10 Reasons Martha Stewart Won’t Visit Your Home.

Pictures of your home will never grace the pages of Martha Stewart Magazine. According to a spokesperson for the magazine, “In addition to being banned from their pages, the editor issued an APB on Pinterest “prohibiting you from posting pictures of your house.”

The editor went on to blast  “Your jihadist housekeeping ideology” and said, “You should have your housewife card revoked.”

She cited your “inability to feng shui” and “reprehensible use of space,” then added: “Treadmills should not be used as hangers or dogs as vacuums.”

The editor asked the EPA to officially condemn your house and listed their top 10 reasons why:

1. Google Earth lists your property as a landfill dump.

2. Jehovah’s Witnesses come to your home dressed in hazmat suits.

3. Termites take Beano before eating the plasterboard.

4. You raise dust bunnies as pets.

5. Your dog follows the ten second rule for food dropped on the floor.

6. Mildew and soap scum staged a bathroom coup then executed the shampoo.

7. Germs flee your house to seek asylum in Germany. Their ancestors home.

8. You found your vacuum cleaner dead in the closet hanging by the cord. Hoover ruled it a suicide.

 9. Your mop takes Xanax.

10. Mr. Clean filed an injunction to prevent you from taking him home from the market.

I Got Snaked by a Plumber.

Barker at the grounds at the Vermont state fai...Image via Wikipedia

A Real Story w/ Real People.  Really!

In a community far, far away, a streaming thought video broadcasts from my brain.

A water pipe breaks. The drips are less than a second apart. 

Water leaks beneath the kitchen sink and seeps below to the garage. 
I call a plumber while worrying about my dog’s 8:30 a.m. appointment with a canine orthopedist to assess her knee. 
The plumber says, “I can be there by 10:00.” 
All brainwave function ceases. I forget about asking questions and about the importance of quotes – an estimated cost, not a favorite phrase.
I respond with unoxygenated words, “Great! See you then.” I continue obsessing on my dog’s ligament health. A knee-jerk reaction.
The appointment with the mutt orthopedist goes well. The dog doc says, “Her knee is strong.”  
My dog bounds left then right, sniffing a package on the shelf, a cat in a carrier, a dog’s butt on the way out. “The knee is strong.”
Back to the house to check its plumbing.
9:35. Drip, drip, drip. Did I hear a gush? No. Just an extended trickle.
I start cleaning the house for the plumber.
Drip, drip, drip.
Ten o’clock goes out like a surge through a downspout. 
No plumber or plumber phone call. No brain activity or quantitative thought on a possible drain to our bank account.
Onto 10:30 then 11:00 and the big 11:30. The dogs bark. A truck idles in the driveway; the motor speaks its last words and then dies. 
A man stands at the door. He puts on waterproof booties before trudging through the hall.  
He doesn’t want to get his shoes dirty.
He opens two cabinet doors beneath the kitchen sink. “You’ve got a bad leak here.”
Wow! He’s good.
“Do you have a well?”
Well … partial brain activity. “Yes, we do.”
“I’m going to shut it down.” 
Like Chef Ramsey! 
I lead him down the basement steps to the utility room, the engine room of a house. 
“She can’t take much more of this captain.” – Scotty, Star Trek. 
He turns off the water. 
I think I have to pee. Just a passing thought.
“Where’s the garage?” 
Dude, this is the basement. One plus one equals two. 
“This way.”  I show him through the door that opens to the garage.
Drip, drip, drip.
“Where’s the leak?” 
Dude, can’t you hear that sound or is it just in my head? 
“Over here.” We swing through a wooden gate to a dog ramp soaked with H20.
He gauges the problem.
“It’s a bad leak.”
I know that, Dude.
We walk toward the back of his truck. 
Is this going to be a hostage situation?
“You need a new faucet,” he says, then jumps into the truck and picks up two boxes. “Which one do you want – Box #1 or Box #2? They’re Moen” – Not Moët.
The one without the goose neck.
“I’ll take Box #1.” I hope I made the right choice.
Still no brain function.
He installs the new faucet and hands me the bill. “This is my quote.” 
Synapses activity detected – Shouldn’t quotes be given over the phone?
I read the bill. My heart takes a breather and then skips a beat. “$515?”
“That’s the total cost which includes parts and labor.” 
Dude, I know about labor and this is way worse than that.
A hostage situation unfolds. I pay the ransom with a check. A credit card costs an extra 40%. 
Maybe the check will bounce. 
He hands me his card. “We also take care of boilers and water tanks.” 
I bet you do. 
He cleans up the mess and leaves, which jump starts my brain.
$515? That’s several weeks of groceries or a couple nights at an inn.
He wasn’t a plumber. He was a sideshow barker selling snake oil and I got snaked.

Do you have a plumbing horror story?

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Dog Steals Ham. It’s Virginia. Not the Dog.The Ham.

Last night Jenny stole a pound of deli ham from the counter. One second it was there, the next – poof, gulp slurp. She had scarfed it down, a groovy Scooby snack.

For Jenny, food layovers are never out of bounds and certainly never out of reach. It’s hunting after the fact and more like a game of “Who will be lame enough to leave the food near the edge of the counter within the range of my snout?”


In the past, Jenny has stolen two meatloaves and a frozen chicken from the counter. She growls and clamps down her teeth when you try to pry open her mouth. So, I let the meatloaf take one for the team. I’d rather keep my fingers. I haven’t yet mastered voice to type writing.

Indoor drama cannot compare to thorny outdoor situations.

Last night, with too much slack on the lead, Jenny circled around a bush thick with thorns. Stuck and no place to go. I dove into the snow to untangle the lead. It was like trying to unravel a really long cord but with a dog at the end. She waited patiently for me to untangle the lead in the dark, knee deep in snow. I did so without strangling myself or the dog.

I fell two times. Two missteps off the path in the yard and my foot plunged two feet below snow and then I was stuck. I thought Jenny would drag me out of the hole like Lassie did for Timmy but after several minutes of waiting in the cold, I yanked my own damn foot out of the snow.

This Friday is Jenny’s eight-week check up with the orthopedist. According to the doggy rehab instructions, she won’t be playing Frisbee anytime soon. She hasn’t played Frisbee in the past. She looks away when I toss her a stick or a ball. It’s beneath her. Yet, she digs for deer poop, which is much farther beneath her. It just tastes better, like chicken according to some of your comments or just because she can.

Reffie:  I think deer poop must taste like chicken. Cat poop must taste like chicken. Chicken tastes like, well, um, frog or somethi…

Snee:  As for deer poop tasting like chicken. I too must change my dinner menu. Rabbit poop must taste like chicken too. That’s our dogs’ favorite….that and fox. Or perhaps, I’ve got it wrong. Fox is for rolling in.

Jayne: I don’t know why dogs eat deer poop. Nor do I understand their appetite for snacking in the cat’s litter box. Maybe for the same reason they lick their own private parts — because they can.

And there you have it. Anyone for chicken?

Waxing Poetic – A House Personified.

Jayne, the brains behind the always inspiring and entertaining injaynesworld, took the path that leads from Magpie Tales into a writer’s mind and produced a wonderful vignette from Magpie’s picture prompt.

Today, I take the same path but with a different picture.

A House Personified.

A window gazes out onto slippery snow white, a coverlet for the lawn burdened by layers of cold and ice.

Seasonally speaking, the wind of change rustles leaves in the fall, severing their ties to the trees that carry them throughout the year. In the winter, the shrill cry of a wrong swoops down through gnarly branches now bare and worn.

Amid bleak muddy winter colors, a faded moss stained house holds to dreams through cold winter nights when darkness conquers shadows and hides memories thriving in tightly shut eyes.

The house sleeps until morning, awakened by sunlight slipping through cracks in the window, prying open the eyes of the beholder still looking inward at a soul tarnished and old.

Life cannot flourish inside where dead wood chairs sit devoid of human warmth fitting forms against soft back cushions.

Slowly, the growing glare of sunlight rouses the groggy soul cowering in the eye, moistening, blinking back hazy warm tears. Eyelashes flutter open echoing the thud of flickering drumbeat. Silently the house cries. Water spills from the gutters, dripping past paint chipped shutters, weathered from years of neglect.

Yet, outside beneath frost bearing air, the snow still shines, resonating white, glaring back at the window humbled by the power of life.

Why Power Owtages Hurt?

Buchenwald-100625-14486-Schwerte-hellImage via Wikipedia

Imagine Life without Heat, Hot Water or HBO.

Last Sunday while watching a pharma commercial on depression, the TV suddenly went dark along with the rest of the house. Since it was morning, the dark was more of a dim white – not a dim wit.

The dogs seemed rather nonplussed about the sudden return to the dark ages but then again dogs are rather nonplussed about most things, except for cats, crows and deer poop. More about Bambi leave-behinds later.

As I write this, my husband prepares to run the generator, a power source that if used back in the dark ages, would have provided ambient cave lighting and bison fondue.

Power generators run on gasoline and generate electricity, so that we can use essential items like the refrigerator for chilling beer and the toilet for flushing dead goldfish.

It’s 10 a.m. The generator still sleeps while the electricity’s still in a coma. Silence begets silence, except for the occasional outside disturbance, which doesn’t include a CT Light and Power truck.

My husband is upstairs pretending to pay the bills online, while my two mutts sleep by my feet and dream about deer poop, a dog delicacy in the northeast that resembles kernels of popcorn.

I don’t know why dogs eat deer poop or cat poop for that matter. They gobble it up like rocky road ice cream, but then again they also lick their asses. So, there you have it.

The fact that the power went out at all perplexes me since the temperature outside is a balmy 32 degrees, the wind is breathless and the sky spitless.

Thank you, God, unless God knows about my blogging addiction and has staged an intervention with CT Light and Power.

Now 11:34, hour two of my blogging detox. I wonder why the clock on my computer works, and I don’t suffer from post blog withdrawal symptoms.

There are no avatars speaking to me in strange tongues, spouting “LOLs,” “BYOBs” or “WTFs.” And I’m not air typing on Apple’s latest aerodynamically designed MacBook that is so thin and light it hovers as you type. The only problem is finding it.

The temperature in the house drops to a crisp 68 degrees, while my husband plans his power generator strategy – whether to enter the garage wearing slippers or shoes.

A toilet flushes. A decision must be imminent.

One more surge of toilet water – not eau de toilette water – ew! da toilet water – will deplete the tank, and I’ll be flush out of luck.

It is now 10:47 and I’m still baffled why the clock on my laptop works as the battery slips another notch to 75% power… make that 74%. Soon I’ll be forced to write by hand, a travesty, since I learned cursive writing by copying doctor scripts.

My husband joins me in the living room after taking a shower – I wonder how many flushes remain – and fiddles with the antennae on a wind up solar radio. Another mystery, like the laptop battery.

“No need to fire up the generator,” he says. “The power will be back on at 12:30.”

He knows this not because he’s psychic. A reliable source from the power company, a recorded voice, told him so. He continues talking now about moving somewhere warm (with me). I continue tapping the keyboard before the battery runs out.

I toss him what I think will be a verbal grenade. “You’re annoying me,” I say. But it’s just a dud.

He misinterprets my tone for bawdy talk when in fact it’s “bitch.”  Once the “bitch” sinks in, he steps outside and starts breaking ice with a hoe.

Has your spouse broken ice with a hoe lately?
Image via Wikipedia
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10.0 Hormonal Quake!

According to the Richter scale, a 10.0 quake 
(15.0 gigatons) 
has never been recorded by humans,
at least until now.

STRANGEImage via Wikipedia

This week, hormonal seismic activity 
is off the charts. 

Humans scare me.  

I only interact with creatures with four legs or more.

Words I once used with ease like “hello.” 

Now get tangled up in my tongue.

I avoid the human genome at every cost. 

Does that make me a genomeaphobe?

To celebrate my temporary departure from the human race,

Please join me for a perimenopausal cocktail.

Image via Wikipedia

and then on a  

Drive Past Asylum Street.

 Be sure to

Fasten Your Brain Belts. Turbulence Ahead.


 Mine is on a head-trip.

Please forgive me for not returning your calls.

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19 Questions to Stress Over or I’ve got a Memegraine.

I got tagged by Rebecca at The Snee, who is a hilarious satirist, fella New Englander and bloggy buddy.

My assignment. To answer the following 19 questions to the best of my abilities or to the best of a highly intelligent amoebae’s abilities.

1. if you have pets, do you see them as merely animals, or are they members of your family?

  • We had one of our dog’s Bat Mitzvahed.

2. if you can have a dream come true, what would it be?

  • To astral plane to Tahiti.

3. what is the one thing most hated by you?

  • Hate.

4. what would you do with a billion dollars?

  • Invest it with Bernie Madoff.

5. what helps to pull you out of a bad mood?

  • A good mood.

6. which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?

  • Loving someone who just sneezed.

7. what is your bedtime routine?

8. if you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet your partner?

  • Bumping into him at a train station then again several days later on a crowded 68th street subway platform after a free Simon and Garfunkel Concert in Central Park. We were in the same class in high school.

9. if you could watch a creative person in the act of the creative process, who would it be?

  • Van Gogh. I want to see if he really cut off his ear. If I didn’t say it, Evil Twin would have. Evil Twin is Reffie’s alter ego at the always funny and highly entertaining Reflections of a Former Geek.

10. what kinds of books do you read?

  • The ones with words.

11. how would you see yourself in ten years time?

  • Through dark sunglasses.

12. what’s your fear?

  • Seeing myself in ten years.

13. would you give up all junk food for the rest of your life for the opportunity to visit outer space?

  • No way and be forced to eat that packaged space crap.

14. would you rather be single and rich or married, but poor?

  • Married and poor. That way I always have someone to bitch at.

15. what’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

  • Grab my glasses off the night stand and then drop them on the floor.

16. if you could change one thing about your spouse/partner what would it be?

  • Stop him from talking in his sleep. I can always stick a sock in his mouth.

17. if you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?

  • Who me?

18. would you forgive and forget no matter how horrible a thing that special someone has done?

  • Yes, as long as it wasn’t done to me.

19. if you could only eat one thing for the next 6 months, what would it be?

  • Pizza. Is there any thing else?

A Note to Satan from a Dissatisfied Customer of God.

Lucifer, by William Blake, for Dante's Inferno...Image via Wikipedia

Dear Satan,

Is Satan correct or do you prefer Lucifer (very dashing), or The Antichrist (kind of formal) or Jezebel (a bit feminine but not as bad as Leslie)?

If I pissed you off, feel free to shower my lawn with  fire and brimstone. A brief explanation follows.

Since the beginning of January, my grass, once a lovely flexible green, is now a hard shell of its former self and resembles a just waxed kitchen floor.  

At night when the light hits a mound of snow in a certain way, it looks like a glazed donut.

Walking is no longer an option. Sliding is the preferred mode of transport to get from one side of the lawn to the other only to be suddenly surprised to find the road.
The torturous slip-slide to the other side must sound like business as usual to you, but I fear there’s an evil underfoot … before it falls on its ass.

In my thinking, all this ice and snow is really phase one of a hostile takeover attempt by God to own more than half the shares of Satan Enterprises. He must be stopped!

To bring you up to speed on my own piece of hell, I’m including a note I recently sent to God in reference to his frequent scheduled snow deliveries.

According to the website LoathsomeLawyers.com, on occasion you handle pro bono cases against God, who continues to smite my lawn with snow and ice despite my objections. To date, he has not responded to the note I sent or countless emails before that.

Perhaps, he is distracted by the logistics of the hostile takeover attempt, or is vacationing in another century, or has given up on the human race all together. We are a pain in the ass most of the time and often can’t find the time to pray.  But, Satan, be assured to know that we can always find the time for you.

Any help you can provide would be greatly appreciated. If you’d prefer some type of barter arrangement in exchange for your services, I wouldn’t mind enduring hotter summers or garbage pick-ups twice a month instead of weekly. Lately, we haven’t had any garbage pick-ups at all. Just deliveries of God’s wrath of white trash from the sky.

If you’re not too busy planning any world disasters in the near future, I would love to have a face-to-face with you, just as long as I get to keep my soul.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon and having this matter resolved.  

Best wishes,

Lauren : )

bcc: God

PS – I swear a lot and love to watch R-rated horror movies about you and your jolly band of demons.

A big thank you to Sandee at Comedy Plus, a blogger with a warm heart and geographical location, for suggesting the idea for this post. Comedy Plus is a great place to stop by everyday for a hearty laugh. I think Sandee is the only person in the country not suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).

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