Tag Archive | HUMOR

I never inhaled – honest!

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Sometimes you gotta share the truth, even when it’s embarrassing as all hell. Remember back in the late 60s and early 70s when everyone of a certain age was smoking? And I don’t mean tobacco. I mean pot. Grass. Weed. Whatever you called it, virtually everyone was doing the stuff. Rolling joints, passing the stash. Experiencing mellow, and the hungry horrors. Man, that weed was groovy. Laid back and cool.

Everyone but me. To this day, it is literally impossible for me to chill. I am the most uptight chick on the planet. Back then, I really was trying to get high. It’s not that I didn’t try. I mean, I tried to dig that scene as much as anyone. But the truth was, I couldn’t inhale. I could not force my lungs to breathe in that grey smoke, that foreign material that might as well have been composed of neon red lights screaming: STOP! DO NOT PASS GO! DO NOT COLLECT $200!

So now you understand why I wasn’t, shall we say, the most popular girl in town. In fact, I had to be one of the most lame, nerdy, geeky kids in school. They didn’t use those terms then. Those are 80s, 90s, and new millennium words. What were the words? Uncool. Uptight. Weird. One of the smart kids – social death for a girl. Okay, and for purposes of full disclosure, I was a theater kid too. I could emote. I could debate. I looked ahead and tried to ignore the eye rolls and snickers behind my back as I dressed like a hippie but somehow never pulled off the look. A virgin in the days of the sexual revolution, scared to death of any contact with a male creature. A girl who didn’t go out in the woods to party, to drink and get smashed or laid. A complete social flop.

While I’m admitting to my teenage indiscretions, I’ll skip to my late 50s and say that it was only a few years ago that I first and ever rode in a limousine. Nowadays, people hire limos for 12 year old birthday parties, for crying out loud! Girls have ridden in limos six times by the time they are sixteen! But somehow, that doesn’t seem quite so bad because my 60s hide an even worse secret…

Here is the embarrassing thing I want to admit today. Last week was the first time ever – ever! – that I had a manicure in a salon. My daughter was in town and she wanted to treat me to a facial or a massage, neither of which I have ever experienced before. But I couldn’t bear either one. The manicure seemed the most mild, the least invasive of all the choices. The most true to my body, to those lungs that couldn’t inhale, to that girl who was too uptight to get high, and who never got her groove on.

I chose Bora Not So Boring Pink nail polish. An all-dolled-up 57 year old woman who was probably a Victoria’s Secret model only last year scrubbed my hands, arms, and nails and chattered nonstop while I realized just how short, plain and overweight I really am. I’m a senior citizen with wrinkles! It was like being in middle school again. But I have to admit, she was quite nice and didn’t mention my frumpiness. She acted like my new BFF! She pretended my nails weren’t so ugly as I imagined them to be, and she polished them till they gleamed with Bora Not So Boring Pink.

I spent a few days staring at my newly pretty hands. And attended a wedding where not one person even mentioned my nails. What’s with that? Now the polish is beginning to wear off at the tips, and I am returning to my real self. The one who never inhaled because her lungs refused to allow foreign objects to invade. The one who went to proms in the back of Dad’s old car. The one who was afraid to walk into an upscale day spa just down the street. So uncool, chipping nail polish is. Reminds me of my high school days. Maybe next week, once the blisters on my over-danced wedding feet heal, I’ll walk back and ask for a touch up. We’ll see. I don’t know. Will think about it.

Cracked in Half


I am nutty, meaty
split in two
half hard hat shell
half kernel of truth

split down a middle
only I can see
wishing nuts wouldn’t fall apart
so easily

wanting to repair the seam
wishing for a cleaner being
begging for a softer shell
finding love the truth to tell

prepared to join together the whole
full attachment, that’s the goal
no more half that, half this
soul unites in coupled bliss


Tooth Wars


The poppy seed bagel I just ate for breakfast (oh, is it noon already?) was taken from the freezer, microwaved to defrost, and slathered with cream cheese. Tell me why I hate frozen bagels. No, I’ll tell you. This could be considered diet food. The entire thing was so elastic that I looked like my old dog Ivy ripping away at a rubber bone. Grrr…….! Rfffffff….!! Grrrrrrrrrrr! Good dog! Good doggie!

Ivy  had better luck with her old bone than I did with my round chew toy with the hole in the middle that they market as a bagel. In my defense, a dog’s jaw is made of titanium. Whereas my two front teeth will never be the same. Now I’ll pretend to be one of those ‘glass half full’ types, and say: At least I got most of the cream cheese off.

Between this and the pineapple from the other day that turned my whole mouth fuzzy, I think I have my next book title. Tooth Wars: Attack of the Killer Pineapple, or, Chewing for the Fun of It.



Little Bits from Past Travels





A few years back, my sister and I experienced a wonderful two weeks touring Greece and Rome. We laughed, we drank, we ate, we saw many a splendid sight. It really was heaven. Our trip was not without its adventures, however. We both love to laugh, but there were those times, I’m afraid, when we were sorely tested. Here are a few of those moments.

Roma is a stranga place

Did you know that the railway unions are on strike in Rome, and therefore there are only 2 trains to Rome’s airport on a Saturday? A 9:22am and a 9:53am, then they are done for the day! Alternative is to take a taxi from wherever you are or a van at 55 euro ($100 bucks). If you get on the train without a ticket you get charged 100 euro ($150 bucks). The train going from the airport into Rome closes at 9pm. No trains into the city after that. So if your flight gets in later, or by chance AL ITALIA loses your luggage, there is literally no way to get out of the airport without taking a taxi. Better people than I (namely, my traveling companion, my older sister) have had to sleep on the airport floor until the next morning when the first train for Rome leaves for the city. My sister, who by the way has Multiple Sclerosis, didn’t need the experience of sleeping on the cold floor of AL ITALIA hell.

Score: Rome ONE, Venice ZERO

Okay, we missed our flight from Rome to Venice. I’m not whining because apparently it was our fault, but we don’t know how it happened. We arrived at our gate in Rome a full hour before our flight. Sat in the extremely crowded food court area, in eyesight of our gate, eating inedible fries. Loudspeaker shouted out constant news in Italian language, which neither of us understand, and besides, the noise level was blaringly high.

So half hour before our flight, we casually saunter over to the gate, where they tell us we’ve missed our flight! How can that be? we ask. We’ve been calling you and calling you, they say. This is not your gate, they say. The flight left from another gate. But…but…we looked at the board and it said this gate. Well, they changed it and we tried to call you but you didn’t answer. We held the plane for you! You made the plane late! But, we didn’t hear our names being called. Well, we called you several times, you made the plane late, and now you’ll have to take another flight to Venice. And since it was your fault, you idiots, you’ll have to pay all over again.

Well, can we get on this flight to Venice, which says it’s leaving in 45 minutes? No. You mean, there’s a plane going to Venice right here but you won’t let us on? No. Why not? Because your luggage won’t be on the same plane with you, and that would violate our policies. When is the next flight? Not until tomorrow, they reply. Where is our luggage? We pulled it off the flight, which made the plane late! You ruined our schedule! Well, how can we get our luggage? You’ll have to go to customer service. Where’s that? Down at the other end of the airport. But my sister has MS and she can’t walk that far. Not our problem. Can you put us up at the airport hotel? After all, my sister is a senior citizen with MS and we have nowhere to go. Not our problem. And her medications are in her suitcase and we don’t know where her suitcase is. And we didn’t miss the plane on purpose. We thought we were in the right place at the right time. Not our problem.

So we traipse back and forth, back and forth, up and down the corridors of the nightmare that is AL ITALIA, trying to find our luggage. After five (FIVE!) hours, we collect my bag. My sister’s is still nowhere in sight. Can’t take a 100 euro taxi into Rome to find a hotel, because we can’t leave without her bag. We don’t buy more plane tickets to Venice, the prices are astronomical and besides, why are they charging us again when they’ve clearly lost our luggage? Not to mention the Gestapo-like security officers and insanely inept customer service staff. (That’s another story in itself.) Airport closes down for the night and we have no choice but to sleep on the cold, cold stone floor of the airport. We build a barricade with the one suitcase and our various belongings, pull t-shirts and other clothes out of my bag to serve as mats and blankets, and settle in for the night. Sister is exhausted and falls asleep without trouble. I lie with my purse underneath me and an eye open, scanning for thieves and rapists. Desperately plotting my revenge on the airline from hell.

Where is Athena when you need her?

Second excellent way to get robbed, Athens style. This is a true story, happened to my sister on the very first day of our trip. She lost 300 euro, $450 approx, plus her wallet, credit cards, driver’s license. Thus we spent much of that night on the phone with the credit card company and the next day searching for the Athens police station to report the crime. Because it’s so difficult to locate addresses written in Greek, this takes most of a day out of our precious vacation. The police were nice enough but basically shrugged. What can you do? It’s these Gypsies. The Greeks would never do this to American tourists. It’s the Gypsies, I tell you. A few days later, we were buying trinkets in a gift shop, told the Athens store keeper about our being pick pocketed. She shrugged. Eh, whoever robbed you probably needed the money more than you do. Looked my sister right in the eye and basically says you deserved it. My sister says, uh, what? Pushes all her little conservative capitalist buttons, for sure. Hahaha! Ah, nothing like travel!



Perfection, thy name is Apple




I’ve decided that an apple is the perfect food. Why, you might ask?

1. It’s round, and I identify with that.
2. It’s sweet, and no matter how much we’re told that sugar is evil, we all like it and it makes our lives happier.
3. It’s crunchy: my teeth, gums, jaws, and esophagus are all getting a great workout, which I count as my exercise for the day.
4. There is a star in the middle if you cut it in the right way, no doubt the universe confirming what I already know about myself, dahling.
5. Everyone has a favorite apple. A totally scientific study I just conducted did not come up with even one negative answer stating s/he doesn’t have a favorite because s/he hates them all. Given it’s the internet, I was expecting just such an answer (you $@&””ing !!/@! you must be working for the apple lobby!!!!) Nothing even close to that was stated. Honest.
6. You can take an apple with you when the mobs start chasing you down with torches and pitch forks. Totally mobile and easy to cling to.
7. I like the color red.
8. Teachers like them, and who doesn’t like teachers?

That might be it. Signing out. Crunch. Swallow. 🍎






True tales from when I was selling my house…


I’m selling my house and the realtor said I had to clean up and de-clutter. Rather freaking out here. Heavy lifting is done but clutter is still everywhere and the entire house needs dusting, vacuuming, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Did I mention cleaning? Ugh! In my future life, I plan to be wealthy enough to hire a weekly house cleaner. Also, I intend to simplify. I do not want stuff anymore!

Showing to 5 potential buyers on Sunday at 11 a.m. (this is Friday evening). With any luck, one of those 5 buyers will love the house and offer full asking price or something reasonably close. I am feeling very lucky lately – will keep you up to date. Wish me good fortune and a quick sale!

PS If you read any of my novel PERSEPHONE IN HELL, you’ll find the character Joyce who is Glory’s mother. Joyce is the world’s worst housekeeper. She is not a traditional mother. I am not as bad a housekeeper as my character Joyce. That’s about all I have to say.


Foot Fetish


We had a simply mah-velous time in Greece and Italy, despite the various setbacks we encountered. Okay, so it’s a little strange for me to have taken so many pictures of feet.

Feet at the Acropolis, Athens Greece
This foot was at the Vatican (why can’t I get it to load properly? Please touch your right ear to your right shoulder to view this photo!)
Tired sideways feet at the Spanish Steps, Rome Italy

Even feet need feeding in the Greek isles!

Very, very, very tired feet at the oracle of Delphi, Greece (no, I didn’t get my fortune told, the priestess was on break) Left ear to left shoulder, please.
Famous pigeon feet of Piazza San Marco , Venice Italy

These feet were big enough for a person to sit between (if we could have hoisted ourselves up!) Florence Italy

Young, happy foot (presumably the other one is too) Pompeii, Italy
Extremely old, extremely unhappy feet, Pompeii
Sleepy feet, Coliseum, Rome Italy
Balancing feet, Venice Italy

Foot of the goddess, with mortals


The Search for the Rest of Your Life (or) Welcome to the Long Run©



Just the other day a teenager asked me how many hits I get on this blog. It was a good feeling that someone young enough to be my son had any interest in me at all. It’s rare for anyone to ask about my writing. So I answered with joy and pride. “Over 12,000 hits!” I confessed eagerly.

He looked at me and asked, “A day?”

“No,” I answered with childlike naiveté. “Over 12,000 hits since I started writing it, over a year and a half ago.”

I saw the look on his face. Pitiful, he’s thinking, downright pitiful. He remained courteous.

“After all,” I continued, my defenses rising, “my blog is mostly poetry and artistic writing. It appeals to a certain small audience, not a mass market.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he answered carefully, looking down at his cell, clearly embarrassed for me. Clearly done, interest-free.

It was okay, because kids nowadays have incredibly short attention spans. I wasn’t offended. But in the aura of his sudden apathy, I wonder – am I just killing time? Am I wasting my life with irrelevant writing that no one cares about? I’ve blown serious amounts of time over the years, hours and hours I’ll never get back. Years even.

Am I simply repeating the same mistakes over and again? What is the long run of my life? Am I destined to merely exist and never produce anything of real value? What constitutes value? Is it making money, or finding popularity with thousands of daily hits? Is it serious juried critiques and literary fame? Is it the satisfaction of pouring my emotions and thoughts onto a virtual page, no matter how unlikely it is that I’ll ever find a publisher who wants me?

(Then I tell myself…) Most people never write a blog posting every week for more than a year and a half. Most people don’t write poetry. Most people haven’t written a novel, or started a second novel…I tell myself. These are worthy endeavors.

I cling to those notions. I am serious about writing. I don’t know what the long run holds. Keep trying, I imagine me saying to myself. Don’t give up just because you’re not so popular. Just because you count new hits in analog instead of digital speed. Because you can’t compete with a generation born into computer ease. Don’t give up. Your long run is just beginning. The rest of your life is upon you.



The Gray Lady


I have to admit to being a tad weird when I was a teen. I grew up in a pre-Civil War era house with no insulation and lots of cracks and crevices where mice, rats, squirrels, and spiders roamed. I’d often hear scurrying in the walls and the creaky groans of a cold and tired old house. Once or twice, I recall even stranger sounds, perhaps cats that got stuck in the wall joists and died there. Something sounded like human babies moaning and crying in the dark. There were enough strange sounds emanating from my old home’s walls and attic eaves over the years to permanently scar my psyche.

And then one night when I was 13 or 14, the Gray Lady appeared. I’ll let my character Glory in PERSEPHONE IN HELL describe the experience.

“Gloria woke up with a panic. She tried to calm herself. Just then, the closet door next to her bed opened, and a ghost, all in grey, appeared from the dark.

She is floating into my bedroom. No, walking – well something in between. The ghost has a sternness on her face and a pointer in her hand. But she isn’t menacing; she doesn’t seem to mean any harm.

The Gray Lady didn’t stop or look around. She didn’t appear to notice the girls in the bedroom. She walked right past Gloria, took a turn at the bedpost, and passed by Penny sleeping in the next bed. Then she floated out of the room with a whispered wind-like tune. “Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse…”

In the course of a few seconds, the ghost was on her way to someplace else. Glory was in shock. Her forehead burned. Her cuts felt razor sharp. I don’t believe it. I must be going off my rocker. In la-la land, for sure.”

I took to keeping a baseball bat next to my bed just in case I had to defend myself. And I was visited by the Gray Lady for many years, though no one else ever saw her. Was I insane? Psychotic or schizoid? Simply bursting with an imagination that couldn’t be controlled? Or, perhaps, I was in tune with an underworld I couldn’t begin to understand. Hades, messing with Persephone yet again. That old goat just can’t leave her alone.

Have you ever seen a ghost?


Ancients visited

I had the most fabulous time on my trip to Greece and Italy! Not without some issues (okay, we got robbed, missed a flight, had to sleep on the airport floor, lost my sister’s luggage forever maybe, missed almost a day in Venice, slept through an entire day in Florence, and my ears got boxed by a flight attendant – but who’s complaining?)
The Coliseum, Rome Italy – most beautiful sports arena ever

The Parthenon at the Acropolis – Athens, Greece. There is nothing that can top this sight. I had the privilege of visiting this and many ancient sites in Greece and Italy. What a fabulous trip!

Ruins of ancient temples are everywhere.
Greek restaurants needed our business so badly, they offered free wine with dinner! Who am I to pass it up? Here I am (on the left) with my sister who generously sponsored this amazing trip. We ate well, very well – an understatement. Greek food is delicious!
Beautiful Greek island of Aegena.