A Really Bad Poem That Wants to be Dirty But Misses
Our love springs forth
Like…spring
With some promises
Of growth and blooming and stuff.
We nurture it
In rain
And other spring-like junk
Like bugs and wind.
Yes!
The wind that tests
Trying to snap our love
But just bends it like your manhood.
We survive!
We open our parts
Inviting each other
To explore and sniff and stuff.
Our love bursts forth!
New buds of delight
Open to new…openings!
Giving forth fragrance
And pollen
And promises of goodies to come.
It flourishes with fleurs
And green leaves
And more fleurs
And bees come by and visit our love.
But, alas!
I am once again betrayed
And your love for me fades
Like blue jeans that got mixed up in the Clorox load.
Until it dies
As I knew it would
Because
Stuff dies.
And your memory
Blurs
Like bad photography
And bad poetry
From my…memory.
Towel Porn
April 20, 2009
Filed under humor
Tags: cruises, giant vaginas, towel animals, towel art, vacation, vaginas
We thought it kind of cute, although a bit disturbing, that we were greeted most nights on our cruise by odd, little creatures made of terry cloth on our bed.
Our cabin was attended to twice daily. As soon as we disappeared to stuff our faces at the evening food extravaganzas, the cabin boy hustled back in, turned down our bed and left “someone” to greet us.
As far as we could tell, our first visitor was a dog.
The next night, we were gifted with what appeared to be a bunny.
No doubt that this guy was an elephant, is there?
This one left us kind of stumped. I finally decided it was a sheep, although I’m sure someone would argue that ID with me.
I thought this stingray was really kind of awesome. I would have considered it to be my favorite if the next night’s creation hadn’t just blown the rest of them away.
Because upon entering our room, we were met with Carnival Cruiseline’s very own Giant Vagina!
I was shocked and nearly screamed with delight until Kevin pointed out to me that it was supposed to be a walrus.
Well, OK. I guess I could see that, but I still think they knew it was going to be mistaken for a Giant Vagina.
I spent several hours the next day, polling our co-vacationers about what towel animal they were greeted with. No one else would confess to the Giant Vagina. Most everyone else got turtles.
Somehow, Carnival knew that I would be the right recipient for this most delightful of gifts. And now, I share it with all of you.
Feel free to linger and enjoy gazing at my Giant Vagina.
A Disastrous Start
April 20, 2009
Filed under family, humor
Tags: forgetting your passport, vacation disasters, vacations
We were a little over an hour away from home with just under two hours until our flight departed, when Kevin realized he’d left his passport at home.
With the feeling of dread roiling around in my belly at crisis proportions, we parted company with the intentions for him to try to get home and return, and for me to finish the check-in procedure and wait. On his way out of the airport, he came up with the absolutely brilliant idea of calling my son to try to make the journey in to the airport instead. Matt was thrilled to be of service, even though he wasn’t home and was suffering a hangover when he got the call. His twenty mile race back to pick up the passport and get it through the hour and ten minute trip to the airport began., while I was frantically trying to figure out ways to delay our boarding. I’d been considering upgrading to first class, faking a seizure or blowing the captain, when Kevin made it to our gate with six minutes to spare. I barely avoided vomiting gallons.
We raced on board and took our seats, trying to stop the relentless surge of adrenaline that was coursing through both of our bodies, only to be hit with a fifty minute flight delay. The captain announced that we needed de-icing, then that we didn’t need de-icing. Now, we were waiting for some kind of ground delay. As we started moving forward after the ground delay was cancelled, he then told us there was a mechanical difficulty that meant we would have to disembark and reschedule our flights. Of course, we were freaked once again, as we had a connecting flight to catch in order to make it to Ft. Lauderdale in time for the scheduled departure time of our cruise. Once the plane started moving back toward the terminal, we were told the mechanical problem cleared itself and we were scheduled for take-off. I insisted on my complimentary parachute.
We arrived in Charlotte, and absolutely ran on the people movers, dragging our four carry-ons, in an attempt to make our flight. We once again had just minutes to spare with no possibility of stopping at a restaurant for even some kind of fast food sustenance. We raced to the correct gate and boarded, only to be met, this time, with a forty-five minute delay due to the weather.
By this time, we were both frazzled and completely sure that we weren’t going to make the departure time of the cruise. The fact that our luggage was among the last pieces off of the carousel just reaffirmed that fact.
Due to the skill of the speeding shuttle driver, we once again made our destination, just in the nick of time. We raced up the gangplank, dragging our carry-ons behind us with only ten minutes until departure. But we made it! We quickly found the elevator banks and punched the up button, to be met with…nothing. Standing there bedraggled and starved, we realized that there must be some kind of elevator malfunction. We decided to actually make the climb up to the sixth floor where our cabin was.
As we started climbing the stairs, we were met by all of the already boarded passengers walking down the stairs, wearing life jackets. I realized that the ship could very well be sinking, but decided that at that point, I didn’t give a flying fuck! All I knew was that I was getting to my mother fucking room and going down with the mother fucking ship!!
We made it to the sixth floor and dropped our carry-ons, which seemed to have begun to weigh at least thirty pounds apiece. We hadn’t eaten all day, my make-up was MIA, my hair was hanging in strings in my eyes, our clothes were plastered to our skin with sweat, our nerves were jangled, and my breath could have knocked out a prize fighter when I dove for the mini bar. I had just pulled out two bottles of cognac when we heard the knock on the door. Our cabin boy had come to tell us that the mandatory life boat drills were going on and we must participate.
The tears immediately fell from my eyes as I told him we’d just gotten on the ship, climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, hadn’t eaten all day, I needed to pee and that there was no fucking way in hell were we leaving to walk down the stairs for a fucking life boat drill and if he insisted, I hoped his CPR certification was up to date, because this old woman was certain to go into cardiac arrest!!
He agreed that it was a pretty good idea for us to stay in the room. He thought our attack on the mini bar was a spectacular idea.
Menopause Feet
March 24, 2009
Filed under health, humor, rant
Tags: body changes in menopause, gorilla feet, hairy feet, menopause, shaving in menopause
Believe it or not, there are certain joys to be had in menopause. One of them is the lack of hair growing on your legs. Of course, this is offset by the abundance of hair that now pokes out of your upper lip and chin, but since we must spend more time in front of the mirror managing wrinkles, it’s not that bad of a trade.
One of my areas of OCD is the fact that I can’t tolerate hair on my legs. Since the day I grew the first wiry sprouts on my appendages, shaving every other day was a necessity. To hell with being caught with dirty or ripped underwear if I was in an accident; I worried about being on the operating table with gorilla legs and pits. (Of course I do the pits every other day, too. OCD is an equal opportunity illness.)
I’d heard the rumors about hair reduction in relationship to period reduction. About six weeks ago, I decided to be brave and try an experiment. I gave up shaving my legs. No, I didn’t give up shaving the pits. It’s baby steps, you know.
I would feel my legs every day in the shower and marvel at the fact that there was no stubble. Hopeful that my Barbasol Beardbuster bill was going to go down, I gloated gleefully.
One day last week, I happened to be wearing my glasses while I was sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on my socks. I gave my legs a much closer inspection with the assist of my cheaters and I could only find three or four hairs on both legs, combined. Glory to God! Were these days finally behind me? Was I to be blessed with the silken smoothness I so craved, for all the days of my life? I was just about to believe the impossible had finally happened for me, when I glanced at my feet.
My disgusting feet. The tops and toes were covered with a thick fur coat of neglected to be shaved hair. They looked Neanderthal. Gorilla-ish. Italian.
Sickened beyond belief, I had to run back into the bathroom and shave for the next ten minutes, followed by a firm loofahing. I swear I will shave every other day until the day I die.
I Found My Son’s Pot
As a parent, we all know how we strive to keep our kids away from dangerous practices; things that could potentially ruin their futures or scar them. We try to teach them right from wrong and help them to become responsible adults. I was a single mother and had to provide the leadership of both parents to my kids. I obviously failed miserably with my son.
Recently, I helped Matt move into a new apartment. I really don’t think he thought I’d find it, but I did. He didn’t even try to deny that it was his. Proof that he’s living on the edge and making unsafe decisions. Proof that he has poor judgement and involves himself in unsafe acts that may scar him for life. A parent’s worst fear was realized for me that day.
I found my son’s pot.
I was horrified. “Matthew! What the hell did you do to this pot?!” I screamed at him.
His answer of getting angry and smashing it into the sink one day just sent chills down my spine.
Sure, all it did was bend a little bit. There were no scratches inside and it was still safe to cook with, but I was still dumbfounded.
He assured me that it was a one time only deal; that he doesn’t usually abuse his cookware in this manner. He assured me that nothing like it has ever happened before or since.
At least it was very clean. I suppose it could be handy for pouring gravy. He doesn’t want to get rid of it, but he’s getting new pots and pans for his next birthday.
Then, I’m hanging this one on his kitchen wall.
Li’l Ol’ Shallow Me
March 7, 2009
Filed under humor, review
Tags: bad hair, bad skin, blind dates, dried spit, internet dating, match.com, on line dating, shallow women, snot, worst dates
As a single woman in her forties, I did a lot of internet dating. In fact, many of my friends looked upon me as something of an expert in how to weed out the weirdoes and make every date count. I didn’t arrive at that level of expertise without having made some horrific errors, though. Dating four new men in one week was one of them. All told, I’m not sure how I could have avoided this one…
On line, Bill’s picture had him in a group of other men, on a tropical vacation. In the individual picture, his face was partially obscured in shadow. I didn’t think much about either piece of initial evidence, as this was in the early days of internet dating and pictures weren’t as easy to post as they are today. All I knew for sure was that his communications with me were hysterically funny and he never failed to make me laugh. When we finally worked up to a phone conversation, he didn’t let me down. His voice was melodious and his humor remained intact. A face-to-face meeting was called for.
I arrived at the tavern we’d agreed upon and began scanning the room for him. I saw a man at the bar that was looking my way, and even given the distance between us, I knew enough to start praying that this wasn’t my date. Of course, it was.
Bill came to the door and introduced himself. I should have earned an Oscar for my performance as Woman Who Must Mask Her Facial Expressions Because She Is Shallow And Truly Aghast At The Appearance Of Her Date. Bill’s face was deeply scarred from adolescent acne. I could deal with that. His hair was longish and nearly bald on top. The acne scars also covered a good portion of his nearly bald head. I could deal with that. But, his hair was very greasy and stringy and he was sporting a very bad comb over. Now, I found myself attempting to deal with some things that were more difficult manage, and losing that battle.. I had to repeatedly force myself to remember that looks weren’t everything. He was a truly charming man and I needed to give him a chance.
We settled in at the bar and ordered drinks. Conversation flowed easily, but I began having difficulty dealing with yet another aspect of this man’s appearance. You see, as we talked, white strings of dried spit began expanding between his lips and from his tongue to the roof of his mouth. This white crap collected in thick, crescent moons in both corners of his mouth. All I could think of was, “Take a drink! Wet your mouth! Make it go away!” Of course, he did eventually take a drink and the white threads disappeared, only to return as he began to speak again and again and again. I found myself focusing on this with abject horror. It was like the guy was chewing on spider webs. I was ready to gag. Had I owned a cell phone at the time, I would have pulled the old Go To The Ladies’ Room And Have Someone Call Me With An Emergency trick to get me out of that place.
Of course, given enough to drink, he had to get up and go to the bathroom at some point. When he returned, there was something slimy and greenish coming out of his left nostril. I was horrified. As he breathed, it moved in and out of his nostril in sync. He must have noticed my horrified stare and excused himself to go to the restroom again.
In a nanosecond, I pictured how the end of this evening could happen if I stayed. No way was there going to be a kiss. The thought of him hugging me and potentially getting his greasy hair and snot all over me was my next thought. I didn’t hesitate and am only mildly ashamed to admit that I set a new land speed record on my dash out of the door.
The Wii Chronicles. Wii One…Learning That I’m Fat
March 2, 2009
Filed under family, health, review
Tags: exercise with wii, i'm fat, the brutality of wii, wii, wii fit
In an effort to stop an embolism from coursing through our brains due to the inactivity of our middle-aged, overweight bodies, we pretended we knew what we were doing and bought a Wii. Immediately, we added a Wii Fit to the ensemble.
Hey, I already admitted we were only pretending to know what we were doing.
The first thing I learned to do with it had nothing to do with exercise, but had everything to do with just screwing off. I learned how to create a Mii. Miis are the little computerized figures that represent yourself and anyone else that you desire. I often desire George Clooney, so I plan to make a Mii for him in the near future.
Once we realized that our individual Miis could interact with other Miis of our choosing, we made several other family members, too. My son, my much despised son-in-law (for the boxing games) and my elderly mother, amongst others, all became members of our Wii community. Facial features, hair color, glasses, wrinkles, height and body appearance were added into individual figures that were given the appropriate names. After a couple of days of playing with Miis, I felt brave enough to finally step onto the balance board.
The first assault to my psyche was when the Electronic Kommandant insisted on measuring me.
So, like a good, fat broad, I put in my height and what I guessed was my approximate weight. The damn machine then shortened my Mii down proportionately and plumped it up to look like a little bowling ball with limbs and glasses. It then announced in its annoying little Wii voice, “Oh! That’s obese!” My little Ina Mii stood off to the side, already huffing and puffing without even exercising, and hung her head in shame. It was with great restraint that the balance board didn’t get hurled into the TV at that time.
Somehow, it measured my BMI and other things that fat people generally don’t want to know about. Then, it asked to weigh me, for real. The greatest fear of my existence was about to take place, all in the comfort and privacy of my own den. I took a deep breath, and allowed the dreaded deed to occur. The annoying little Wii voice then announced, “Oh! You really are obese!”
So, I immediately entered a password to protect my weight from Kevin’s eyes.
I have to admit, I know that weight wasn’t accurate. It was taken on carpeting instead of a bare floor, I wasn’t naked, I’d already had breakfast and lunch and hadn’t made a doody, yet. These are all important criteria for obtaining an accurate weight in my delirious little world.
Once my password was in place, I went back to the Mii Plaza and played with making fake people again. The humiliation and pain of actually moving my body could wait for another day.
To be continued…
Ode to Tacky
February 23, 2009
Filed under bad poetry, humor, rant
Tags: bad neighbors, bad neighbors with plastic flowers in their gardens, bad poetry, plastic flowers, plastic flowers in the winter, tacky, ugly, ugly outdoor decor
Plastic flowers
Gracing my view
Rising up from the snow
Encourage my spew.
My lake view is obstructed
With piles of junked cars
Makes it hard not to wish
Your ass behind bars.
———–
Oh, heinous neighbor
Ye demented old hag
Must you show your patriotism
With a styrofoam flag?
Shoveled out by your children
Just to make room for more crap
Makes me fervently wish
To give you a bitch slap.
Your crap overfloweth
Your tack knows no bounds
It’s all made less bearable
By your howling hounds.
You think this is beautiful
Tasteful and fit
It’s hard to believe
You have pride in this shit.
The Accident…Based on a True Story
February 19, 2009
Filed under family, health, humor
Tags: accidents, accidents in the home, chair lifts, danger, elmo, falling down, falling down the stairs, falls, minnie mouse, stairs, unnecessary equipment in the home
Its hideous presence annoyed her from the first time she visited what was to someday be her home.
It took up space in a cold and mechanical way on what could otherwise be a grand stairway.
It was a chairlift!
It was purchased by Kevin, prior to knowing Ina, for the purpose of serving snowbird, octogenarian parents on their stays there, three or four times a year. Ina hated it.
It sat at the top of the stairs, impeding her every attempt to move past it. The arms were at the perfect height for her short stature, and caught in the pocket of every item of clothing that she wore, ripping the pockets halfway off. She knew it was only a matter of time before it sent her tumbling.
Tumbling down there.
Ina kept her mouth shut after the in-laws visited and she saw how necessary it was to get them up and down the stairs, as the only sleeping quarters and shower were located on the second floor. Grudgingly, she knew it was really important for their safety.
Soon, however, the in-laws could no longer make the snowbird journey and settled in one place, and one place alone. Ina thought this would be a good time to broach the subject of getting rid of the chairlift. Kevin admitted they may not need it and gave some serious thought to getting rid of it.
Until Ina’s son broke his knee and came to stay followed by Kevin’s knee surgery. The chairlift was uber-important again. OK. Maybe it was used in frivolous fun on a few drunken nights, too.
But, she remained pissed that she couldn’t get rid of it.
After the healing was done, she knew it was fruitless to bring up the subject of eliminating it again. It was used, frequently, to move furniture. Angry at herself for insisting on all of the changes upstairs, she acquiesced to its usefulness.
When decorating projects were finished, however, Kevin began using it to haul laundry baskets upstairs. Ina was quietly livid. If not for the encumbrance of the damn chairlift, laundry could go up by hand without a problem. She bit her tongue.
But, the day finally came when the Evil Chairlift took its first victim.
Ina heard the racket in the next room and went running. She was too late to catch the actual act, but it was recounted to her that it went something like this:
Kevin’s big feet tripped him up as he stepped around the chair, sending him ass over head over ass, down the stairs.
He ended up going down the stairs mainly on his back, head first. He landed on his neck and freaked Ina out completely, as he already has a compromised c-spine.
Ina ran into the room, only to find him already at the bottom. The nurse in her did an entire examination before allowing him to move.
A set of x-rays proved there were no broken ribs, as was initially feared. He was bruised, battered and sore, but no major damage was done.
The chairlift comes out this weekend.
CAST
Kevin………..Elmo
Ina………..Minnie
Chairlift……….Satan
Shot on location on the stairs at the Young house.
For Want of a Toilet Brush
February 13, 2009
Filed under humor, shopping
Tags: Crest WhiteStrips, eyeliner, jammies, Kohl's, lamps, lava lamps, lipstic, over shop, over shopping, over spend, robe, slippers, stimulate the economy, Target, toaster, toilet bowl brush, toilet brush, Vagisil
Driving by Target, I decided to make a quick stop to pick up a new toilet brush since I had a few gift cards that I hadn’t used.
On my way to the household supplies, I thought I’d check to see if they had my shade of lipstick, as my local drugstore wasn’t carrying it any more. Not only did they have the right shade of red, but I was able to grab a fresh eyeliner, too.
I continued to head toward the toilet bowl brushes and passed the pharmacy area, where I surreptitiously nabbed a tube of Vagisil to aid in combating the Yeast Beast. (Thanks, Gather!) A box of Crest WhiteStrips found its way into my arms, too.
I finally made it to the cleaning supplies and decided to pick up the new, disposable and pre-loaded with cleaning goo kind of bowl brush. In fact, I decided to pick up two; one for the upstairs bathroom, too.
Those boxes were a bit bulky, so I nabbed an abandoned cart and threw in all of my purchases, making sure the bowl brushes covered the Vagisil. I then realized this put me in danger, as I also realized that I needed a curtain for an upstairs door to complete a decorating project.
I headed to the curtains and was sorely disappointed to discover that they didn’t have what I wanted. I took this as a sign to leave the store.
As I was headed toward the check-out, I passed the lamps. Glory be! I had just been looking for a new reading lamp for the den on line that very morning!
Forty-five minutes later, I’d found a lamp with a mix-n-match shade that I thought was way cool. Time to go. Then I passed the lava lamps.
Our lava lamp had quit lavulating about three days before. What good is a lava lamp that won’t spew blurpy, little balls of paraffinic joy around? A new lava lamp was put in the cart.
And a toaster.
I really had to get out of there, and I finally did. I tried really hard to pass Kohl’s on the way home. Really I did.
After I picked up three new pairs of jammies, a pair of slippers and a new robe, I left Kohl’s.
So, here I sit with my laptop, under my cool, new, reading lamp with the new lava lamp being all blobular in front of me, with perfect eyeliner and ruby, red lips and whiter teeth. I’m wearing some really cute jammies with a really cute robe, in slippers that make me look like a Chinese coolie and my parts don’t itch and I had toast for breakfast.
And my toilet bowl brushes remain in their boxes.
