WTF Friday: Stand-up Comedian/Cashier

I love a good laugh, especially after hauling around a cart, with one stuck wheel, filled with perishables (short-shelf lifers) and canned goods (long-shelf lifers).

Long-shelf lifers are typically heavier than short-shelf lifers and weigh down the cart. One long-shelf item, a 48-pack of beer, elicited a wry comment from the cashier when I started to check out.

As the bright silver-colored carton glided along the conveyor belt, the glare from the package forced the male cashier to shield his eyes, before gazing at me with a cold-calculating stare.

“Hitting the booze I see,” he mumbled underneath his breath.

“What did you say?”

“You must be confusing me with someone else,” he said.

By now, I knew my face had turned all thirty-six variations of red on the color spectrum. “It’s a 48-pack, not a 96-pack,” I blurted. “And it’s only light beer.” Nicely played, I thought, realizing I just had an, “I’m rubber and your glue” moment. That’s it! Keep giving him more ammo to fire my way.

He cocked his head, as his lips curved into a 38-caliber grin. “Do you think I should ask you for I.D?” he said.

I narrowed my eyes while glaring at him, which further deepened the lines that stretched across my forehead, like ancient cryptic markings.

What an a-hole. Even someone looking down at me from a bird’s eye view, could clearly see I was over twenty-one, even the bird.

“It’s your call,” I said, and grabbed a can of LYSOL, my weapon of choice for eradicating germs. I pulled off the cap and thought, go ahead. Make my day.

He licked his lips, as the color drained from his face. “Do you have a card?”

“What kind of card?” I pressed, while glaring at him with the razor sharp penetration of a Ginzo knife. Could this be the moment when I’m IDed and then categorized in the supermarket database, as “almost, but not quite dead?”

His eyes averted my gaze. “Your store card.”

“Oh. But of course,” I grumbled, put down the LYSOL and dug through my purse for the store key tag card amid dental floss containers, broken pens, and expired coupons, While I searched, I heard a distinct clicking sound emanating from behind the register. I turned to see an increasingly fidgety cashier tap his pen against the check out counter rack. Impatience was not another of his virtues, along with disrespecting the elderly.

After I located the key ring, I tossed it onto the conveyor belt for processing.

He crossed his arms against his chest and waited for the key ring to reach him. Then he swiped the card on the register, and plopped it onto the platform on the other side. I would have to wait just as he did.

As soon as I reached the other side, and stepped beneath the overhead light, I swiped my credit card in the machine several times to no avail.

Once again, he looked at me with contempt.

“You’re swiping the wrong side,” he said.

“Right!” I replied, then swiped it again, and waited while the elderly gentleman bagger educated me on the finer points of packing produce.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“Here,” said the cashier, as he thrusted into my hand a foot long receipt with bonus coupons I’d forget to use.

With a grunt, I gave the cart one last push, then stopped at the sound of the cashier clearing his throat.

“Oh,” he said, while flashing a grin. “Have a nice day!”
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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 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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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

WOOF Contest – Top Picks


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.


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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Burnt Bums and Boobies – Newbie Guide to Nude Sunbathing

How to avoid being rude in the nude?


Nude Pool Etiquette:

  • Remove your clothing as soon as you find a lounge chair – ten-second rule – before your tush smooshes the cushion.
  • Always act naturally while removing your clothing in front of a bunch of smiling, naked strangers.
  • No gyrations or sexually suggestive movements allowed while removing clothing. This is not a strip joint.
  • Always bend from the knees down, never from the midsection. No one wants to look at that.
  • Hat, sunglasses, and suntan lotion are the only accessories permissible.
  • Standing around casually conversing with naked people is encouraged only if you are naked, conversing, and casual about it.
  • The head is the only body part that is permitted scratching.
  • As soon as you are dressed, you must leave the pool area immediately, or you’ll be forcibly removed by the big, fat hairy guy with man boobs.
  • Nametags and other pinned items are prohibited unless you’re wearing a hat.
  • If you wear clothing in the pool area longer than ten seconds, you will be considered a pervert, not the naked people.
  • No handstands allowed in the shallow end of the pool.
  • Nudists must remain at least 3 feet apart from each other at all times. No cheek kissing (upper or lower), hand shaking, or shoulder tapping allowed, especially if visually impaired.
  • No picture taking permitted unless it is of wildlife (not wild life), i.e., birds, rabbits, or roosters, not the other word used to depict roosters.

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Store launches underpants for left-handed men . . . on the fly


Left Handers' Day, August 13 2002

The neglected appendage or when left means right

Metaphorically speaking, a left-handed man has a longer hike down the same path than a right-handed man does when it comes to adjusting his underwear.

History has not been kind to the left-handed man and his briefs until one British manufacturer defied the laws of right-handed logic, and the vertically inclined, by changing the opening in the front to a left-handed horizontal “hallelujah.” A bold yet daring move that will possibly overshadow the creation of men’s underwear itself.

“. . . Y-fronted underpants have traditionally had a right-handed opening from the time they were invented in 1935.

“As a result,” Debenhams said, “left-handed men have to reach much further into their pants, performing a Z shaped maneuver through two 180 degree angles before achieving the result that right handed men perform with ease.”

A Z shaped maneuver that Zorro would have likely performed at ye olde urinal while holding his sword.