(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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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??

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??

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!"

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!

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

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.

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.

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...

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.

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!"

Tiger is a lion cheetah!

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!

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.

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.