A scary thought: other sites that have published my writing

Humorous Essays Published at

Mom Bloggers Club – The Accidental Blogger

Unscripted Life via Network for Wives – Dental Royalty and the Gold Crown


In addition my blog post, “Dead Mice Don’t Eat Cheese,” was a top pick in the WOOF Contest at PlotDog.com.

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

Poetry

Zorlone – “StormA voice to the storm’s awesomely destructive power. This was written in admiration and respect to its might.

Dragon Blogger – “Ghost Whispers” – Poem about ghosts of the past, read aloud by the author.

Jennifer M Scott – “Open BookLosing oneself.

Fiction

Roy/Angel – “Modern day Cinderella story”An original adaptation of my 11-year old daughter of the Cinderella story.

Lauren Salkin – “Dead Mice Don’t Eat Cheese” – This post is based on a true story. So, what is actually true? The mouse, the cat, and me, of course. I did grab the cat with the mouse in its mouth, tried to shake it from the cat’s mouth, succeeded in doing so, then subsequently stepped on the mouse, killing it.

Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the Serial Suspense Screenplay “Intervention”

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Word de jour: Leaves or that which has left the trees

They’re everywhere

  



. . . on roofs, in gutters, on driveways, on lawns hiding dog poop. In the fall, a poop-finding expedition can be quite hazardous to your shoes, as well as your olfactory hardware. In a shoe-to-poop situation, having deciduous leaf wipes within reach can save your sole. However, it does seem a shame to use a leaf with a lovely red hue to wipe away doo. I prefer using brown leaves that still have some flexibility. Decomposing, brittle leaves make terrible wipes for obvious reasons.

A poop-finding expedition is best undertaken beneath an overcast sky. A bright sun casts shadows across grounded leaves and can appear poop like in places. Unobstructed sunlight can be blinding to the eye and send a Poopologist stumbling about a yard, crashing into tree trunks and falling into that which he or she is seeking, rendering the operation a lesson in counter productivity.

For some, fall represents an artistic adventure from a boring, repetitious drive. Blasting a Pink Floyd CD, while negotiating your way across a country road, can be an exhilarating, psychedelic experience.

For others, fall is a depressing time of the year. My husband says it reminds him of death, though it is the leaves that are dying and not the trees. Maybe he can find comfort in that, unless my husband is not referring to the dead leaves, but to the possible fatalities that may occur from slipping on damp, leaf-covered surfaces.

Wet leaves are the banana peels of the suburban lawn dweller. However, when falling on a lawn, you don’t hit pavement, as is typically the case when slipping on a banana peel. Although there are other hazardous objects on lawns, such as rocks, lawn jockeys, doghouses, and outdoor lighting. During the day, outdoor lighting is a paradox.

It would be foolish to pursue poop at night, even with a full moon and adequate lawn lighting. To attempt it at night during the fall would be insanity. I’ll leave that for the Poopologists to ponder, while I delight in watching red, orange, and yellow leaves twist on their stems in the wind before they break away and do what the season is aptly named after, fall. That’s all I have to say about fall, other than, for me, fall is just another four-letter word.

This is part of WTF Friday @ Unscripted Life
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Anyone for a Perimenopausal Cocktail? – Dark rum with a hot estrogen blend

Color Martini:


These are 
the dark days, 
followed 
by even 
darker nights. 

Maybe I should remove the lens shields from my rose-colored glasses.

Damn it! I’m moody. This gloomy wet weather and gray drippy sky doesn’t help. I want to be five years old again and find a mud puddle to jump in and ruin my new black patent leather shoes. Being sent to bed without dinner would be a fair trade off, as tuna casserole would likely have been on the dinner rotation schedule.

Back then my mother didn’t have an elaborate dinner menu. She was one of the first working moms in the affluent neighborhood where I grew up. While the other moms spent their days at health clubs or boutiques, my mom went back to school to earn her broker’s license and then sold real estate before it was socially acceptable. Most nights, my two brothers, father, and I dined on a variation of chicken, TV dinners, tuna casserole, or meat loaf, which sounds similar to my current cooking options, minus the tuna casserole.

I’m a disaster in the kitchen. When my husband and I first started getting serious, he asked me to take a cooking course called, “How to boil water.” I think I was the only one in the class who actually burned the water.

Tonight in the present, we’ll be having leftovers again for dinner. In my highly unpredictable state, I’m scared to go near the carving knives or stove with its incendiary devices.

God, why does the ceiling feel so low that it’s crushing my skull and squishing my brains out through my ears. Some of you may know what I’m talking about. Some of you might just think I’m a whiny bitch. You might be right and wonder, Why not exercise your troubles away, and take a walk or a spin on the treadmill? Because sweating will only further depress me. My mental state is that fragile. Only a hot bath with a large piece of chocolate cake and a refreshing cocktail on a tray with water wings will help. Then it’s off to bed where I’ll dream the dream and then wake up to face another day of hormonal hell.

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Why Head Trips are Cost-Effective

Trouble free travel within the confines of your own mind





HEAD TRIP INSIDER’S GUIDE: WHAT TO EXPECT

No traffic or weather delays: Unless your thoughts are backed up due to fog

No charge for extra baggage: I’m working stuff out

No charge for a roundtrip ticket and hotel accommodations: Delusions are free

The local cuisine was worse than airplane food: I can’t cook

The weather was hot: I dressed in too many layers

Visited exotic locations: I watched The Travel Channel

No cell phone service: I turned off the phone

The service was terrible: The staff was always out to lunch

The pilots overshot the airport: Someone else’s head trip

Be back as soon as I can figure out how to land.

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If evolution didn’t work, we’d all be swimming with the fishes

A boy enjoys a fish tank at the Oklahoma Aquarium

 

 

 

 

However, DNA and PTA evidence refutes the fish hypothesis.

 

 

 

If evolution works is no longer a theory, as the Internet Web Atlas indicates high levels of commentary activity in the Diarist Zone.

 

On a clear night in the Blogosphere, a web gazer doesn’t need Google to find the website if evolution works, located in the outer regions of the constellation Suburbius. Ifevolutionworks, a mom-owned cyberspace boutique, can be easily identified by its strong gravitational pull of loyal readers orbiting the site in a ring of hands.

 

Many prominent Webologists believe the hands to be an interplanetary expression of affirmation to Nancy, the site’s proprietor, who delivers honest and direct commentary on life with wit, wisdom, and Darwinian like observations that are both refreshing and entertaining. Please take a moment to travel to the Diarist Zone to join hands with other faithful followers of ifevolutionworks.com and succumb to the gravitational pull of Nancy.

 

While further parsing the results of evolutionary consequences, a momentary course correction leads to an unexplored sector of cyberspace and the question:

 

What if life began in a cesspool instead of a gene pool?

 

And . . . what if evolution didn’t work?

 

An evolutionary role reversal would take place, putting fish at the opposite end of the pole.

 

What would happen if fish ruled the world?

  1. Instead of having Sushi for dinner, Sushi would be having you for dinner
  2. As the main course on the menu, you’d be served with a red-faced whine rather than a Chardonnay
  3. A chum would be considered a bucket of shark bait and not a pal
  4. Instead of a room with a view, you’d be the view, in your new glassy aquatic condo:
  5. Fish tank per gallon in relation to apartment size:
  •      5 gallon tank – studio
  •      10 gallon – 1 bedroom
  •      20 gallon – 2 bedrooms
  •      100 gallon – Duplex in Trump Towers

6.  Being hooked on phonetics would have a whole new meaning

     7.  If you think something fishy’s going on, it will likely be you

     8.  Being deboned will be the equivalent to having liposuction

     9.  A cold-blooded Barracuda will be the new bitch

   10.  Amoeba proteus will be a distant relative on the other side of the pond

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Slouching Towards Absurdity

Satire on false perspective by Hogarth.

Okay, so I can’t pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time . . .

That doesn’t mean I’m a ditz, just ambidextrously challenged. I may be a dreamer, but I’m a pragmatist, too, as I only dream in black and white. That would explain why my life is like a Fellini movie.

Take today for instance. I simply called what I thought was a Japanese restaurant to make a reservation, leaving a detailed message on the answer machine. After I hung up, I sensed something was not quite right. The recorded voice didn’t mention the name of the restaurant and sounded more shrill-nasal New York suburban (where I grew up) than soft-lilting Far Eastern cosmopolitan.

I thought about it a moment, had lunch, and then sent my mind off on a mini-vacation to Tahiti.

Ten minutes later, after my mind landed, retrieved the luggage, and was able to get a cab, I received a call from a woman, who proceeded to tell me that I had left a reservation on her home answering machine.

“So, 7p.m. Tuesday, for five, correct?” I said.

Silence.

“I need directions.”

Silence.

“What are the specials?”

More silence and no detectable click or dial tone indicating a hang up.

“Oh, and it’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” she muttered.

“But please don’t sing happy birthday or make a fuss.”

Silence.

“At my age, birthdays are more like headstones than milestones.”

Audible gasp.

“And the funny thing. My birthday falls three weeks after my anniversary. This year was our twenty-fifth.”

Silence.

“We went to Jamaica to celebrate.”

“Which resort?” she asked.

I took a moment to recover from the stun of her response. “Couples Sans Souci.”

“Maki-Maki.”

“Maki Couples?”

“Maki Sushi. I highly recommend it. Will there be any thing else? I have to take another call.”

“What are the directions?”

“Hang up the phone and never call back again.”

Click.

Maybe French cuisine would be a better choice. After all Fellini and I do share a strange symbiotic relationship. I picked up the receiver, hesitated, and then hung up the phone. Damn. I don’t speak French.

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The engine’s runnin’ but ain’t nobody driving

car_rev_counterImage by Terry Freedman via Flickr

Somethings are better left unsaid


Texas man found asleep with corpse inside closet – Yahoo! News

“There were two guys in the closet. They appeared to be sleeping, one was snoring and the other was deceased,” said Assistant Chief Deputy Mark Herman. “It appeared that they were doing some sort of narcotics, at least the one that they woke up.”

I have nothing to add.

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Vending Machine Vices – Condoms and Candy Bars

 

An argument for staying at motels without vending machines in the lobby.

There is something unseemly about a vending machine that hangs boxes of condoms next to the Twix candy bars. Such was the case at the Cheapo Motel where I stayed during a trip to Boston. The room included no amenities, no mini bar, coffee maker, or tube of shampoo. However, everything needed could be found in the vending machines in the lobby: toothpaste, shampoo, miniature soap and, yes, even condoms. There was no room service unless you included pizza delivery from down the street.

Since the motel room really didn’t exactly provide a fine dining ambiance, I ate at the more upscale Mexican joint on the next block where I sat drinking Appletinis at the bar. Maybe, if I had allocated booze money toward my trip budget, I might have stayed at a one-star or even a two-star motel. The Cheapo Motel had no star at all, red giant, or dwarf.

However, despite the low life decor, the motel had excellent service. The pseudo concierge, desk guy was always helpful. When trying to figure out which tours to take of Boston, he always offered advice by answering questions with, “I honestly don’t know.”

“And your name is . . .?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Someone else must have been hitting the Appletinis besides me, I thought. Though I had pegged desk guy as a beer drinker. The six-pack he used as a paperweight on the front desk was a good indicator. Other than desk guy’s lame responses, he was a rather affable fellow. He smiled a lot despite a hunk of lettuce permanently wedged between his two front teeth. I found out later that he did know another phrase besides, “I honestly don’t know.” A line he uttered twice as often. “You can find it in the vending machine.”

Three over-sized vending machines barely fit into an alcove off the lobby. One machine contained candy and drug store items, the other soda and water, and finally last, but not least, ice, which was quite popular among the brown bag-huggers who stumbled into the lobby with drool running down their chins. Not being an expert on hobo toxicology, I naïvely thought that ice went into a drink but was wrong. One brown bag-hugger I encountered waiting for the elevator felt obligated to explain why he held a bag of ice along with a brown bag.

“I keep it for hangovers,” he said.

“Ah,” I responded, then took two steps back. His 100-proof-breath nearly knocked me over. If I had remained close to him for another minute or so, the fumes would have likely intoxicated me. It was 3 p.m. I never drink before 5 p.m.

Hugger had his own set of rules, too. “I only buy booze when I’m sober,” he muttered, before stepping into the elevator. Then added, as the elevator doors closed, “So the liquor store guy doesn’t think I’m a drunk.”

Somehow, what hugger said made perfect sense.  I pondered his words while sauntering over to the vending machine alcove in front of the candy/drug store items. I stared at the Twix candy bar hanging next to the box of rubbers. Maybe it was the drunk’s breath talking, but suddenly it all made sense to me. I had never realized it before, but there was something slightly phallic-looking about a Twix candy bar.

 

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