Death by 1,000 haircuts.

Worst haircut EVER

Shear Torture.

If hair could talk, mine would be speaking its last rites.

An inch off is what I said.  Two to three-inches off is what I got. A great bang for the buck. I don’t think so. More like getting banged by a buck, in the monetary sense.

The hair-grazing experience began with seven words.

“I part your hair in the center,” she said, in a dialect reminiscent of Cloris Leachman’s Frau Blücher – horses whinny – from “Young Frankenstein.”

Frau Blücher: Would the doctor care for a brandy before retiring?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No. Thank you.
Frau Blücher: Some varm milk… perhaps?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No… thank you very much. No thanks.
Frau Blücher: Ovaltine?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: NOTHING! Thank you! I’m a little – tired!
Frau Blücher: Then I vill say… goodnight.
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: Goodnight.

After the ceremonial parting of the hair, the radical hacking of the hair began – snip – a clump here – snip – a clump there. At the foot of the chair, all the beheaded strands of hair fell into one mountainous clumpage of hair-don’ts, all victims of la filament guillotine.

Poor frizzy dead-enders, lying lifeless and stranded with other frivolous fibers cut off from the pore of their very existence. That’s what happens when you fall to the end of the hairline. Some call it fate. “It was just their time.” Others pretend not to know me. They shake their heads and mutter, “It’s just hair.”

“Just!” I cry out. “They’re dead. I tell you. Dead!”

Monty Python Dead Parrot Sketch:

“He’s not pining, he’s passed on. This parrot is no more. He has ceased to be. He’s expired and gone to meet his maker. He’s a stiff, bereft of life, he rests in peace. If you hadn’t have nailed him to the perch he’d be pushing up the daisies. He’s rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot!”

Follicly speaking, hair is the root of all evil. Case in point, Samson lost his immortal strength after Delilah shaved his head while he slept. Frankly, I’m surprised he could sleep through all the snipping and scraping, as a cold front rolled in, chilling the circumference of his unprotected bald head.

Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, didn’t even pretend to take a little off. Although he did provide a service of sorts, saving his customers precious time by preventing the need for any future appointments.

I guess psychotic-leaning folks gravitate toward businesses that require the use of sharp objects.

At least, I survived my haircut. Can’t say the same for my hair. Audible sobbing and one loud purging sigh. Time to say a prayer for the dearly departed and wait for my hair to grow back, so I can regain my strength in order to go through the entire ordeal again in several weeks or less.

R.I.P. my fine fringed brittle-ones.

Do you have a hair-razing tale?

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My mutt, Jenny, connoisseur of crap.


My mutt, Jenny, connoisseur of crap

Jenny, A Sato Dog

Not to be confused with Sado, although her teeth are rather sharp.


Things my dog has eaten or has attempted to eat:

•    10 Pillows and counting
•    2 Meat loafs
•    A frozen chicken breast
•    3 sneakers (each from a different pair)
•    1 water shoe
•    4 slippers (each from a different pair)
•    A box of white chocolates (had to hunt for the pieces in the snow)
•    A couch
•    A UPS box containing a printer
•    Dry cleaned men’s shirts
•    Lipstick

•    ChapStick
•    Underwear
•    An open can of cat food
•    Pair of eyeglasses
•    2 gloves (each from a different pair)

See a pattern here?

•    A Stephen King book from
•    Algebra homework (really!)
•    Cat poop
•    A history textbook
•    Half a pepperoni pizza
•    A pound of raw hamburger meat
•    Paper towels
•    Kleenex
•    Granola bar wrappers
•    An empty container of yogurt
•    Shingles

What do you think she ate?

Jake, The Accomplice

Jake, The Accomplice

What has your dog eaten lately?


WTF Friday: Thinking Outside the Boxes

Being boxed in hinders artistic freedom, as well as restroom access.

Previously published in The Front Porch Syndicate.
Written while still gainfully employed.

I work in an office with middle-aged men still capable of slogging around a box or two. That is, if the box is intended for them and contains a pair of shoes or the latest electronic gadget.

However, when boxes of magazines arrive and are stacked in several piles in the storage room, the males quickly attend to important matters like choosing unique ring tones on their cell phones, leaving the boxes for me to handle. I, the lone female, am the V.I.P. in charge of boxes. I lug them, open them, and then stack the contents of each box on the appropriate shelf. The men in the office will use the box as a footstool for tying a shoelace or as an end table for resting a coffee mug.

Lenny, my boss, is always courteous. When passing through the filing room, he stops by to offer important advice on how to lift a box without straining the back. He will take time from his busy schedule to show me how to bend and lift without actually touching a box. He doesn’t believe in using props. He fancies himself a mime and lifts air, instead, while teaching me the finer points of “the bend,” “the grab,” and “the lift.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he says before trudging out the door. Other males, who stride in and out of the room, will stop by to say hello or tell me the latest joke they read in an e-mail. After they offer a moment of levity or a word of goodwill, they too will step away.

Sometimes a coworker will say, “Can’t get my suit dirty or crease my pants. Got an appointment. Sorry.” Then he will go out to lunch and return three hours later with ketchup stains on his tie and wrinkles on his suit from sitting too long in the restaurant. By then, all the magazines have been stacked on the shelves; I have broken most of my fingernails, leaving them in a cup by the water cooler, and am too dizzy to stand due to loss of blood from all the paper cuts.

When I finally return to my cubicle, a coworker will inevitably buzz me on the intercom and ask me to stop by his office for some dictation. “Sorry,” I say. “Due to the loss of several fingernails, the weight on my hand is no longer evenly distributed, making it impossible to write” and slam down the receiver. If I want them to leave me alone, I simply place a sign on my cubicle wall that says “package adjustment” and then go upstairs to the luncheonette for a cup of coffee.

V.I.P. in charge of boxes does have its advantages. Next time the UPS man delivers boxes, I will have him pile them in the doorway of my cubicle. If someone buzzes me asking for help, I will simply tell them, “Sorry, but I’m boxed in at the moment.”

If you’d like to participate in WTF Friday, grab the image, post something funny on Friday, and include links to other WTF participants.
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Ducking from crows, diving for roadkill in my head

flying Crows


Quoth the ravenous rumblings of a carnivore

Today’s one of those “what day is this?” days.

Clouds outside somehow drift inside and hover overhead no matter where I wander in the house.

Though my wandering is restricted by the square-footage within. I suppose I could venture out the door, but then I would succumb to demonic environmental whims, rendering me numb with cold feet stuck in a slipshod rut, an inevitable shoe-depression sinking deeper in mud.

Can’t have that.

At least while at home, my eyes won’t be pecked out by crows. Such loud haranguing furry-winged beasts. They flap their wings and caw till the cows come home and the pigs fly south.  I am a sow ambling about in early morning sweats, the image of slothery (if there were such a word), where a free-for-all of time sends my thoughts drifting from a firmer focus between the lines.

I need structure, not chaos, since my mind usually flits about frenetically from thought-to-thought like a pinball bouncing off walls. As bells and whistles split ears and lights flutter for a moment in the heat of possibility, high numbers flash on the screen.

A blink of incremental time, as the ball rolls past slow flipping flappers guarding the goal. Down the ball goes, falling to the end of the line. I know I’ve got time, but it lingers behind the promise of progress.

Today’s WTF Friday.
How apropos since I forgot to include it in the headline.
For more tasty bits of WTF Friday, please visit
Currently under renovation.
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WTF? It’s a houseplant and a pet, too! But is it housebroken?


Is your houseplant too potted to move?

Ardisia humilis grown as a potted plant


If you’re like me, you want your houseplant to be more than just a decorative accent for your home décor.

You want a plant that is a pet, too. You want the Tickle Me Plant that moves when you, yes, tickle it.

Does your houseplant just sit in a pile of dirt doing nothing all day?

You water it.

You give it sun.

You even talk to it.

Yet, all the plant does is sit there sucking up your water and your time.
Not the fun-loving Tickle Me Plant. It will even do tricks for you.

Don’t believe me? Then, maybe you’ll believe the TickleMePlant:

“I am an amazing plant. I will quickly move when you Tickle Me. I am a great gift for growing scientists of all ages. I will even fold up and go to sleep at night! . . .”

But don’t stop there. Stop at www.TickleMePlant.Com and see . . .

TickleMe Plant Family Pictures!

TickleMe Plant Party Favors

TickleMe Plant Video

If you’re not tickled pink by now, go to and buy the plant that just want’s to have fun, and tickle that!

Thanks to J. Giddy at the Bonehead blog where I first heard about the TickleMePlant in a comment by anonymous. Whoever you are.

This blog update has been brought to you by Ivy
Unscripted Life
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Economic Downturn onto Shabby Street

Road to nowhere

Shabby Street
 One wrong turn down Shabby Street
where driveways crumble on lots condemned.
Front doors boarded.  No one’s home.
That car left long ago.
Ten years of stuff packed then hauled.
Toys tossed in dumpsters in the back.
Families shattered like broken glass.
Along the hall, in empty rooms,
dust settles between the cracks of warped floorboards.
Hope faded with pictures purged from the drawers.
Only wind stirs inside these walls,
A cold intruder who found his way
through cracked windows that feel no pain,
echos the whispers of forgotten names
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Cook’s Crypt: The cooking will kill you, unless the food gets you first

The symbolic face of death:  detail from an 18...

Food Fright

For me, the kitchen is a scary place with sharp, jagged  knives, fire-breathing stove top burners, and a refrigerator door that beeps incessantly when open, driving the most rational person insane.

Even the sink is a slippery slope with a maniacal soap spout that kills innocent bacteria spores frolicking in an ocean of suds. Beneath the suds, the malevolent garbage disposal waits in the shadows to ingest discarded bones and food debris. When it feeds, it makes a horrible grinding sound while devouring its prey into dissolvable bits, until the remains easily slip down the drain.

Demon chefs conjure up diabolical recipes to daze and confuse me. After studying their uninspiring prose for hours, the writing blurs before my eyes. I shut the cookbook and begin spouting intelligible phrases, as if I had succumbed to an evil spell cast upon me by Betty Crocker.

The oven, a combustible chamber of horrors, tries to lure me toward its fiery concave, but I evade it by never using the baking and broiling functions, instead utilizing the safer warm setting for takeout Chinese food.

On Sunday nights, I pay homage to the takeout-food God, who connects me to the houses of foodship. They send their disciples to my door with pungent containers of pre cooked sustenance to ward off the kitchen ghouls. After the food has been consumed, the plastic containers in which the food arrives can be used again-and-again to keep other takeout fresh long after the desire to feed has gone.

Kitchen shelving and drawers are designed for the criminally insane. Carousel devices spin forever in an everlasting rotating hell, harboring containers and tops that never match and inevitably jam in the door or fall and disappear into the black hole at the bottom.

In drawer purgatory, unwanted items, like pet food lids, corkscrews, and bag twists get lost beneath larger plastic ladles and wooden spoons, while the silverware lies oblivious in its frame of invincibility.

The refrigerator, a dark icy tomb, contains different height shelves to delude and confuse. As I attempt to place tall and short food items on appropriate shelving, I panic. I wonder if I can place tall food on a short shelf by laying it on its side next to the smaller defenseless food, i.e., cream cheese and yogurt, which gets forced to the back of the refrigerator where they linger for months, die, and then are reborn again into zombie food that feeds on other refrigerated items during the middle of the night.

As I write this, I lie awake in bed listening to the open refrigerator door beeping. More kitchen DOAs to retrieve in the morning. Likely, one of the timid, temporary foods, celery, tomatoes, or shredded cheese, have tumbled to their death, as they tried to escape the crushing weight of the hardcore longer-lasting food: Ketchup, Mustard, or 24-oz bottles of Diet Pepsi.

The only solution is to purge the kitchen of its evilness by demolishing the walls and converting it into a takeout food memorial, only keeping the tame, docile microwave that exists to please, and purrs while heating food from the houses of foodship.


Do you have a scary kitchen story you’d like to share?

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WTF Friday: Menopausal Warning Signs


•    your head is so far up your ass you need Google earth to find it
•    you weep uncontrollably during pharmaceutical commercials at the recitation of possible side effects

•    a glass of Pinot Noir tastes like fermented cow dung

•    you regard flowers and other visually pleasing objects as satanic cryptograms

•    when a neighbor says, “Hello,” you think she is being facetious

•    you can hear a pin drop

•    at night, you think the sun is intentionally snubbing you

•    when your husband says, “Just relax,” you want to crimp his noise hairs with a curling iron

•    you believe that a fine wine is an unearthly moan

•    when you’re at the library, you think people are whispering about you

•    you watch the news to cheer yourself up

•    you think the supermarket cashier is carding you because of the cooking wine and not the bottle of beer you just opened with your teeth

If you suffer from one or more of the above symptoms, maybe it’s time to ask your doctor about Menointerruptus, the pill that prevents you from being a pill.

For more WTF Friday, take a stroll over to Unscripted Life

If you liked this, you may also enjoy: Sick of Pharmaceutical Ads? 

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