Random thought on a cold winter morning

Static electricity plus fleece pajama pants, plus three hairy dogs = too much fur for peanut butter on a waffle to be a good breakfast choice.

Didn’t think that one through.


One Little Bit of Normal


English: A normal pisform bone as seen on late...

Nurse: I have good news! Your x-ray is completely normal.

Me: Well at least ONE part of me is.

Nurse: Yep. It’s just that tiny spot on your wrist, but one little bit of normal is better than nothing.

Comedians. I am surrounded by them.

Image credit: Wikipedia

Because Supervillains Are Made, Not Born

Apparently (according to a weird bit of Facebook algebra) the color of my shirt + the object to my left = my super villain name.

I have doubts about the scientific validity of this. Besides, I’m not sure Green All-in-One-Printer conveys anything super– villain or otherwise. Although, it could be worse. If the calculation required me to combine my shirt color with the object on my right, I would be The Green Doorknob.

I’m still waiting for the Facebook algebra problem that reveals which X + Y = my Secret Supervillain Lair  so I can go there, chill out, and plot World Domination.

And where are my minions? I never thought about it before, but, now that I have, I really want minions.

Image credit: Harshlight via Flickr Creative Commons. (CC) Some rights reserved.

Once Upon a Bedtime Weary… (a.k.a. When Bedtime Stories Attack)

Cartoon by Gaspirtz (cc) via WikiMedia

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs who left their mother’s house and wen off to build houses of their own.”

“Mom, did the pigs have names?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, then I’m gonna call them Curly, Bart and Petey.”

“Uh, okay. So the first pig went to build his house.”

“Which pig?”

“Um… the first one?”

“Mom, you gotta use the names. The story’s not the same without the names.”

“Okay. So, the fir– Curly built his house out of straw.”

“Outta what?”


“That would take a long time, wouldn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, did he leave the paper on, or take it off?”

“What paper?”

“The paper on the straws.”

“No, honey, it’s not that kind of straw. This kind is like hay.”

“So, you’re telling me Curly made his house out of grass?”


“He wasn’t very smart, was he?”

“It’s a story, okay?”


“The second little pig… what? Oh. Bart, I mean Bart. He built his house from sticks.”

“Mom, these pigs were poor weren’t they?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they built their houses out of grass and sticks. I bet Petey made his house out of dirt.”

“Ha! No, Petey build a house of bricks!”

“Mom, you do know bricks are baked dirt, right?”

“Um… yes.”

“Told you so! These pigs were poor!”

“Yes, Curly, Bart, and Petey were poor. They had to live in houses made of grass,sticks and dirt and they never got pizza for dinner and had to eat brussel sprouts all the time. It’s probably because they didn’t go to college.”

“What about the Wolf?”

“I don’t know if he went to college or not.”

“No, I mean the Wolf part of the story.”

“The wolf knocked on Curly’s door and said, “Little pig, little pig, let me come in — What now?”

“You gotta do the voices, Mom.”


“Why did he do that?”

“Because he wanted to eat the pig — er, I mean Curly.”

“Mom? What’s this story rated?”


“Is it PG-13? Because if it’s full of scary stuff like cute little pigs that get eaten, maybe we should stop now. It’ll give me nightmares.”

“Okay, I was wrong. The wolf didn’t want to eat Curly. He wanted to sell him something.”

“So, he’s like the guys that come to the door selling meat off a truck?”


“Okay, what did Curly do?”

“Curly said, ‘Not by the hair of my chinny, chin-chin.'”

“Why would he say something stupid like that?”

“Look, kiddo, you said it yourself. He’s not very smart.”


“And the wolf said, I’LL HUFF AND I’LL PUFF — for the love of Bob, what now?”

“Too scary. Who’s Bob?”

“Never mind. What the wolf really said was, “Litt– er — LITTLE PIG, LITTLE PIG, LET ME COME IN AND SELL YOU A NICE SIRLOIN. Better?”


“Well, let’s see… where was I?” Not by the hair of his chinny-chin… sell a nice sirloin… Okay, so Curly didn’t have any money because he always spent his allowance as soon as he got– WHAT?!?”

“I get it already, Mom. Just tell the story.”

“Curly was broke, so he ran next door to Petey’s house.”

“The brick house?”

“No, the one made of sticks.”

“That’s Bart’s.”

“Curly went to Bart’s house.”

“To borrow some money?”

“Sure, fine. And the wolf followed him and knocked on the door and said, ‘LITTLE PIGS, LITTLE PIGS, er… How about a nice steak? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did you know your face gets all wrinkly like Grandpa’s when you talk like the wolf?”

“Do you want to hear this story or not?”


“Well Bart didn’t have any money either because the allowance thing ran in the family, so both pigs ran to Petey’s house and the wolf followed them. By now the wolf was getting tired of following pigs around and knocking on doors, especially since he didn’t even get to say his good line or use his really big voice, so for fun he decided to climb down the chimney. The end.”

“Mom, do salesmen ever really come down the chimney?”

“Only the persistent ones, and only during dinner.”


“Never mind.”

“Mom, I just want to know one thing. The Wolf’s a guy, right?”


“So why did he try on the Grandmother’s underwear?”

“It was her nightgown.”

“Same thing.”

“That’s a whole different story.”

“Can you tell me that one?”

“Not tonight.”

A slightly different version of this originally appeared in Today’s Woman.  magazine.

A World of My Own

Photo by Tuppus via Flickr (cc)

Today, my daughter accused me of living in my own little world. I tried explaining that I don’t get my own ROOM, much less my own WORLD, but she just rolled her eyes. For those of you without teens, this is secret code for ‘Where are the men in the little white coats and what have I done with my butterfly net?’.

It really bugs me. Oh, not that she rolled her eyes. She does that all the time. I’m bugged by the fact that she thinks this world I’m living in is of my own devising. Like I would PICK this. Face it, if I lived in my own little world, things would certainly be different.

For starters, clothing would be more compatible with my wants and needs. I would never (and I mean ever) have to wear pointy-toed or pointy-heeled shoes to look professional. In my own little world, I would pay the underwear designers triple to create a panty design that covers both halves of the great divide, AT THE SAME TIME. Stains would be en vogue and unbuttoning the slacks to breathe would be an accepted fashion statement. And don’t even get me started about pantyhose.

If I had my own little world, I’d proudly display all the awards I’ve won for inventing the four-wheel drive vacuum, the childproof parental bathroom, and the self-cleaning laundry. I’d also show off the Nobel Prize I won for curing the neurological disorder that compels a single child to dirty twelve glasses in a two-hour period. As a result, my happy, well-adjusted children would be proud of me instead of pretending I’m an odd acquaintance they haven’t figured out how to ditch.

I wouldn’t constantly be required to be in two places at once. I’d live in Soap Opera Time where one day can stretch to last a whole week. Not only that, but my newly discovered twin sister, Cynthia, who had been thought lost at sea, but only suffered from amnesia, would return and give me a much-needed week off. AND nobody in my family would notice the difference between the two of us.

I’m reasonably certain that in my own little world, the bedroom doorknob wouldn’t rattle during intimate moments. Small voices wouldn’t call through the door, “Are you okay in there?” and they definitely WOULD NOT CALL 911 if they didn’t get an immediate answer.

Telephone calls? All for me. Plus, the person on the other end would not use words like “siding,” “refinancing,” or “Do you know what your child just did?”

Grocery shopping? A snap! I would be able to identify the food I need to buy because the empty containers? They’d be missing from the shelves! Or, even better, the Corn Puffs Fairy that my children believe in would turn out to be REAL and it will be her job to magically refill the boxes the kids carefully replace in the cabinet.

I would be best friends with Mary Poppins, the New Battery Fairy, and the Elf in Charge of Hanging Up Wet Towels.

I could have my own room… my own room!

I think my daughter may have just said something. I’m not sure, though. I was off in my own little world.

This originally appeared (in slightly different form) in Today’s Woman Magazine. September 2004.


“Mom, I smashed my finger at work twice. Right across the nail.”

“Ouch. Did you sing the #$%#%@ song?”

“Yes, both times, while hopping on one foot!”

One day we’ll take this act on the road…

Spam, spam, spam, spam…

Spam comments. Hate them or be amused? In my post on Brainstorms & Bylines, I’ve chosen to be amused. Okay, I’ve chosen to make fun. Tomato, to-mah-to.

Spammer Grammar #1

Seek and Ye Shall Find… Maybe

Me: I dashed off a draft of a short story yesterday. I know where I want to send it, but it’s too short. Like, 1,500 words too short. Where am I going to find ALL THOSE WORDS!?!

Husband: In a dictionary?

It’s All in How You Spin It.

My husband has started telling people I’m bent AND twisted.

What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker.

And you thought the Energizer Rabbit had it bad…

Easter postcard circa early 20th century

Easter postcard circa early 20th century (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This morning’s conversation with The Boy regarding his busy night at work.

Me: “So, they kept you hopping all night?”
Him (without missing a beat): “Like the Easter Bunny on crack.”

Yes, he’s definitely the child of a writer.