as my exhausted mother pushed and heaved. Pop! The head was out, shoulders and torso followed easily.

My father gasped. "Oh my God, what's wrong with the baby's face?"

"Hold your horses, Ken, and let me take a look." The doctor gently wiped me off and examined my mouth. "Well, it looks like she has a cleft lip." He opened my mouth and looked at the palate. "Her palate's okay. Be grateful for that. Everything else is fine. She has all her fingers and toes. We'll get this lip stitched up and you can take her home in a couple of weeks."

"What's wrong? Let me see, " Mom asked.

"Just a minute, Evie," Doc Sullivan answered. "I'll cut the cord and you can hold her." He looked again at Daddy and added, "She'll have to have plastic surgery in about a year. That'll smooth out the scar a little."

Mom was crying as the doctor handed me to her. "Oh, my poor little baby. Don't cry. Mommy and Daddy love you, no matter what."

Daddy moved next to her and put his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. All he could think of was, How the hell am I going to pay for all this?

2009-12-19T17:08:00.000-05:00

Haiku For Now, Memoir Later

I've written a lot of memoir-type short (500 to 1000 words) stories, recalling my rather odd life. They sit mouldering away in my file cabinet, because I'm too lazy to ever try to do anything with them. It just occurred to me today that I could post one on my blog now and then. If I get even one comment encouraging me to do so, I will. Otherwise, I will continue to let them moulder, which is fine.

In the meantime, I entertained myself while at Starbucks today, writing some haiku. I like haiku, because it's effortless, both to write and to read. I even compose them at night sometimes, while lying in bed, unable to sleep. I don't remember them in the morning, which is just as well.

Sitting in Starbucks

Drinking my cappucino

Wanting more from life

Caffeine is a drug

A legal drug, thank goodness

Or I'd be in jail

Cool jazz overhead

Does that mean Starbucks is cool?

Or "cool" wannabe?

Now it's folk music

There's something for everyone

Except me, that is

Now Christmas music!

For Christ's sake, leave me alone!

I want peace on ears

Disclaimer: The photo posted above is not me, not even a reasonable facsimile. Starbucks paid me to insert it, so all the the multitudes of horny male readers of this blog will think they will find women who look like that, sipping their lattes and looking for love. Forget it, losers. It's not gonna happen.

2009-12-07T21:21:00.000-05:00

A New Script for Johnny and Me

Zelda: But Johnny, I'm so much older than you, you can't really want me to go to bed with you, can you?

Johnny: Zelda, I have waited for you since I was Edward Scissorhands. I saw you in the audience and knew that you were the woman that could heal me. My soul was tortured. I was only half a man. But I could tell that you were not attracted to me then. Perhaps it was the hands that put you off. But when I made the movie "Chocolat," I thought of you again, and made sure that the movie would be shown in Lancaster, at a discount theater, so you would go see it. I watched you from the balcony as your eyes rolled back in your head during the love scenes.

Then I did some research on you and discovered that you have a secret fascination with pirates. So I persuaded the studio to make a quick movie based on the Disneyland feature, "Pirates of the Caribbean." There wasn't time to create a whole new story...after all, you were getting older by the minute. And I knew you'd love Jack Sparrow.

Zelda: Oh yes, Johnny! From the moment I saw Captain Jack, I knew I would walk the plank for him. He could harpoon me anytime. And when you, I mean Jack, kissed the leading lady - OMIGOD! It was so sensuous, so lascivious. I gave up my treasure right there in the theater!

Johnny: Ah-ha! My gamble paid off! And what did you think of the sequel, my dear?

Zelda: Well, Johnny, to tell you the truth, it was a bit tedious. And you weren't on the screen as much as that hideous octupus-thingy. So I had to go home afterwards and watch my taped version of "Chocolat" to re-kindle my Depp-lust. But now, you're here and...and...wait - I can't! I'm married, and you...you're just saying all of this because you know I'm the president of your fan club, aren't you?

Johnny: What?? Of course not! I'm in love with you because you're one of the famous "Harbinger 33" authors. I've read your writing and am captivated by it. Also, I'm hoping you'll introduce me to Sugar. I hear you and she are always fighting over Harry, so I'll give him some competition.

Zelda: I don't know, Johnny. With my luck, you and Harry will be fighting over Sugar and I'll be deep-sixed. Though it breaks my heart, I must send you back to the video store. Arrrrrr...

2009-11-20T22:24:00.000-05:00

The Good Old Days

Oh, for the good old days - when men were men and women were subjugated. There was no questioning authority back then. The rules were simple - Might is Right! But then civilization moved in and took its toll.

Birth control was discovered and women were relieved of the crushing burden of childbearing. Morning sickness is now a thing of the past. Now the only time we throw up is if we get some bad tamales at Chico's Cafe. And once we had tasted independence, we're all in men's faces, telling them they can't go out and hunt and fight; they've got to go out and get a real job in an office somewhere. Then they get all soft and flabby and don't turn us on anymore, so we have to watch football games, where those big hunky guys go running around in their tight pants and...wait a minute...I've lost my train of thought.

Oh yeah! Our poor men! All that testosterone and no place to go. They can't kill anything with a club anymore. If they try to hunt, it has to be with a rifle, which is no contest against the unarmed animals. So the men don't even need any muscles to do it. And they can't capture territory any more - how frustrating is that? If they want land, they have to deal with a real estate agent, and half the time the agent will be a female, which is even worse, because he'd rather fuck her than listen to her drone on and on about mortgage rates and property appreciation. And then his wife is nagging him about how she'd rather have a place with a skylight, and he's thinking, all I want is a goddamn cave, where I'll be the boss and if we're hungry I'll go out and club a bear and bring it home and you'll cook it and then I'll fuck your brains out whether you're in the mood or not. Then you'll start pumping out the babies and do some gathering of nuts and berries to supplement the bear meat. And then...huh? What? Okay, okay, we'll get a skylight.

And that, my friends, explains why modern men drive gigantic SUVs, mow their tiny lawns with large, noisy power mowers, and get into fights at hockey games.

2009-11-04T21:23:00.000-05:00

Unanswered Questions About the Undead

So, what is a zombie, anyway?

Yeah, yeah, I know...He's one of the undead. But I'm undead, at least I was the last time I checked my pulse, but I'm not a zombie!

How do I know?? Well Christ, I think I'd know if I were a zombie! There's got to be more to being a zombie than being undead. What are the other features?

Okay - that's good - a zombie was dead first, and now he's undead. But then, what about those emergency room cases, where a guy is brought in on a gurney and his heart has stopped, and the doctor puts one of those shocker things on his chest and the guy's heart starts beating again and he's okay. Is he going to be a zombie for the rest of his life?

No, of course not. I didn't think so either.

Ah - I get it!. He has to have been dead long enough that his flesh has started to rot and kind of hang in shreds off of his body. But then how is he going to be able to walk around? Don't you need intact muscles to propel yourself?

Oh...sorry, I guess I am being too technical. Okay - so a zombie was dead for quite a while, he's kinda half-rotten and nasty looking, but now he's sort of alive, but not really alive...he's just NOT DEAD, and he's walking around scaring the shit out of people. But what's the point? Whose idea was it to make the poor corpses have to get up out of their comfy graves and run around scaring people?

THE DEVIL?? C'mon, Jack! You're shittin' me! You believe in the DEVIL?

Why not? Because the devil is just a figment of people's imagination, that's why!

Yeah, I'm sure!

Hey...what's going on? Get away from me! What's that noise? Who are all those creepy guys with rotting flesh, coming across the yard? OMIFICTITIOUSGOD! I smell sulfur! And why are you laughing so fiendishly? And where'd you get that PITCHFORK?

2009-10-27T20:00:00.000-04:00

Don't be afraid, dear readers. You don't really believe in vampires and werewolves, do you? Of course not! So how can an innocent little Halloween story hurt you? Hmmmm?

Rebel Without a Curse

"It's getting late, son. Drink your dinner."

"But Mom! I don't like blood!"

"What? That's blasphemy! Vlad! Did you hear what your son just said? I swear, this child will be the un-death of me!"

"I'm sorry, Mom. But really - it's so slimy and salty. And it stains my teeth red. All the other un-dead kids make fun of me. Even the werewolf pups! They're always saying things like, 'You suck!' And they show up every day with pieces of human flesh stuck in their teeth!"

"Oh, my poor baby! Young monsters can be so cruel. Next time, you just tell them that 'Stakes of wood can break my mood, but taunts can never kill me.' Or something like that. Improvise! You're 200 years old and those werewolves have only been around since the 1890's. And they only come out when there's a full moon, so they're loony! Ha-ha! Get it? Moon? Looney?"

"Mom, puh-leeze! But seriously, do you think we could vary the menu a little? Maybe add something to the blood to make it solid? I've heard of something the Krauts eat...it's called blood sausage. How about that?"

"Vlad! Get out of that coffin and help me talk some sense into our little batling."

"Okay! Okay! I'm coming. Hey...wait a minute...are you sure this kid is mine? I don't have a mustache! Or black hair! He looks just like...OH MY LUCIFER! It's SON OF GOMEZ!"

2009-10-23T21:18:00.000-04:00

Okay, it's been 69 days since I posted anything on my poor little blog. And, as anyone who has read "101 Things You've Always Wanted to Know About Me" knows, 69 is my favorite number, so it's time to rev things up at bad ol' "get-your-zs."

Unfortunately, I'm tired and sleepy, so any revving up is going to have to wait until tomorrow. I've been having some sexy dreams lately, so maybe I'll get some material in my sleep tonight.

This post is all in black and white, so far. That's not very inspiring. Maybe this photo will color up my dreams.

2009-08-12T22:32:00.000-04:00

Drink, Drank, Drunk

My husband is an alcoholic. He gets drunk almost every day, starting in the early afternoon. He's a sweetheart in the morning and an asshole (mean and argumentative) in the afternoon and evening. It is driving me crazy. Literally. Twice in the past few months I have been on the verge of suicide. Fortunately, I was able to pull myself out of the pit before actually hurting myself

I don't want to commit suicide, because I know from experience how horribly hurtful it is to the people who love you. My mother took pills to do the deed and, five years later to the day, my father blew his brains out. My sisters and I barely survived the trauma of our father's death. The guilt was so horrible, in both cases. If only we had been more attentive...if only I'd written more often, or called every weekend... or this...or that...or the other. I will not, as long as I have one shred of sanity left, ever do that to my children.

So...what do I do? Keep hoping he'll get sober? That's what I've been doing for 19 years and it hasn't happened yet. Leave him? Why should I have to leave my pleasant little home and live in some grungy apartment, when I'm not the one who's at fault (at least I don't think so)? Kick him out? No, no, no! I could never do that, because I do love him and don't ever want to hurt him. I know, I know...I sound like half the women at an Al-Anon meeting

I am considering a different plan. A couple days ago, we went out to eat. I almost never drink alcohol, but I was feeling "uptight" and the menu featured a cocktail called "Ruby Relaxer." I ordered it and enjoyed it thoroughly! It was delicious and I got relaxed as all get-out! Hubby was a bit apprehensive, as he does not like for me to get "smashed." On the other hand, he doesn't like it when I'm "nervous" either, so it turned out fine, and we had a pleasant dinner. So...last night I drank some wine when I was visiting some friends, and enjoyed the relaxation it afforded. (Hubby was not with me, since he goes to bed at 8:oo every night.)

So...what do you think? If you can't fight 'em, join 'em?? Give him a taste of his own medicine? Fight fire with fire? ______________________________ (Insert your own cliche here)

Hmmm...I'm getting thirsty...

2009-07-29T22:03:00.000-04:00

It's Right Where I Left It, Wherever That Is

Don't ever ask me to watch your children, feed your dog while you're away, or hold your purse while you go to the bathroom. I can't be trusted. I have the attention span of a gnat and the short-term memory of a lump of clay. I would blame it on early senility, but I've been this way as long as I can remember (my long-term memory is okay, I think, but I'm not sure).

I have misplaced and/or lost countless items over the years. Purses and keys have been the victims in most of my mishaps. When I was a teenager, I once left my purse on the front bumper of my Dad's pickup, as we were preparing to drive into town. Miraculously, it was still there when we parked, seven miles later. I was not so lucky the time I left the same purse on the hood of a stranger's car in a school parking lot, while I chatted with a friend. I never saw the purse, the car, or my friend again.

I have absentmindedly abandoned my key ring in a breathtaking variety of inappropriate places. Perhaps the worst was HANGING IN THE CAR DOOR LOCK, while I toodled off to the pizza parlor for a couple of hours of eating, drinking and being merry. I didn't even realize they were missing until I was walking back to the car, looking frantically for them in my purse and pockets, wondering if I could break a window to get into the car. I was both relieved and chagrined to see them in the lock. I'm glad it was an old car, or I would have had to walk home, for sure. And then I'd have had to break the house window to get in.

I must admit that my sense of humor was not well enough developed back then to find these events amusing. Now I just say, "What the hell. You might as well laugh." So, just imagine the merriment that ensued yesterday, at the local farmers' market. I never carry a purse anymore, preferring to stow my wallet safely in my jeans' front, right pocket. So, after each purchase, I put my wallet back into my pocket, pick up my bag of produce and proceed to the next stand. I periodically pat my pocket to be sure the wallet is, indeed, in there. So, there I was, at the largest stand, surrounded by several impatient shoppers, all jockeying for position. I paid for my bags of brocolli, bananas and apples, arranged the bags on my left arm, and turned away from the stand. I patted my right pocket, checking for the wallet. It wasn't there! I tried to stay calm, checking all the other pockets. Nothing. I pushed my way back to the produce counter, and frantically looked through all the fruits and vegetables in the area I had been standing, all the while thinking that someone had stolen the damn thing and was at this very moment using my credit card to buy a new car. I called to the clerk and asked her if she had seen a small, brown wallet anywhere in the vicinity.

"You mean that one in your hand?"

There it was, in my LEFT hand, which I had thought was completely occupied by nothing but the plastic bags. Apparently, the look on my face was amusing, because the clerk started laughing. I was so relieved, that I started laughing too. And you know what? I'm laughing right now, just thinking about it.

2009-07-22T21:43:00.000-04:00

Slow Down for Heaven's Sake!

I am beginning to be disillusioned with our fearless leader. Why on earth is he pushing for immediate passage of such a massive piece of legislation as this Health Care Bill? Isn't it something like 1,000 pages long? Shouldn't the legislators read it before voting on it? They have other things on their plates as well. Economic matters are certainly a distraction, among other subjects.

That Health Care Bill, if passed, will change our lives in unforeseen ways. It may be good or it may be bad. Who the hell knows? What I DO know is that it needs careful study and discussion before it's signed into law. Who wrote the thing, anyway? Shouldn't we, the people, know who's behind it? What their motives are? Couldn't we be treated to some calm debate before rushing in?

But no. President Obama just tells the legislators to pass the bill before they go on vacation next week, whether they've read the bill or not, and without careful consideration.

Bah! Humbug!

2009-07-15T21:28:00.000-04:00

Okay, I'm determined to post something, ANYthing, even though I'm in on of my "Why am I alive, life sucks, the world's going to hell in a handbasket" moods. So, after staring at the blank screen for several minutes, inspiration struck! I'm going to think positive and come up with a list of ten GOOD things, if I have to sit here all night. Here we go...

Ten Good Things

1. Our yard looks really pretty, with lots of flowers blooming and my artful arrangements of pretty rocks around each flower bed. If I weren't so frigging lazy I'd take some photos of those flower beds and post them, so you'd believe me. Oops! Did I veer into negative territory with the "lazy" remark? Skip that part and just pretend there are some nice pictures inserted here:

2. As far as I know, everyone whom I love is healthy.

3. So far, July in Lancaster county has been pleasant, with temps in the mid-eighties and NOT HUMID! HALLALUJAH!

4. Rush Limbaugh will probably not live for more than 40 or 50 more years.

5. I can still picture that hunky waiter in Siracusa. And...it just occurred to me that someone in our group may have taken a photo of him. If that happened, and it can be found, I will post it!

6. We have plenty of beautiful lettuce, cucumbers, zucchini (surprise!), tomatoes, bell peppers, swiss chard, parsley and carrots in the garden. Wow! That's eight "good things" right there!

7. Today I did the laundry AND the ironing in the same day! Usually the ironing sits around, getting more and more wrinkled for days, sometimes weeks, before I get it done.

8. Not all the glaciers have melted yet.

9. Sex between consenting adults is not illegal in most states, yet.

10. Sarah Palin is not Vice President. (Please note that I did not add the word "yet" to this sentence.)

2009-07-06T21:53:00.000-04:00

I Was Where??

Six days ago I was still in Italy, but it feels like six months. My memories are fading fast, but I'll try to capture a few of them. More impressive than the Sistine Chapel, the Tower of Pisa or the ruins of Pompeii were the Italian men! Oh my! Those guys know how to dress, for one thing. No baggy pants or oversize tee shirts there. Tight pants and slick, stylish shirts were the rule. While I enjoyed the "eye candy" everywhere, my favorite fantasy-indulgence was inspired by our waiter at a restaurant in Siracusa. That man had me mesmerized from the moment he showed us to our table until we left, two hours later. He had what I regard as a perfect build - well muscled arms and shoulders, flat stomach, and shapely butt, nicely displayed in tight bluejeans. He paid lots of attention to our table, probably because of my attractive daughter and daughter-in-law, so I got to pay lots of attention to his lusciousness. I had sweet dreams that night.

Okay, enough about my dirty-old-ladyness. I won't talk about the famous sites we visited, because they are well documented in books, magazines and movies. I enjoyed seeing the various ruins, especially Pompeii. The Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel were spectacular. But there were so many tourists that I often felt overwhelmed with people, people everywhere. One of the things that I enjoyed the most was seeing wildflowers growing out of cracks in the stones of the ruins. They were undaunted by the ages.

It was also interesting to see the mixture of old and new, primitive and modern, in everyday Italian life. For instance, the very old cities still have very narrow, cobblestone streets, designed for foot traffic and maybe horse-drawn carriages. But now those narrow streets must accommodate great numbers of automobiles. Some of the streets, especially in Sicily, were absolute chaos, at least to my untrained eye. There were almost no traffic lights anywhere, very few stop signs and the only rule I could discern was every man for himself. One narrow street might have cars parked on both sides, two lanes of traffic, pedestrians scurrying every which way, motorcycles weaving in and out and an occasional horse and buggy. Intersections were like a giant game of "Chicken." I gained great respect for my son's and son-in-law's driving skills, as well as their nerves-of-steel. I spent most of my car time curled into a ball in the back seat, trying not to scream.

There were other archaic things I noted, such as laundry hanging outside of windows and on porches (which I liked, since I like to line dry my laundry), and injunctions by hotel managers not to put toilet paper in the toilet. We were to drop the used tissue in a wastebasket placed next to the john. I did not like this, one little bit! Telephones were hard to use and public mailboxes were very few and far between. There were other things, but I don't want to dwell on negatives, when there were so many positives.

People were, by and large, friendly and appreciative of our efforts to speak Italian (it's amazing how far you can get with 20 words of Italian and 30+ words of Spanish). One especially fun exchange happened when we were in Sorrento. A young man approached us and asked if we were American. We said yes. He then grinned and shouted "Obama!" while giving a fist pump. The hospitality was great, everywhere we stayed. The food was delicious and interesting (especially interesting when the menu was all in Italian, the wait staff spoke no English and we decided to "wing it"). The wine was intoxicating! And did I mention the tight pants?

But now I'm back home in boring Lancaster, the memories fading fast and wondering if I'll ever travel abroad again. Probably not, but I may visit Cucamonga sometime.

2009-07-02T15:01:00.000-04:00

Venice is Okay, But Pickpockets Suck

Bill Stankus commented on my last entry before I left for Italy, "Be sure to slug the first pickpocket you see in Venice."

Well, Bill, I would have been glad to slug the motherfucker if I had SEEN him. But I didn't! On our first day in Venice, I went toodling off by myself, assuring my traveling companions that I would be just fine and dandy. My wallet was securely esconced in a zippered pocket of my small handbag, which was securely looped across my shoulder and chest. But of course I got lost on my way back to the hotel and had to stop to ask directions several times. I managed to find my way after an hour of panicky wandering, but when I got back to my room, I discovered that I had NO WALLET! Some very skilled shithead had managed to unzip my purse, lift out the wallet, re-zip the pocket and escape, without me being aware of anything. So...I was left with no money, no credit card and no ATM card for the remaining 16 days of our trip. Fortunately, my kids were able to step into the breach and use their own cards to get the cash and credit we needed for the rest of the time.

In a way, the experience was liberating for me. I no longer had any financial responsibility and had, literally, nothing to lose. I didn't have to carry a purse. I still had pockets, but no contents to pick. So I got to be the "kid" in the family, just asking various adults for a few euros here and there, when I wanted to buy something. I'll settle up with the grown-ups when their bills come in.

Okay! That sums up Day 1. It did get much better on Day 2 and beyond, and I'll talk about it tomorrow. But now I have to finish unpacking and then go for a walk with my hubby, whom I missed SO MUCH while I was away. Absence does, indeed, make the heart grow fonder.

2009-06-06T21:54:00.000-04:00

Arrivederci Amici!

One week from today I will be on my way to Italy. I will be traveling with my daughter and her husband and three kids and my son and his wife. We will be gone from June 13 to July 1. I am excited and terrified. I am not packed, but I have been refining a list of stuff to pack. It must all fit in one bag (21 inch expandble upright) small enough to take on board and fit into the overhead compartment of the plane. I have been practicing rolling each item of clothing into a tight little ball. I can't imagine how I'm going to get everything into that teensy bag. I keep telling myself that it doesn't matter what I wear or how it looks, because no one will be looking at me anyway. I'll just be one old broad in a sea of tourists. One tiny speck in an infinite universe. Who the hell cares if my clothes are wrinkled and/or sweaty and dirty? There! I feel better already.

So! We'll fly into Venice, spend two days there and head for Florence. Two days there and down to Rome (after a stop in Pisa). Then two days in Sorrento and then it's a night on the ferry and finally arrive in Sicily on June 23, where we'll spend the next 7 days. Whoa! I'm getting dizzy just thinking about it!

I'm going to try to set up a "travel blog" to chronicle our adventures. Believe it or not, even though I'm the oldest of our band of vagabonds, I'm the only one who maintains a blog. So I was elected to be the official diarist. Now it remains to be seen if I actually get this done in time. Maybe tomorrow...

2009-05-31T21:11:00.000-04:00

Wichita Kansas - Dr. George Tiller, one of the nation's few providers of late term abortions despite decades of protests and attacks, was shot and killed Sunday in a church where he was serving as an usher. The slaying of the 67-year-old doctor is "an unspeakable tragedy," his widow, four children and 10 grandchildren said in a statement.

---

So much for the sanctity of life, gentle readers. A demented murderer took it upon himself to gun down in cold blood a living, breathing man, 67 years old, in order to protest abortion. I think it is probably safe to say that Dr. Tiller's murderer has never been pregnant with a child he felt incapable of bearing and rearing. I also doubt that he has devoted his life to adopting and rearing great numbers of unwanted babies. But he decided, as did various other murderers-of-doctors before him, that it is perfectly okay to kill a mature adult, but it's a heinous sin to comply with the request of a woman to abort her fetus.

2009-05-26T21:10:00.000-04:00

We're All Doomed, But It Doesn't Matter

Okay, I've moved on. I've made great progress since that last silly post about anxiety. I am now completely absorbed in the subjects of the futility of life and the insignificance of the human race in the vast scope of the boundless universe. How's that for progress?!?

As an example of futility, I just now attempted to insert a picture of a photo of "The Sombrero Galaxy" taken by the Hubble telescope. Do you see the photo? No? Neither do I. I did manage to copy the text under the photo, which reads as follows:

"The Sombrero Galaxy - 28 million light years from Earth - was voted the best picture taken by the Hubble telescope. The dimensions of the galaxy, officially called M104, are as spectacular as its appearance It has 800 billion suns and is 50,000 light years across."

Just picture this really cool photo of a zillion stars pressed into a ring of exploding light.

Now think about the puny earth...just an insignificant speck out there in the Milky Way somewhere. The Milky Way is just one of zillions of galaxies floating around in infinite space. And yet! We think we are so important! And goddamn it, we are important! To ourselves, anyway...and what else matters to ourselves but ourselves?

These profound thoughts have occurred to me not only while looking at photos of outer space, but while looking at my kitchen counter. Okay, you're thinking, Madam Z has officially gone off her wobbly rocker. Wait! I'll explain! You see, my kitchen counter is besieged by ants. Small, brown ants that persist in monitering my kitchen, watching for interesting bits of food that would go unnoticed by humans but are, evidently, highly desirable to my six-legged nemeses. Several times each day, I swoop down on the indefatigable critters, wiping them up with a wet sponge and washing them down the drain. When I do this, I feel guilty. I anthropomorphise them. The poor little things try to defend themselves. They run, panicky, this way and that, as the sponge approaches. Some of them rear up on their tiny hind legs, in a defensive posture. Every darned one of them wants to go on living! Just as humans would, if they were being rounded up by a giant, sponge-wielding Martian on the streets of New York City.

I've forgotten just what my point was, but I think it had something to do with Dr. Hubble inventing galaxies. Or maybe I was wondering whether ants on Mars would rather eat bread crumbs or space dust. Or was it this revelation?

2009-05-07T21:15:00.000-04:00

To Med or Not to Med

Three months ago, I stopped taking anti-depressants. (I had been taking various SSRIs for the past eight years.) After a couple weeks of diciness, I settled down and thought, hey! I've got it licked! I'm just fine-and-dandy-peachy-keen! I don't need no stinking drugs. But now I'm having doubts. Over the past week or so, I have been feeling increasingly anxious and demoralized. All day today I have been on edge, feeling as though something dreadful is going to happen, any minute. What tiny bit of rationality I have left is telling me that is nonsense. There is nothing any scarier happening today than there is on any other day, at least not that I know of. So why this nameless dread? Am I insane? Or is it physical...a mere chemical imbalance in my fevered brain? If it's a chemical imbalance, maybe I should go back on medication. Okay, the SSRI's crushed my libido, which is the main reason I decided to stop taking them. But anxiety is not exactly a big turn-on, either. If I don't feel better by Monday, I will call my doctor.

There! I said it! It's in writing! I will not renege.

2009-04-25T23:54:00.000-04:00

I was walking in the woods today, all by myself, and started thinking about questions with no answers. Here are some of them that occurred to me.

If I fall in the forest and no one hears my screams, does it matter what language I scream in?

Does it matter what gender or color I am?

If a hungry black bear finds me, in spite of not having heard my screams, will he eat me, regardless of my color and gender?

What if a hungry white bear finds me?

Will he be more discriminating?

If I climb a tree to escape the bear, will the tree fall, even if I make no sound?

2009-04-22T21:08:00.000-04:00

Okay, I'm getting r-e-a-l-l-y irritated here. In a futile attempt to make my minimalist blog seem a little more sophisticated, I tried to add a "gadget" to the poor thing. I really, really want to have a "My Blog List" on the sidebar. So I started clicking here and there, on this and that, and found a page entitled, "Add and Arrange Page Elements." Then I clicked on "Add a Gadget," which presented me with a list that included something called "Blog List," and I thought, AH-HA! After a great deal of teeth-gritting and sweating, I finally managed to add 18 blog titles to the thing. I clicked on "Save" and thought, naively, that my list would magically appear on my blog.

YEAH-FUCKING-RIGHT! GRRRRRRRRRR! For once in my life, I allowed myself to be a teensy bit optimistic, and what do I get? Crushed like a goddamned bug!

Excuse me while I go sulk.

2009-04-12T20:45:00.000-04:00

AWRIGHT, AWREADY!

Ben commented on my last post, with this powerful rebuttal:

"Different names for different ceremonies sets a very dangerous precedent for inequality. As children we're exposed to all sorts of stories, fairy tales and promises that one day we will fall in love and get married. To then discover that you will never get married, just 'civilly partnered' or 'unioned', just because you are incapable of being attracted to a certain type of person, already makes you feel as if you're not quite part of the human race. A rose by any other name, on this occasion, smells a little token.

I think the real crux is that it really doesn't affect anyone other than the people getting married/partnered/unioned - whatever the name or euphemism. I think that's why the placard-waving masses voting for Prop 8 come across as so unpleasant. What right do such people have to dictate how other people should love each other, and what therefore constitutes a valid expression of that bond?

The most offensive suggestion of all remains that gay men and women should be happy they can "marry" at all now, and thus by extension near-servile for no longer being imprisoned, beaten and murdered. In many parts of the world, they still are."

I have to admit, he has succeeded in making me change my mind. This sentence is particularly moving: "To then discover that you will never get married, just 'civilly partnered' or 'unioned', just because you are incapable of being attracted to a certain type of person, already makes you feel as if you're not quite part of the human race."

Okay guys, get married. As Ben, Lisa, Bill, and DistributorCap all said, it doesn't affect the rest of us, so what's the big deal? And as for a same-sex marriage not fitting the dictionary definition of "marriage," definitions change with time. After all, the word "gay" used to mean "filled with or inspiring mirth..."

2009-04-10T21:05:00.000-04:00

A Rose By Any Other Name Still Could Be Legally Binding

While I am a registered Independent, I do tend to be liberal on most social issues. I'm pro-choice, pro-birth-control and pro-sex-ed in the schools. I favor legalization of marijuana. I'm anti-attempts-to-shove-religion-down-my-throat, but the Golden Rule rocks. I'm comfortable with people of other races. I have no problem with gays, lesbians and trans-gender people. "Live and let live" is my motto.

But...and y'all knew there was going to be a "but" in here...I simply cannot understand the fanatical drive by many gays and liberals to try to legalize gay "marriage!" I can understand and am supportive of the wish of same-sex couples to legalize their unions. It is desirable, spiritually and legally, to have their relationship officially recognized. But why insist on calling the union a "marriage?" My Funk & Wagnalls Dictionary defines marriage as "a compact entered into by a man and a woman, based on mutual regard, to live together as husband and wife until separated by death." That's the definition, like it or not! I can call my shoes "gloves," but they're not going to fit on my hands. I can call a red light "green," but if I try to drive through it, I'll have problems. So why not compromise and call the union between a man and a man or a woman and a woman something else? What's wrong with the term, "civil union?" Why insist on using the word "marriage?" I believe that much of the general public's opposition would fade away, if we could compromise on that one point. If you don't like "civil union," think of something else. Invent a new word! New words are added to our lexicon all the time. Call it a "garriage" for gay men and a "larriage" for lesbian women. I'm being silly with those suggestions, of course. But I'm not kidding about the idea of creating a new term for same-sex unions.
What do you think?

2009-04-08T20:37:00.000-04:00

If Only...

I'm feeling regretful tonight. I keep thinking of all the things I did that I shouldn't have done and all the things I didn't do that I should have. There is no bigger waste of time and energy than dwelling on the past, yet I can't seem to let it go. My son told me recently that I talk more about the past than anyone he knows. I think (hope) that I don't carry on about my sundry regrets when I'm talking to my kids. I think (hope) that I just tell them stories about my childhood and young adulthood, some of which are amusing, and some are depressing, but interesting (I think and hope). I also enjoy relating anecdotes about their childhoods, which I find amusing, but are met with grim expressions, eye-rolling, and "Please, Mom, not again!"

As for the regrets, I am playing with the idea of developing some sort of ritual that will help me purge myself of them, once and for all. Maybe I could write them down on post-it notes, one per page, and then ball up the page, one at a time, and burn them. Or flush them down the toilet, one whole flush for each note. I'll need a mental acknowledgement and reinforcement of the act. Perhaps a spoken affirmation of the purge and the resulting freedom from guilt - a little mantra I can recite with each flush or flame.

Okay, I'm going to work on it now. I'll let you know how it goes...

2009-04-02T20:27:00.000-04:00

HAIKUCKOO

It was just Wham-Bam

You did not say "Thank-you-ma'am"

You have no manners

I try to play fair

But I always come in last

Only cheaters win

Give me those flowers

I will crush them underfoot

I will break your heart

What? I can't hear you

Are you begging for mercy

Ha! Don't make me laugh

Okay, I give up

I can't make myself hate you

I love you too much

Let's try it again

This time let me be on top

Ah...that's much better

2009-03-26T21:41:00.000-04:00

Growing Pains

Today I took a break from playing with myself and worked in the garden. I spaded a 6' x 8' area. I spread composted manure. I raked it all smooth. I planted five 6' rows of seeds, one each of Simpson lettuce, some kind of exotic lettuce mixture, peas, carrots and Swiss chard. Then I came back into the house, took a double dose of ibuprofin, and curled up on the bed, moaning (with pain, not pleasure). Tomorrow I will attempt to duplicate that performance and add another six feet to the length of the five rows. But if my latent masochism will not rise to the challenge...well, at least I have those first seeds launched. And I should be recovered enough by Saturday to resume the project.

Gardening is probably the only domestic chore that I enjoy. My father was an avid gardener and when I was a little girl I was happy to help him, however I could. I have fond memories of Daddy showing me how to prepare the soil and plant the seeds. Then, when they sprouted and reached a certain height, he showed me how to thin the plants. He was a big, strong hard-working man, with big, rough hands. But when he was thinning the carrots or lettuce, he was amazingly precise and almost gentle. Though he's been gone for twenty-two years, I think of him every single time I work in

the garden, and even though I'm a die-hard atheist and don't believe in an afterlife, I can feel him looking over my shoulder, smiling his approval.

2009-03-21T23:21:00.000-04:00

Do It Yourself !

Can someone please explain to me why we are taught that masturbation is "wrong?" It feels good. It doesn't hurt anyone. You can't get pregnant doing it. You can't get venereal disease from doing it. You don't have to take a shower first, if you don't want to. No one has to be "in the mood" but you. What's not to like?

But no! We are made to feel guilty and ashamed of doing it. When I was a child, I "knew" that I was a verrrrry bad girl for "playing with myself." I don't remember now how this knowledge was imparted to me, but it was intense. I continued to think this as I grew older. When I started dating, the "dates" always ended up with a wild necking session in the back seat of the boyfriend's car. For the first couple of years, I managed to avoid "going all the way," but the necking always got me so hot and bothered that when I got home and went to bed I could not sleep until Mr. Hand did his dirty work. Then I would be flooded with guilt and promise myself I would never do it again. But then, Saturday night, the drive-in movie, and my resolve would go up in smoke. When I got married the first time, my husband had no clue (and very little interest) how to satisfy me, so I was still on my own. But again...shame followed every episode of self gratification.

Fortunately, I finally outgrew that curse. Renouncing religion helped a lot. Embracing logic helped even more. I remember asking myself, "What on earth is wrong with it? Who does it hurt? How can it be bad to make yourself feel good?" And then it occurred to me that there may be some evolutionary reason for the human arm to be just the right length to easily place one's hand on one's genitals! Ahhhhhhh...!
And oh, how I would like to place my hand on this cowboy's genitals...

Mind you, I'm not recommending "rubbin' the nubbin" or "rockin' the cock" in public! And I have a long way to go before I'd be able to write a post like Captain Smack's "Interesting things I have done to my penis" or write a story like Phillip Roth's "Portnoy's Complaint," where he describes in excruciating detail what he did with some raw calf liver, but this post is a start.

2009-03-15T20:32:00.000-04:00

The Big "O"

My first "real" job (9 to 5, weekly paycheck, dictatorial boss) was at a K-Mart in Salt Lake City, back in the '70s. The bosses were all male and the underlings all female. I was full of feminist ideals that had no chance of being realized, and was always boiling with unexpressed rebellion. Since I was married at that time to the king of MCPs (that's Male Chauvinist Pigs, for all you ignorant youngun's out there), I had a double whammy of sexist suppression. My co-workers were an interesting mix of up-tight Mormons and would-be hippies. Even some of the Mormon ladies were longing to be free. I think I was the only California transplant in our little crowd, and my relatively liberal talk and mannerisms aroused suspicion in some and admiration in others. After a few months of employment, I had become friendly with 4 or 5 women and we would have lunch together almost every day.

We had a good time discussing how we detested our jobs, how frustrated we were with our lives and...you guessed it...our sex lives. One day, the subject concerned the female orgasm, or lack thereof. Jill said, "I've never had an orgasm with my husband. If I don't do it myself, it just doesn't happen." Jan claimed that, "Oh, my husband is a wonderful lover. I come every time." We all looked at her, in surprise. I said, "Really?" She blushed. "Well, almost every time." Julie said, "Well, your husband probably knows something about foreplay. My husband's idea of foreplay is to let me look at his boner for a few seconds before jumping me." We all laughed. Then, sweet, slow, little Jeannie, who had been quiet until then, chimed in. "Some women don't even know what an organism is!" Somehow, we all managed to stifle our giggles and I resisted the urge to say something like, "I think most of us know that 'an organism' is a living being..." Instead, we all muttered things like, "Yeah, that's right, poor dears," and then it was time to go back to work.

Ten years later, I fell under the spell of Pan-man. His exquisite lovemaking made me realize that, until then, *I* had not known what an orgasm could be. He was an organism like no other.

2009-03-10T22:09:00.000-04:00

Company's Coming!

So...I had to tidy up. First...I hung my shell art that I made a couple of years ago. These two pieces have been moldering away in the basement, but now they are prominently displayed. I think they are pretty. I can't draw or paint, but boy can I glue!

Then....I dusted! You should have seen my dust cloth when I was done. No, you shouldn't have. No one but I, the negligent perpetrator, should be subjected to that disgusting sight.

First, I dusted the desk, and all the tschochkes on it.

Then, the shadow box in the kitchen. It took almost a half-hour, by the time I finished fussing with them. Everything had to be just right!

Finally, the window sill in the living room. Isn't it exotic looking? I just love all the little doo-dads I have all over the house. The only drawback is that it takes forever to dust all of them.

Well, that was boring, wasn't it? Next time I'll talk about sex. I can hardly wait!

2009-03-03T22:23:00.000-05:00

Talk Radio Blows

According to certain blowhards who spew their nonsense over the radio waves for three hours a day (that's three hours for each blowhard, one after another, from noon until midnight), five days a week, our feckless country is heading, full-tilt, toward SOCIALISM, maybe even FASCISM! These dire predictions are based on the actions of the evil BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA in his first six weeks in the hot seat. (The fattest of the blowhards has taken to including President Obama's middle name in his references to him, as though Obama had chosen that name himself.)

Apparently, neither of the afternoon blowhards has access to a dictionary, or they might not be so cavalier in their accusations. I, however, have my trusty 1947 Funk and Wagnalls New College Standard Dictionary (inherited from my father) by my side, and I will share with you the official definitions of "socialism" and "fascism."

Socialism: A theory of political and economic organization advocating public collective ownership of the means of production, public collective management of all industries, and production for need and use instead of profit.

Fascism: Any authoritarian, anti-democratic, anti-socialistic (emphasis is mine) system of government in which economic control by the state, militaristic nationalism, propaganda, and the crushing of opposition by means of secret police emphasize the supremacy of the state over the individual.

Okay, let's start with socialism. Call me naive, but I'm pretty darned sure that Obama has no ideological fantasies of the government owning and managing all production and industries. I think he's just trying to shovel cash their (banks and auto manufacturers) way, hoping to shore them up until they can dig themselves out of the hole they're in. And to keep it from looking like an out-and-out handout (like the crazyass TARP fiasco, which OBAMA HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH), the government is taking part ownership in the businesses. I'm not sure this is all a great idea, but my thirty-year-old Bachelor's Degree in Economics does not qualify me to second-guess the "experts."
Now, fascism. The blowhard who throws this term around sounds as though he thinks fascism is an extreme form of socialism! I believe that Communism is the more appropriate term for an extreme form of socialism and I would like to remind him that in WWII the Communist Russians were fighting, tooth and nail, against the Fascist Nazis! And that is the least of the problem with using that vile word in connection with Obama's fledgling government. Look at the definition again, Mr. Big Fat Idiot, and tell me what part of it you can honestly say you believe applies to our democratically elected, knocking-himself-out-trying-to-unify-us President.

Unlike some blowhards, I don't want President Obama to fail. I want him to succeed, because if he succeeds, we all succeed. Even if I don't agree with everything he's doing, I respect him and his team and am willing to concede that they know more than I do about the dire straits we seem to be in. To those who oppose the actions of the administration, I say fine! We're a democracy. Let's hear your plan! Don't just stir the pot of discontent and rebellion if you don't have any ideas of your own, other than constantly invoking the memory of that senile old fart, Ronald Reagan.

2009-02-28T22:29:00.000-05:00

"Madam Z," I tell myself, from time to time, "you must learn to acknowledge your mistakes and move on."

But, I don't listen to myself. I try to salvage the unsalvagable. "But I spent so much time - money - effort on it! I can't let it go to waste!"

"Foolish woman! It's better to let it go; forget about it - put it in the garbage and try again another day. If you're going to eat/do something that's not good for you, at least be damned sure it tastes/feels good."

The most recent battle is still being waged. The subject of the dispute is a batch of truffles. Why, you may ask, would someone try to make her own truffles, when she could get a perfectly good bag of ready-made truffles at the corner store for 3 or 4 bucks? That is a legitimate and worthy question. Why indeed? Temporary insanity cannot be ruled out.

It gets worse. I had a perfectly good bag of Ghirardelli milk chocolate chips in the cupboard, that I have been chipping away at for several days, a tiny handful now and then, when I must have something sweet. They are heavenly. I also had a couple ounces of dark chocolate which isn't anywhere near as good, but is purportedly "good for you." THEN! I bought a can of sweetened condensed milk, for some goddamned reason, which I don't even remember, and it had a recipe on the label for homemade truffles. I was electrified by this! I didn't even know ordinary people could make truffles! They seem too exotic to be made at home, at least at my home. The recipe was deceptively simple: 1 can condensed milk, 18 ounces of semi-sweet chocolate chips and 1 tablespoon of vanilla. Put milk in saucepan, add chips, heat till chocolate is melted, add vanilla, and refrigerate till firm. Roll into balls and cover with some kind of coating. (I completely ignored this last step, since it's the inside that I was interested in.)

Okay. I didn't have 18 oz of semi-sweet chocolate chips, but I had those milk chocolate chips and a couple oz of that dark chocolate, so that should work, shouldn't it? SHOULDN'T IT? In case you're wondering, the answer is NO. Well, maybe it SHOULD'VE worked, but it DIDN'T. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't particularly good. It wasn't anywhere near as good as the plain goddamned chocolate chips were! And I used up about $6 worth of ingredients making the stupid stuff! So I stuck it back in the refrigerator, hoping it would taste better the next day.

It didn't. My self told myself to just throw the shit away. I certainly don't need the calories, anyway. But NO! I had a new plan! Melt the ill-fated concoction again and add a bunch of peanut butter to it! That'll show my smartass Self!

Oh man!!! It is now resting peacefully in the compost heap.

2009-02-24T22:41:00.000-05:00

Question: Was he GREAT, or was he GREAT?

Answer: HE WAS GREAT!

He was calm, confident, self-assured and gave one hell of a speech. Plenty of lofty goals. Plenty of inspiring acknowledgements. Never flubbed a line. Promised something for everyone. I loved what he said. But I do have a question for him:

Um...President Obama, sir...How are we going to PAY for all these worthy goals?

2009-02-19T20:45:00.000-05:00

It's Just Dust!

The best thing about blogging (and other Internet activities) is that it gives me an excuse not to do other things; things I do not want to do. Such as dusting. I do not like to dust. I don't know why. I put it off until the dust gets high enough that I could probably plant seeds in it, and have an indoor garden.

The drawback of blogging (and other Internet activities) is that my computer sits on my desk, which has a large, dust collecting surface, with two shelves mounted on the desk, one of which is at eye-level, and both of which are covered with dust. I don't notice it at night, because the light is dim. But in the daytime, the sun slants through the window behind the desk and highlights the evidence of my shameful neglect. Fortunately, I have a short attention span, so it's usually not a big problem. Unless, that is, I start to think about the composition of dust. That is what I am doing now. What's IN that shit, anyway? I think I read somewhere that a lot of it is dead skin cells, and the dust mites that feed on the skin cells (but I'm not going to think about that now, or I would get all paranoid and probably have to set fire to all the surfaces). Then there's the regular dirt that gets airborne and then lands on the furniture. There's hair, too. And probably all kinds of dead insect parts. Much of it is surely just small fibres from clothing and furniture upholstery. When my kids were little, we had a couple episodes of pinworm infestation, and our family doctor told me that the pinworm eggs were probably covering every surface in the house and the only hope for not reinfecting us all was to thoroughly dust and disinfect all those surfaces (along with boiling every piece of bedding and clothing that we owned). And while I'm pretty darn sure that neither Hubby nor I are afflicted with PW, I still think of that possible component of dust, on the rare occasion that I do break out the Swifters.

Bottom line is that there's no good reason to stir up that yukky stuff very often. Let sleeping dust lie... until, of course, my mother-in-law is due for a visit. When that happens, the dust will fly!

2009-02-15T21:40:00.000-05:00

Two Words, Four Words, Six Words, Eight

Okay, I'm tired of haiku. I'm going to experiment with a new, less challenging format to express my lack of thoughts. Or something like that. How's this?

I will.
I will write it.
I will write my story now.
But first, I will eat some ice cream.
Oh no! The ice cream froze my brain!
My story is encased in ice.
I won't write it.
I can't.

Or this...

Why me?
I am not worthy.
Huh? I am? Are you sure?
Okay, here goes; remember... you asked for it.
Once upon a time, I lived in boxcars.
A fairly good-looking prince rescued me.
Or so I thought.
I escaped.

Th..th..that's all folks!

2009-02-08T21:16:00.000-05:00

Haiku in the Dark

I can't fall asleep

I'm afraid I won't wake up

So I watch the clock

Why am I alive?

In bed, the question haunts me

I have no purpose

Do I sound morbid?

I'm not - I just need some light

The sunrise will help

I'll look to the east

Wait for the first rays of sun

There goes the alarm

It's time to get up

I've been awake long enough

Now I will sleepwalk

2009-02-03T21:06:00.000-05:00

Diary of a Mad Teenager

Today I was rummaging through my disorganized filing cabinet, looking for my passport. I didn't find the passport, but I did find my ancient diary, which I kept from age 12 to 16. I come across it once every decade or so. Sometimes I read a few entries and sometimes I just toss it back into the past. Today I read it from start to finish. Talk about depressing! My parents were divorced and my sisters and I lived with our smart, but unwise, mother. She was always looking for "something better," whether it was a man, a job, or a place to live. So we moved every year, she had a different job every year, and a different man every year. The year I was 14, all three of those categories were something worse. The man, Freddie, was an alcoholic who couldn't hold a job. We moved to a god-forsaken tiny town far from L.A. Then Mom's idiot, alcoholic brother Bob moved in with us. He couldn't hold a job, either. Mom couldn't get a job, because she couldn't drive and we lived too far from town to walk or catch a bus. In L.A., she was always able to get a job, because she was smart and could convince any prospective employer that she could do the job, whatever it was. And, within two weeks on the job, she could do it and do it well. And back then, you could take a bus to anywhere you wanted to go.

But out in the boonies of Yucaipa, with no transportation, she was S.O.L. My sisters and I were also S.O.L. We lived in this crappy little house with no heat (no money for propane), a discontented, regretful mother, and at least three (idiot, alcoholic Uncle Bob brought his idiot alcoholic friend George in to live with us) idiot, alcoholic men. They would host parties for their drunken bum friends on Saturday nights. I remember one night when Freddie was so drunk and sick that he threw up on the kitchen table. It was sooooo nasty! Mom was trying to wipe it up and asked me to help, but I refused, pointing out that it was she who chose to live with the idiot, not me.

After almost a year of that S.O.L.ness, my dad managed to rescue Mom and us girls and set us up in a nice, warm, clean little apartment, back in L.A. Mom got a good job and we had about six months of relative bliss, before yet another adventure reared its head.

I swear - I'm going to BURN THAT FUCKING DIARY!

2009-01-29T21:14:00.000-05:00

I meet once or twice a month with three fellow amateur writers. Our stated goal is to inspire and encourage one another to get serious about our writing. But mostly we just sit around, drinking wine and shooting the shit, until finally one of us will say, "Okay, let's do our writing exercise now." Then we each throw out an arbitrary word, and we must each incorporate the four words into an extemporaneous story. We set the timer for 20 minutes and go to town!

Last week, the four words were: Naked, Bulgaria, Prison and Camels. I had such fun writing my story, that I simply must share it with you. ( You lucky devils!)

I was sitting, stark naked, in a Bulgarian prison cell, smoking the last cigarette from my beat-up pack of Camels. I had hidden the pack under a dead rat in the corner of the cell and allowed myself just one smoke each night, after the guard dozed off, which he did every night at midnight. You could set your clock by his first snore, if you had a clock, which I didn’t. I didn’t have a goddamned thing, except that pack of Camels, and now it was empty. The rat was in pretty bad shape too, not just from normal putrefaction, but also from me rearranging it every night for the past 20 days. But now, I could leave it alone, since the pack was as empty as my future. I had no hope of ever being released. I had no hope of ever being clothed again, or even given a blanket. Those goddamned Bulgarians were so goddamned mad at me, they wanted me to suffer as much as possible, without actually touching me, since they were all familiar with the details of the Geneva Convention.

It all started three weeks ago, when I was in the airport, trying to get to Poland. I wanted to go to Poland to do some research on the origin of Polish jokes. I wondered if a whole nation of people actually could be so dumb as to justify the volumes of jokes that started with the line, “What did the Polack…(fill in the blank).” So, while I was standing in that airport, where NO one spoke one WORD of English, I struck up a conversation with a guard, using my English – Bulgarian dictionary. That probably would have worked just fine, if I had known how to pronounce those idiot words they use. Apparently, the words are distinguished by some arcane set of accents and emphases, and if you put the emphasis on the wrong syllable, it can change the meaning of the word. So – when I was trying to ask the guard how long it was until the next plane would arrive, HE thought I asked how long was his DICK! He smiled and said, “Very long,” which I thought meant the plane wouldn’t be there for a very long time. Then, I tried to tell him I wanted to go home, and he thought I meant I wanted to go to HIS home and grabbed me and headed for the exit. So, I shot him, of course!

Then everyone in the whole airport was pissed off, even though there were plenty of other guards. I told them it was all their fault, because they had such a stupid language and why don’t they just speak English, like civilized people. So, the intolerant, unreasonable bastards stripped me down, looking for explosives, they said, but they didn’t check the one place where I had hastily stuck my pack of Camels. Thank goodness, because I would have gone nuts in that cold, rat-infested cell, without that one little thing to look forward to, each night.

I don’t know what I’ll do now.

2009-01-23T22:23:00.000-05:00

Rotting on the Vine

That's what I feel like I'm doing tonight. I haven't had any excitement in my life for so long, I probably wouldn't even recognize it if it bit me on the ass. Hubby can't seem to stay up past 8 o'clock, most nights, while I, on the other hand, can't even consider going to bed until at least 11. So I wander around the house for three hours, feeling disgruntled and frustrated. We go out to eat maybe twice a year, on my birthday and Valentine's day. Maybe a movie, you say? Surely you jest! And it seems like a lifetime ago since we went dancing. Oh fucking well! I can entertain myself, goddamn it! The Internet is helpful in that regard. I enjoy reading your blogs. Googling random names and ideas keeps me busy for short intervals. Sometimes, if I have enough caffeine still circulating in my bothered brain, I make lists of things I should do "tomorrow." The list gets buried in the festering mass of papers piled on my desk, and has virtually no chance of ever having anything crossed off, but making the list gives me a fleeting sense of accomplishment. The various lists always include something about writing.

e.g. MAKE OUTLINE OF LIFE FOR USE IN WRITING AUTOBIOGRAPHY

or WRITE SHORT STORY ABOUT INFIDELITY

or DIG OUT ONE OF YOUR STUPID SHORT STORIES AND SEND SOMEPLACE

or FINISH THAT GODDAMNED POEM YOU STARTED A MONTH AGO

It just occured to me that I never include anything about posting on my blog. And yet, I do manage to do that at least two or three times a month. And...it doesn't feel like a chore. I actually ENJOY tapping out my little unplanned ephemereal messages.

GOOD LORD! Maybe the secret to success (however one may define "success") is to just DO something, without TELLING YOURSELF TO DO IT! Ooooohhh...I'm getting dizzy....

2009-01-13T21:21:00.000-05:00

I'm Here to Help

I had originally planned to write on the subject of how to insure world peace while restoring the stock market and curing the common cold. But then I came down with this really bad cold, caused by my lowered resistance brought about by worrying about world war and the lousy stock market. So I decided to talk some more about the still timely subject of New Year’s resolutions, instead.

My mind is fairly boiling with ideas of how other people could and should improve their lives. It’s much easier to make resolutions for other people, than for myself. I am hereby starting "Madam Z’s Resolution Counseling Service." Some of you folks out there in the blogosphere could give me a little encouragement by asking what I would recommend for you. Don’t worry about me being too harsh. I probably wouldn’t tell you anything that you haven’t already heard from your mother or your spouse. But it would probably be easier for you to accept advice from a disinterested third-party.

Come to think of it, my Resolution Counseling Service, if successful, could help me achieve one of my personal goals for 2009: “Make some extra money without doing any tedious extra work.” I know what you’re thinking, “Isn’t that type of service a bit too seasonal? After all, New Years’ resolutions are typically made only on January 1 of each year.” This shows how much you need my help in devising creative solutions to your inadequacies. You see, a new “New Year” could begin on any day, and end 365 days later! The resolutions you made on January 1, and broke on January 8, can be discarded and re-thought. Just return to my blog, and for a small consultation fee (PayPal accepted), I will help you come up with more realistic goals. For instance, your January 1 vow to never eat, or even think about eating, another piece of chocolate as long as you live was a bit too ambitious. So let’s start over. It’s January 13, the first day of the new, New Year - 1/13/09 through1/12/10. Let’s modify that resolution: “I solemnly vow to never, ever eat so much chocolate that I throw up.” Now that’s a promise that most of us could keep.

Let’s move on to the more lofty goals. Most of us have, at one time or another, or many times and another, resolved to lose weight in the coming year. Consider how negative that sounds! Lose weight? Do you really want to lose? Lose is what we do in the stock market! Lose is what we do to our car keys in a crowded mall. No! We should resolve to gain! Resolve to gain weight in the coming year! Think of the satisfaction when you step on the scale one year from today and find that you have actually gained something. Your 401(k) is emaciated, but you have another solid ten pounds on your belly. Now that’s putting something away for the future.

How about smoking? Have you promised yourself you would quit smoking this year? Again, a negative approach. Do you want to be a quitter? No! Be a starter. Start each day with a brand new cigarette. Light up! Make that stogie glow! With your 401(k) in the dumpster, you can’t afford to live past retirement anyway. You see? Setting realistic goals is practical and satisfying.

To prove to you that I practice what I preach, I’ll show you my own brand new resolution:
I hereby resolve to start my new Resolution Advisory Service sometime in the next year, at some arbitrary date, yet to be determined. Watch for the announcement in a future post. You guys need my help.

2009-01-09T21:39:00.000-05:00

This is a story I wrote with Harry B. Sanderson's help for Six Sentences. Sentences #1, #3 and #6 are based on a seminal event in little Miss Z's childhood. Harry filled in the blanks.

THOU SHALT NOT!

Ten-year-old Miss Z was in her bible study class, listening to glowering Mr. Wingnut exhorting her and the other children to obey god's ten commandments or risk burning in hell, and she was pretty scared and wanted to be sure she didn't break any of those rules, but then, omigod, she realized that she didn't know what commandment number six meant, so how could she know whether or not she was doing it?

Her fifth grade class had already studied prefixes and suffixes, but try as she may she could not figure how adding "ery" could change the otherwise familiar word “adult” into something sinful. or for that matter how she could be guilty of anything beyond childery, whatever that was, anyway. So she raised her hand, waving frantically, until Mr. Wingnut stopped exhorting long enough to say, "What IS it, Miss Z," and Miss Z blurted out her question, "What does adultery mean?"

The frank question triggered deeply embedded left-wing alerts and Wingnut stumbled, stammering, "Tax and spend...er, uh...liberal media...oh wait REDISTRIBUTE! that's what... oh geez…” Adept at exhortery, he'd suffered a failure in strategery by allowing the question.

Miss Z was puzzled by her teacher's obvious discomfort, but she was relieved, because she was from a poor family that had nothing to distribute, much less redistribute, so she was pretty sure she would not be committing adultery, at least not until she was an adult and maybe have some money of her own.

2008-12-30T20:45:00.000-05:00

My New Year’s Resolutions

In 2009, I resolve to stop thinking that I am the Center of the Universe. I will no longer feel responsible for things beyond my control. It's not my fault that the world is going to Hell in a hand basket! No more letters to politicians, pleading for world peace. They're men. They want to fight. No more contributions to charitable organizations. They use the pittance I am able to send them for postage to send me more solicitations. Sorry, Polar bears! Sorry,Whales! Talk to the Humvee drivers and big oil executives.

I will no longer deny myself the pleasure of eating chocolate for fear of becoming fat. I'm fifty years old! No one gives a rat's ass whether I get fat or not! They're not looking at me! I will no longer make any attempt to be fashionable. (See the preceding sentence.) My new mantra will be, "If it feels good, wear it."

I will no longer be concerned with any but the most basic social graces. I will, of course, try not to pass gas in public, but I will say whatever I damn well please. No one gives a rat's ass what I say! They're not listening!

I just wish that I were a smoker and a drinker, so I could resolve to not try to give up those bad habits. But, I doubt that anyone would notice, anyway, given my extremely small and remote place in the Universe.

Thank you for not reading this, or caring what I think, or what I resolve.

2008-12-23T11:26:00.000-05:00

Braindrops Keep Falling From My Head

(These materialized while I was on an airplane recently)

We're suspended in air

Between the ocean and sky

Someday we will land

____________

I have no headphones

I cannot hear the movie

I saved five dollars

____________

I have a headache

Why don't I take some aspirin?

Perhaps I like pain

____________

Neurotic, you say?

No! Just dreadfully nervous

And a bit anxious

____________

Life is not easy
I try to understand it
It's quite confusing
____________

Where are my ideas?

I've looked everywhere for them

Perhaps they are gone

2008-12-18T22:04:00.000-05:00

Hai-ku. Kan-yu?

I have decided that my life could be adequately expressed in a series of Haikus. Are you familiar with haiku? It is a Japanese form of poetry (I think so, anyway) consisting of three lines, the first line has five syllables, the second has seven syllables and the third has five syllables.

Here are some samples of my Nipponic attempts:

I wish I could write

I would tell a dark story

That no one would read

_________

I hear the music

It flows over my body

and jangles my mind

__________

I'll tell your fortune

Sit down, and show me your palm

It's all written there

__________

I gather sea shells

From yard sales, not from the sea

It's much easier

__________

I tried to hate you

But it was impossible

I love you too much

___________

The day is over

I hear the clock striking twelve

Now I'll go to sleep

___________

2008-12-10T21:33:00.000-05:00

Quick! Call the doctor! I've been infected with the Splotchy Story Virus (aka V3)

Here are Splotchy's rules:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

Ready? Set? GO!

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Rivulets of sweat began cascading down my face and I hurriedly wiped one from my brow before its salty bitterness could burn my precious, precious electric eye. No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to my allergy to cardboard that always resulted in patches of bloody pustules and mottled skin akin to a poorly applied KISS® -- see, Gene? Put your lawyers away -- makeup job nor the fact that a fair number of the riders were curiously dressed like a toupee-less, yet masterfully make-upped Chaim Witz nor the fact that motionless tentacles were protruding from a number of randomly punched holes in the cardboard box that bore the hideous label Contents, frozen spawn of Old One, 72 oz. nor the realization that I had forgotten my glasses and couldn't see not whom, but what, was slowly shambling down the aisle towards me, its apparently glistening appendages slopping on the possibly filthy floor of this potential deathtrap of a bus recklessly driven by an attractively miniskirted, yet maniacal, maniac, her lapel bearing a button barely visible underneath a swath of jet-black hair and emblazoned with I worship Dagon, ask me how!, which I never did by the way.No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to any of those mundane things. My wind wandered, dreaming up all sorts of misadventure where I stared death in the face and he stared back and then we had a series of staring contests of which I think I won nearly 40% of them, an excellent number against an entity bearing a head-lopping scythe, don't you think?I stared out the window, and the undulating, slowly shifting, tree-saturated landscape stared back. I won that contest but quickly remembered the old saw about looking into the abyss and having it stick its tongue out. I pulled my electric eye back into the bus and stared ahead instead.Next, a cavalcade of nervous fumbling and rummaging through my pockets to make sure I had an extra nine volt battery. I did -- the apparently glistening appendages slopping ever closer amidst a cacophony of bizarre, intermittent noise -- so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my electric eye running out of juice until I got back.Which, of course, turned out to be the case, for how else could you be reading this erratic, poorly-written account of horror, unless you stumbled upon the abandoned wreckage of the bus and were rifling through my strangely mutilated corpse severely underdressed for the freezing weather and found this sheet of crumpled and charred paper riddled with poor penmanship along with my wallet that contained a drivers license, library card, work ID, three singles and a bus ticket!But you didn't because I'm not dead, for I just handed the bus ticket to the shambling beast which indeed was slimy for it -- and it, despite its general human visage, was the most accurate description I could muster -- was close enough that I didn't need my glasses."Last stoop fer yew vis'turs."Ahead in the distance, beyond the cardboard box's melting water -- at least, I assumed it was water, and you know what they say when you assume: Nyarlathotep tears you a new one, chump -- pooling at my feet, the creepy troupe of riders and the inhuman coughing of it, bathed by the light of the red moon, I saw the low, yet eerily distinct skyline of Arkham. (Randal)

Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts?I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.(Utah Savage)

The irony of hating that Will Smith movie where he was the only pure human he knew of makes me laugh until I cry only once a day usually, but this makes the second time today.
I'd like to be able to distract myself from this existence as I sometimes can with some maudlin or quirky tale that was uploaded to this confounded eye, but for the time being I just place it on its charger, wondering yet again what renewable substance has been able to sustain the charger's life these 25 years. If I knew that, would I be freezing here like this?
I wish someone, anyone, could or would answer that question. I wish Lilith were here to ponder it with me.

Yes, there are the halflings, but they really are not very good company. The electronic portions of them seem to override most of their humanness. But, compared to those the blogoscopic entities have fully infiltrated, they are a veritable schmorgesborg of spontaneity. I am not sure if I should admit that my insane mother was right and that my "specialness" would "save" me in the end, but those like me are few and far between these days.

What was once a blessing, my telepathic tendencies, has become such a curse that I would no doubt kill myself were it not for Lilith. My only hope is to find her. (Freida Bee)

But wait! If my telepathic tendencies were more reliable, I would know where Lilith is. But I do not know where she is. So perhaps I should rely more on my psychopathic tendencies, which are very reliable. You may recall that I am mad… quite mad, I might add, and in my delusional state I am certain that I no longer need Lilith to ponder with or pander to, as the case may be. What I do need, and need badly, is a man! A real man, 100% human, and with only one tentacle (ahem), if you know what I mean.

I am keeping my electric eye open (thank Xeus for that extra 9 volt battery!), but so far, neither the slimy, multi-tentacled, oddly dressed, freaks on the bus, nor the selfish dog-man in my cold concrete cube measure up to my strict standards.
Of course, there is a strong possibility that I should lower my standards, given the fact that, as I mentioned earlier, I am fricking old and getting older by the minute, and I’m crazy as a lonesome loon howling at the moon. So, I think I’ll try something different…maybe a train ride. I think there’s some kind of law that requires train engineers to be human, and it’ll be nice and warm in that engine room. (Madam Z )

I hereby tag:
Katie Schwartz
Spartacus
Bill Stankus
The Japing Ape
Honeysmack

2008-12-04T21:15:00.000-05:00

Never Mind. I'm Good.

I was just sitting here feeling sorry for myself because my life is so dull and boring

and winter is coming and my feet are always cold and I have nothing to show for having lived another day and my shoulder hurts and I want to eat that last Snickers bar from Halloween, but I'm so afraid of getting fat and it's dark outside and I don't remember the last time I actually had fun, AND THEN I remembered tonight's news report on Zimbabwe. As if the poor people didn't have enough trouble, with a totally disfunctional government, civil war, horridly-hyper-inflation, famine, no clean drinking water and who knows what else, NOW they have been stricken with CHOLERA! The camera chronicled people dead and dying, mothers crying over their sick and dying children, and poorly equipped hospitals that are overflowing with desperate sick and dying people.

And THEN I thought, I HAVE NOTHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT! NOTHING, NOTHING NOTHING!!! I am SO thankful I don't live in Africa.

On the other hand, it's much warmer there than here, and the sun shines longer and no one would care if I got fat, and not every country in Africa is as bad off as Zimbabwe. There's uh...or maybe...hmmm...

Never mind.

The end.