😁

As a talented and gifted writer, I’ve managed to attract a lot of followers (at least a hundred) and I’ve become somewhat of a word master because I’m super, um… extremely… uh… well, good with the words ‘n stuff.

But sometimes words alone just don’t cut the mustard because words can get misconstrued, especially when reading them in print, which is mostly where words occur. Mainly where words occur. Actually, the only place words occur.

For instance, words get misconstrued all the time in texts, emails, or the biggest offender: comments in the comments section, which is the most annoying misconstruing of all the misconstruct… misconstrar… misunderstanding of them all. Someone writes one simple comment another person doesn’t like, and boom, everyone’s panties are all bunched up!

Jesus Christ, people. Listen, it isn’t always about you…

…it’s about me *snicker* *snort*

Seriously though, I know you know what I’m talking about because we’ve all been guilty of doing the misconstruing, and I’m pretty sure that’s the reason emojis were invented: To assist us in replacing what we would normally express in real face to face communication. Things such as expression, emphasis, tone of voice, etc., and we punctuate our words with a corresponding emoji so that they aren’t misconstrued.

Wow, did you read that? I really am good with words!

But some people use emojis to make others believe that what they wrote, isn’t really offensive the way it’s coming across… it’s much nicer. Bullshit.

Have you ever been to the South? You know, the bible belt states like, Alabama, Kentucky, Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, Georgia and all the rest of those fuckin’ weird places?

People from those fuckin’ weird places, do not email me.

Anyway, all those states where I’d never want to live in a million years because they have their own way of doing things that don’t fit in with the rest of society, like they have laws that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. For instance, you can’t go Greek in some of those places.

Not that I ever want to go Greek, I mean, ugh… how barbaric! 

But I’d still wanna have the choice to go Greek if I wanted to, so if one day I decided “Hey, let’s give this fuckin’ weird Greek business a go.” well then, that’d be my choice and my business and I wouldn’t be arrested and thrown in jail because of it, then consequently ass-raped by the prison guard… I mean, how wrong is that?!!

See what I mean about going against the rest of society? I mean, everybody goes Greek, even your grandma… and who the hell makes it illegal to go Greek and then sets the Greek prison guard loose on you? Not that I’d ever go Greek in a million years… just, uh… well, it’s really awkward and uh…

ahem

Look, I’ve totally gone off track from my point right now. 

My point is, if you’ve been to the South, you’ve heard at least one woman utter the phrase “Bless her heart”, right? Well that phrase doesn’t mean what it means on the surface, know what I mean? It’s got major subtext, and that subtext is: “She’s a fuckin’ idiot”, something they’d never say out loud, God forbid. 

It’s Southern Comfort, if you will. A way of not saying what you really wanna say because that would be too East Coast, and we all know Southerners would never want to sound like people from the East Coast – those loud motherfuckers. 

I’m pretty sure some Asian techie dude invented the emoji because that’s what Asians are good at, which is completely understandable considering how difficult it is for them to read their own language, much less the English language. ‘Cause if you think about it, the Asian language essentially is, all emojis. I should say, all the Asian languages, since there are more than one, which may not be immediately apparent to some of you racists out there.

So we use emojis to help us illustrate our point and even offer subtext. For instance, if I write something like: “Hey guys, I know I’ve said this before but I guess you didn’t hear it the first time.” it could be misconstrued as: “Hey guys, I’m pissed off you didn’t hear what I said the first time, you goddamn morons!” But if I add a smiley emoji to it, it clearly shows I’m not really pissed off with you morons after all. It makes it all nicey-nicey, doesn’t it? and that’s perfect for someone like me!

So the moral of the story is, I can use them to address people and not be offensive. At least, that’s what my credit card therapist said. Emojis are in place to make sure you understand that when we refer to you as an idiot, but follow it up with a warm, smiley emoji, we’re letting you know we really mean it, but we’re subtly trying to make you believe we don’t. 

I mean, how genius! 

😘

Herstory Lesson

Originally posted August 23, 2018:

School is back in session and I couldn’t be happier and more annoyed at the same time. Talk about a dichotomy… almost bipolar.

Hell no I’m not bipolar! There’s nothing wrong with being bipolar. It reminds me of the two-toned popsicles you used to get from the ice cream truck. I happen to be a vanilla ice cream cone, thank God. They say some of the most interesting people are bipolar and are considered borderline genius. I mean, I don’t know if that statement is actually true, I’m just using it to emphasize my point, or whatever. My point being, it’s perfectly okay to be a two-toned popsicle… just as long as you don’t mix them with vanilla ice cream cones. 

It’s all about balance and compassion. Probably not balance. I mean, let’s face it, there’s nothing balanced about two-toned popsicles, but it’s definitely about compassion, which I practice daily.

I don’t have any stinkin’ kids (thank God) so you’re probably wondering how I know school started. Well, for two reasons. One is that all the stores, parks and ice cream shops are quiet and peaceful again, and two, my route to and from work is now packed with the idiots who insist on driving their goddamn ice cream cones to and from school rather than making them take the bus or walk!

These parents are cramming the roads with their Audi crossovers, making the time it takes for me to drive to work, twice as long. I barely have time to finish picking blueberry oatmeal out of my teeth before I have to rush out the door so I can navigate the extra traffic.

That’s how I know.

I’m not the type to regale people with stories of how I got to school when I was younger. I mean, how boring right? 

Well aren’t you gonna ask? For your information, I either walked or rode the bus!

That’s because my family was normal, okay? well… except for my dad, who, looking back, reminded me a lot of a popsicle. But everyone else was normal… well, my mom had her little idiosyncrasies but uh… I wouldn’t necessarily call her a popsicle… she was more like a momsicle.

hahahaha *snort*.… hahaha *snicker *snort… haha… ha…

ahem.

Anyway, lemme just say that you shouldn’t drive your kids to and from school because they’ll miss out on a fun learning experience. Kids need to get exposure, to learn to toughen up a little bit, ya know? Let ‘em get tripped or shamed on the bus. It’s a wonderful introduction to how life’s gonna be once they have a job, or get married.

Personally, I used to have the best time taking the bus to school. It was the better part of the entire school experience, frankly. The bus stop was right down the street from my house and my friends and I would meet there and socialize before we were carted off in a dangerously balanced long yellow vehicle with an agitated driver who didn’t necessarily like kids. Anyway after we boarded, we’d make our way all the way to the back because that’s where the long bench seat was located… you know the one I’m talking about, right?

You don’t? Well you would Harry Potter if you weren’t being chartered to school like a frickin’ wizard!

There’s a long bench seat at the very back of the bus, for your information. Anyway, we liked to sit there because along the route to school we’d cross a big giant dip in the road, and as the back end of the bus was coming out of the dip, it would bounce up really high, so we’d launch ourselves off the seat simultaneously with the bus coming out of the dip on the upswing, which would propel us really high into the air. It was so much fun! We’d even have a contest to see who could go up the highest, and everyone on the bus would watch in awe because, well we were pretty awesome.

You can’t do stuff like that in your mommy’s car Harry! How the hell are you supposed to learn shit about physics if you’re strapped into an Audi looking cross-eyes at the screen of your iPhone?

Kids need to toughen up a little bit, stop being so protective. Let Harry walk to school and burn off some of that McDonalds crap you’re feeding him. Don’t tell me you’d rather have him be bullied on the schoolyard because he’s got moobs over walking.

Luckily I love kids, they’re wonderful! Every time I come into contact with one, they leave the encounter knowing something they didn’t before. Let me give you an example: I was in the drug store the other day buying stuff I didn’t need so I could get one of their ridiculously long receipts to use as toilet paper for the week, when I noticed this adorable little six year old girl running down the aisle tightly clutching a Barbie Doll.

Clearly, she was looking for her mom, who’d left her alone in the toy aisle so she could continue shopping undisturbed, which I think is another great way to toughen up a kid! Leave ’em alone for a long period of time and when they get panicked and start crying, they’ll be forced to get resourceful and strategize; it builds character. 

Anyway, I knew this little girl was looking for her mommy so she could beg her to buy the Barbie doll. What little girl isn’t infatuated with Barbie? So I approached her, got down to her eye level, and said “Little girl, I know you really want that Barbie doll right now, but in ten years, you’re gonna hate her because she’s skinnier than you and has bigger tits. Barbie represents a standard of beauty you’ll never achieve. Now put the doll back and let’s go look for your mommy.” 

We got into a little back and forth and… well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a tug of war with a six year old before, but they’re a lot stronger than they look. I finally managed to wrestle the doll away from her and ran out of the store with it. The manager came running after me but I lost him ’cause I was too fast for him. Probably from all that walking to and from school!

I gave that little girl some real food for thought, you know what I mean? I was proud to be such a good example.

Ruler

You’re probably thinking I’m gonna talk about two very important events that took place this past week, the first one being Halloween, because we had a full moon Halloween night for the first time in like, forty something years, and the second one, being the election. Typically, I would take on such relevant topics but…

I didn’t care about Halloween this year because it was way too easy. Normally, I have to come up with some complicated ruse to get candy since I don’t have kids and don’t wanna come off like I’m some lame adult trying to pilfer candy from children.

But since no adults were doling it out because of COVID-19, they opted to set it out in bowls on their front porches, which meant I could just grab handfuls of it. Luckily I was wearing a mask and couldn’t be identified. Plus, I was bigger than any of the trick-or-treaters, easily beating them to the good stuff. Oh c’mon, only a few of them cried and they were sore losers.

Speaking of sore losers… the only thing I have to say about the election since the results aren’t in yet is, I’ve never taken so much delight biting into the orange filling of a Butterfinger.

I have a much more pressing issue to discuss anyway: Rules

Rules are important in many ways. For example, they’re put into place for things like preventing unnecessary accidents, preserving order in society (except when it comes to Halloween), and keeping things pleasant for me. 

When I see people break the rules, it really cracks my moonbeam. Why do some people believe they’re above the law? Why do they think rules should apply to everyone but them? I’ve pondered these questions many times over and the only answer I could come up with is that there is an error in their thinking. 

Okay, to be honest, that’s really not the only answer I could come up with, I came up with a bunch of other answers, some of them being:

They’re too busy on their cell phones. 

They don’t know how to read.

They think the phrase “self-entitled” means you bestow a title upon yourself, like “ The Bold One” or “Mr. Big”.

They have handicap stickers when they really don’t need one just so they can park anywhere they want.

But then I started to wonder if maybe I was being too judge-y. I mean, perhaps these people have a good reason for flippantly ignoring the law to their own benefit. For instance, um… for instance… uh, let’s see here… hmm… well, I’d be open to suggestions.

Anyway, the other day on my hike, I see this dog come running down the trail. No leash, out of control, and then proceeding to jump on me, apparently really happy to see me. I wish I could say the same. Needless to say, the owner did not have it on a leash, which is breaking the rules. 

How selfish, right?

Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. I mean, I kinda get it. Dog owners who allow their dogs to run freely in public, truly believe their doggy would never do anything to harm someone because their doggy is the prettiest, friendliest, most bestest doggy in the whole wide world, and everyone should just shut up and tolerate it, because otherwise, you’re just a big meanie who doesn’t love dogs!

It’s all about which perspective you take.

The owner was too busy yapping on his cell phone to notice the fearful expression on my face as his dog charged towards me, making it unclear whether it was going to bite my face off or lick me, neither of which would’ve been appreciated.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good lick, just not by a strange, hairy beast. Okay, there was that one guy; he was Greek, which I’m normally repulsed by, but he promised there would be no back-door action, just lots of licking. Come to think of it, he was an awful licker. I got the impression he didn’t really enjoy pita the way he initially professed, which became quite apparent when I saw the way he mouthed his kebab at lunch!

ahem…

Anyway, as I shoved the doggy off me, I was waiting for his owner to say something, like an apology or please excuse my dog, or something like that… but he didn’t. I would’ve let the entire situation run off of me like water off a dog’s ass if he had acknowledged the situation, but he ignored the whole thing.

So then I needed to say something, and immediately sized him up; you can never be too sure how someone’s going to react. Luckily he was on the short side, but still, I needed to match the size of his ignorance, which was pretty big, so I decided to puff myself up…  you know, like a puffer fish. Have you seen those? They’re able to puff themselves up to twice their original size when threatened… so that’s what I did, I got really puffy. It was amazing how puffy I got, I normally don’t get this puffy unless I eat a lot of dairy!

Then using my calm stadium voice, I said: “You know, it’s really intimidating coming across a strange dog that’s off-leash and not under its owner’s control and I’m only telling you this in a calm manner because the last thing I want is for two people to be intimidated, rather than just one… get it?!!” 

It was dead quiet outside and it was at that moment I discovered my calm stadium voice carries a lot more than I initially thought. The frightened look on his face let me know my subtle message was heard, and he squeaked out a barely audible apology. His dog ran away so I assumed it already got the message. 

Then I harrumphed because harrumphing lets the opposition know you’re superior to them and that the battle was won (plus, it released all that air I used puffing myself up). I come from a long line of harrumphers on my mother’s side; she was British, so that makes us pretty superior. Then I stomped away, sort of like I do on my Anger Hike.

I felt quite proud for standing up for what was right because one can never be too right… right?

Mislead Hot Head

I’ve been kinda irritated lately.

I’m not too sure, but I think it’s because of… people

I really needed to get out of my funk, so I decided to do some Anger Hiking, which is very therapeutic. The way it works is, you go on a hike and stew over all the shitty things people did to you the past week, and the more you think about it, the faster you hike, and the faster you hike, the more cardio workout you get, which helps to release all that pent up resentment. Sure, nature is calming but that’s beside the point. Who cares about beauty when you’re so focused on hate?

Other hikers stay the hell away from you too, which is an added benefit. If you do this, be prepared for some mumbling, swearing, and heavy breathing… and there may be some stomping, also… which kinda gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “hit the trail” *snort *snicker

Be careful because you’re on a roll… an anger roll… and you may end up doing a lot of untended mileage… which is why I’m probably so sore today.

I came up with the idea of Anger Hiking because Hot Yoga was totally misleading. I thought it was for hot heads… how the hell did I know you weren’t supposed to say “fuck off” in class?

Nothing major happened to put me in this mood, it was just a bunch of stuff. You know the saying: It’s not the big things in life that count, it’s the little things? Well yeah! They were probably talking about how it’s not just one big person that irritates the hell out of me, it’s a bunch of little people! 

When I say, little people, I’m not talking about “little people”, you know, they used to be called “midgets”. Which, by the way, is a word I’m not supposed to use anymore since it’s considered offensive. It’s not offensive to me, but everyone said I don’t count.

Rude.

Okay, I admit that word doesn’t sound right anymore, but the thing is, we can say “fuck off” freely and it’s considered almost noble… which is what I was trying to explain to that midget hot yoga teacher before she kicked me out of the class. You know what I think? A couple of schmucks came along and decided that word was offensive all of a sudden. They were probably over six feet tall too because it’s always the ones who don’t suffer from the injustice who try to fix it for others.

So now, every time I use that word, along with other words I’m no longer supposed to use, I get dirty looks from the white, suburban Democrats. Republicans don’t care as long as I’m not caught on tape. 

Oh, and there are other words I’m not supposed to use anymore, like: lopsided, fruit-picker, banana breath, and holy roller. Okay, I totally get not saying banana breath; there’s a lot of subtext in that one.

But what’s so wrong with the other ones?… and why are people so goddamn sensitive? If they realized how many names people called me growing up, they’d be astounded!

I mean, it wasn’t that many, but you know, a few. Several. Alright, if I had to count, thousands… probably. Do you see me going around enforcing rules on others because I became an angry little word Nazi? 

I’m not an angry little word Nazi. I’m a person who happens to enjoy pointing out the incorrect use of grammar and punctuation by the ignoramuses on the internet, but don’t even get me started on that, I don’t have the energy to do another hike!

You know, I think this Anger Hiking could be a thing, and not just for people who are irritated with people who are irritating. It could be a thing for irritating people who are irritating people, so they won’t be so irritating. You get me? Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, and if you don’t get me, and you’re here, you’re irritating.

It Was All A Wash

I was having some issues, so I decided it would be a perfect time to have a therapy session with my credit card representative. I call her whenever I have problems and she makes suggestions on what to purchase to make me feel better. You know, retail therapy… *snicker* *snort*

But seriously, she’s not just a credit card rep working at an 800 number, she’s also a qualified licensed therapist. She got her degree from one of those online schools, but a reputable one that’s owned by Betsy DeVos. I did my research. You can’t be too careful nowadays, there are a lot of scams out there and people who claim they’re something they’re not. Anyway, she’s really smart. Plus, she gives me a 10.99% interest rate on my card. 

She asked me what my issue was, and I told her that on my drive this morning, this ugly ogre of a woman cut me off and how unfair it was because I’m an excellent driver and this woman was a shitty driver and didn’t even care. Plus, she was driving a Volvo… what a hypocrite! 

Normally, I tell her that the best solution in dealing with these issues, is for me is to seethe with resentment for the rest of the day, and she agrees with me. But this time she didn’t and then said something that totally surprised me: She suggested I do a good deed for someone and not get found out; don’t tell anyone and don’t take credit for it. Sort of like spreading good feelings and karma to the rest of the world. 

Well, she’s the credit expert. So I asked, “You mean like, buy someone something?” and she replied “Exactly, and make sure you put it on your credit card so you can get that great rate.” She explained that when something bad happens to you, if you do something good, it’ll neutralize the hatred you harbor for mankind. 

I mean, that was a little harsh… hatred is a strong word, it’s more like disgust… but anyway, I was skeptical because it’s taken me a long time to build up my resentments.

Well, I guess I had nothing to lose, so I decided to give it a try. 

I thought of how some people would buy a coffee for the person standing in line behind them at the coffee shop, so when the person goes to pay, the barista tells them it’s already been paid for. Right away you can see how good it makes them feel, like they won the bloody lottery or something. If it’s that easy, then hell, I can do it! By the way, these do-gooders always look so smug when they tell others they bought the coffee too, which is pretty classless. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone about it.

ahem… well my therapist never mentioned anything about writing.

Anyway, I decided if I’m going to do this, I need to make it really special, and since I was heading to the car wash to get my car… washed, I would pay for someone else’s wash service, too. 

When I arrived, I explained to the attendant what I wanted to do and instructed him to let the next car that pulls up behind me, their wash was already paid for… as long as it wasn’t a Mercedes, BMW, or Audi, because I’m not paying for one of those assholes.

Then I went inside to work out the payment. I let the cashier know I wanted to put ten dollars towards the next person’s car wash, and she said it needed to be put it on a gift card because they couldn’t take cash. She also informed me the minimum was $25. I can’t believe I said this, but I told her that was fine. In all honesty, it really wasn’t fine because that’s a lot of money… I mean, karma… and I wasn’t sure I wanted to spread that much karma around, if you know what I mean, but since I already informed both her and the attendant of my intentions, I was stuck.

This kindness bullshit was getting complicated.

But when the cashier tried to swipe the gift card through the card reader, it wouldn’t work. She tried repeatedly but it wasn’t reading it. She called her manager over and he tried, but still nothing. In the meantime, a long line of people was forming behind me and all I could think about was how I didn’t want to pay twenty five fucking dollars for karma because I’d rather use that money to buy something for myself!

They tried another gift card and that one wouldn’t work either. This went on for another minute until I told them “Stop! Forget it, this is taking way too long.” and I turned and walked away as fast as I could before they registered my face and name. The last thing I want every time I go in there is for them to announce to everyone “That’s the lady who backed out of her karmic agreement with the Universe, and the reason you didn’t get a free car wash today!”

I was totally relieved it didn’t work. I mean, I believe in all this karma bullshit and everything, but there’s got to be some limits, and I think that limit should be ten bucks.

Maybe five. 

I thought about the turn of events and questioned why the gift cards wouldn’t work? I knew there had to be a reason for it… and then it dawned on me: The Universe must have sensed my resistance to pay such a large karmic debt when it wasn’t even my debt to begin with, it was that ugly ogre’s debt, the one who cut me off in the first place! The Universe made sure I wasn’t doing something I didn’t want to do, then consequently feel worse about humanity.

Can you imagine if that ugly ogre was the next car in line and I ended up paying for her car to be washed? 

I think the Universe made the right decision.

I’m still going to do the good deed and everything… I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.

RIP EVH

Two heads of long, brown, flowing feathered locks passed by me… rock ‘n roll hair, bouncing with every stride, they almost looked like twins… 

… and they were in a hurry.

I was around twenty years old, with my friend Ann, and we were walking around the mall.

That’s what our generation did: walked around the mall, met friends, hung out. We were called mall rats, like in the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

This is how the conversation always went:

“Let’s get together.”

“Okay, what do you wanna do?”

“Let’s go hang out at the mall.”

“Awesome, let’s go!”

It was the Eighties. Yeah, the one young people of today try to replicate with their 80’s themed parties. When I first heard about these parties it was a blow to the gut. “How could people be throwing Eighties themed parties? I’m not old, it wasn’t that long ago! That was my generation, my entire world, and now it’s being turned into some type of joke theme for people’s entertainment?! 

But, I get it. I used to go to 50’s and 60’s themed parties when I was young; that’s what young people do, they love dressing up and trying to capture the essence of those times, so now I look at it as an homage rather than a parody. 

I loved the Eighties… everything about it, especially the music. I would hole up in my bedroom and play rock ‘n roll albums for hours. And I mean play them, not just press a button on a smartphone and listen to some digital version. I played records; pure sound recorded and magnetized onto a jet black vinyl disc and spun on a turntable.

I would carefully slide the vinyl record out from its sleeve, mindful not to mar the surface with fingerprints, lightly blow off any dust, place it onto the turntable, and carefully set the needle down on the first track without scratching it. The familiar sound of crunchy static right before the first song always gave me delight as I anticipated my favorite music coming through the speakers.

Foreigner, The Cars, Madonna, Loverboy, Run DMC, Supertramp, Motley Crüe, Donna Summer, The GoGo’s, Guns ‘n Roses, Prince, Metallica… musicians and bands that defined the era and shattered top forty lists. I could go on and on… but I don’t want to lose you. But there were only two bands that really smashed it for me, ones I absolutely adore and will never tire of: Rush and Van Halen. 

Those two bands defined my youth. 

Listening to their music was like falling in love; it stirred inside me an excitement and a euphoria of the sort only the arts can do. Some people are moved by writing or poetry, some by paintings from the masters, some with sculpture. For many though, it’s music. People talk about music saving their lives, giving them hope. For me, it was galvanizing.

When I got the news the other day that Eddie Van Halen died, I was completely devastated. “Are you fucking kidding me? Eddie Van Halen is dead?!” The news took my breath away, then I cried. He was too young, too magnificent, to die. Just like earlier in the year when Neil Peart’s death devastated me, this one will take a long time to get over also. 

It’s like a huge chunk of my youth was redacted in a single swipe of a black marker. I feel like we’re all being cheated somehow. How could such talent be taken away so soon? How could the soundtrack of our lives slowly be removed from the charts, one by one?

The first time I heard Van Halen, their first album, I was blown away by what was coming at me through the speakers. David Lee Roth’s powerful vocals layered over Eddie’s screaming, melodic licks was pure magic; I was in heaven! I listened to it over and over and over again and I couldn’t wait for each consecutive album’s release. Van Halen rocked me through the decade and beyond. I still listen to them when I need energy and want to be uplifted. 

I have stories. So many stories of amazing and unbelievable events that took place in my life, and I was trying to think back: Did I have any Eddie Van Halen stories? I definitely had a David Lee Roth story, which I’ll save for another time, but Eddie Van Halen? 

Huh, couldn’t think of one. 

Until, in the middle of the night last night, when I woke up because I remembered my Eddie Van Halen story: the time I saw him, in, of all places, the mall in my small suburban town outside of Los Angeles. 

It was the late Eighties and I was walking around the mall with my friend Ann, who talked an awful lot and never seemed to pay much attention to anything I had to say when I tried to get a word in edgewise, when suddenly I noticed two people with long brown flowing feathered locks and looking like twins walking towards us. It was Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli. They were in a hurry… trying to get the hell out of there before a mob surrounded them. Understandable since Eddie was a rock God and Valerie, a sitcom princess. 

I watched speechless as they walked past us, not having the heart to turn around and ask them for their autographs because clearly, they did not want to be there. It was as if they tried to have a normal moment, just two regular people out shopping somewhere, enjoying their time together in a normal setting, but then realizing that was not a possibility for them, they were too famous. 

Ann, babbling on and on, didn’t even notice. I stopped her shortly after they passed us, grabbing her by the arm and saying “Ann, shut up. Did you just see Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli walk by? They just walked past us!” She turned around but they were already gone, lost amongst the mall rats. Then she looked at me like I was crazy, she didn’t believe me, thinking I most likely saw people who looked similar to them. 

But then we heard it: the screaming, wailing sounds of Eddie’s guitar playing echoing and bouncing off the walls. Coming towards us was a young rocker guy with long hair carrying a huge boombox that was blaring Van Halen’s “Eruption”. The guy approached us and asked in earnest “Did you see him?” and I replied with a breathless “Yeah, I did.” We both smiled. 

And that was all that needed to be said. 

Hard Sell

I finally cleaned out my storage unit and decluttered my house. Then I had a yard sale because nothing’s more American than spreading a bunch of junk across your front yard and selling what you never needed to someone else who won’t need it either. 

I’ve never had a yard sale before. Boy, was I in for a surprise… apparently there are legions of people who go to yard sales every weekend, and they wake up really early.

You know how they came up with the premise for that t.v. show, The Walking Dead? They went to a yard sale. As soon as people arrived they started coming at me like zombies, if zombies smoked crack. I hadn’t even finished setting everything up when they charged towards me with that hungry look in their eyes. I thought, if I’m gonna die, I don’t want it to be while this is happening… that’s not the reputation I wanna go out with! 

They lie to you about why they need your crap too, which is ridiculous because I just want to get rid of the stuff, I don’t need a story to go along with it. This one guy who wanted my record albums from the 80s, told me he was a collector. Sure you are buddy. If he really was a collector, he would’ve already had all the albums I had. Clearly he was gonna resell them at a higher price. Good luck with that. 

A lot of people do that; buy your crap and try to resell it at a higher price. I say, go ahead, you can do all the extra work involved, it’s not worth my time. I sat down and did the math, which surprised no one more than me, but anyway, when I worked out the numbers, they were probably making around two bucks an hour for all their effort. 

This one lady bought a bunch of my items and surprisingly, I was really nice to her. Maybe it was because she was giving me a lot of money, but still, I didn’t have to go out of my way. Anyhow, a few days later, I received a letter addressed to: Garage Sale Lady. When I opened the envelope, it contained a note card with an apology, a quote from the bible, and ten bucks. Apparently this lady had forgotten she put two items in her purse and didn’t pay me for them, so she mailed the money to me when she realized her error.  

Okay, first of all, what the hell is she doing sending cash in the mail? It could’ve gotten stolen and I never would have received what was owed to me, and second of all, someone quoting the bible is indicative of a person harboring a lot of guilt, sexual repression, and Amway products. Now I’m left wondering if she really forgot she had put the items in her purse or if the guilt she was feeling for stealing them outweighed the benefit of getting away with it. 

If it were me, I’d seriously have to consider those two options. After all, I’m half Italian; we quote from the bible all the time!

ahem…

In spite of all my wholesome efforts, there were some items I just couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard I tried. I figured whatever I didn’t sell at the yard sale, I could donate. Well that wasn’t gonna happen because it turns out everyone’s getting rid of their crap right now. 

I have some cool retro luggage from the 70s. The kind they don’t make anymore, not the cheap, throwaway junk you buy nowadays where it falls apart after one flight; this is quality. Well who wants luggage during a pandemic? No one’s going anywhere. 

I went to donate it to a charity organization for foster kids, thinking these kids would probably need a suitcase when being shuffled from house to house, but they had a glut of luggage donations the past few months. Turns out, there aren’t enough foster kids to meet the demands of the luggage donations, which is really disappointing. 

I ended up driving all the way to skid row and unloading it onto a homeless person. I handed it to him and he looked confused, so I said “Why don’t you pack up and get away from all this?” 

I felt really good about it afterwards knowing he would be moving soon with a really nice set of suitcases in tow.

Füd

Listen, I have a problem.

It’s with baby corn. 

I don’t know whose idea it was to take a delicious food product like corn and serve it as food before it fully grows into the actual delicious food product it is, but it was a mistake. No one should make an argument for eating baby corn when it has so much potential.

Someone walked through the tiny corn fields, peeled back the tiny husk, looked at the tiny piece of corn struggling to grow into it’s full sized magnificence and said “You know, I bet this would be delicious right now… especially in Chinese food!” 

It was probably the same person who looked at a palm tree and said “I bet the heart of that tree tastes delicious, we should put it in a can!” 

Baby corn should not be a thing. Baby corn is the equivalent of pumpkin spice – there are those of you who love pumpkin spice, and then there’s the rest of us who find you incredibly annoying. 

We’re heading into pumpkin spice season, and all I can say is pumpkin spice can suck it. Every product is given the scent of that foul smelling stuff starting in September, and to those people who assume that everyone loves the clingy, cloying, overbearing smell of cinnamon wafting through the air just because they do, have been snorting way too much of the stuff. 

Pumpkin spice is just a massive spoonful of cinnamon with the promise of a possible sprinkling of other indiscernible spices, so I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re all getting ripped off by Starbucks right now… which is probably deserved since you like pumpkin spice to begin with. 

People who love pumpkin spice, do not email me

But about baby corn… 

Baby corn tastes like straw taken from the floor of a pig pen, and it looks like an albino okra, which is another disgusting food product. Someone cut open an okra, saw seeds floating in a viscous slime and said “You know, I bet this would be delicious right now… especially in Chinese food!” That person probably also eats quinoa… and pronounces it keen-wa.

Quinoa is a horrible, bitter grain eaten by indigenous people who ate it by necessity and are laughing at everyone eating it now as a health food product because they don’t like it either.

But back to baby corn…

Baby corn is a hot button issue: Vegetarians think it’s okay to eat baby corn whereas vegans think it’s murder. 

Baby corn looked up at its mother one summer and said, I’m really hot right now and the mother replied, I’m gonna tell your Pop. 

ahem, sorry.

The only thing baby corn is good for is to be the dick on a Mr. Potato Head, and seeing as how Mr. Potato Head only has a head, his name will have to be changed to Mr. Dick Head. 

ahem, sorry.

Look, it’s compulsive.

Automatic

I’ve been thinking about how we women screw up relationships. 

Notice I said we, because I’m not trying to make myself out to be perfect. 

I’m no expert but I’ve fucked up plenty of relationships. Certainly enough to realize what I should and should not do anymore. It really wasn’t that many, but you know, some. One or two… or one… if that. 

Okay, lemme backtrack a little here because if I dive down deep and reflect honestly on the past, it wasn’t me at all, it was the men in my life, they’re the ones who fucked up everything. I was just trying to show a little humility by taking some responsibility because I didn’t want to come off as perfect, but it’s not working for me. It’s like asking me to squeeze into a neoprene wetsuit that’s two sizes too small while still damp. Have you ever tried that? It’s not easy. It’s like stuffing sausage casings with explosives.

And why take blame where you don’t have to (or when no one’s around)? It’s enough that I’ve had to navigate life being a woman; I had to bleed and everything! Plus, do you know how many times I’ve had to pretend to live up to my hair color just so I don’t come off smarter than men? 

If you wanna make a relationship work, you gotta play the man’s game and that means looking beyond the lies and deceit. 

Like the one we’ve all heard before: when the guy says he loves it when a woman has that “just out of bed” look. They try to tell you they don’t really like a woman who is all dolled up, they prefer when she’s natural looking and wearing sweats with very little makeup. 

I say go ahead, try it out. Approach your man after you just get out of bed, no makeup on, no hair or teeth brushed, and wearing pajamas, but not the sexy kind of pajamas. He’ll give a look alright, but not the one you want.  

The one you’ll get is the “Jesus Christ, you scared the crap outta me!” look. This is where you need to point out to him how men are always saying they prefer women looking like this over the dolled up look, and he’ll immediately point to a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and when you express to him how you’ll never look like that because it’s not realistic, he’ll say that’s the whole point. 

It’s not that men are bad for feeling this way, it just goes to show how they’re easily swayed by false titties… I mean, falsities. You know, the kind the media is always putting onto women to be, look and act as anything but themselves. Anything that’s real is out of the question, so start slapping that makeup on your faces, ladies. Make yourself as unreal looking as possible. 

We have to be extra vigilant, especially now with the onset of female robots and all… the fembots. Have you heard about these? Female robots are being ordered and manufactured to the exact specifications of a man’s deepest desires. They can be created to look, sound and act exactly how the man wants, and that only means one thing: no talking.

Okay, they’ll probably talk, but only in monosyllabic sentences because that’s the best way to talk to a man. Men don’t like all the confusion of a string of well spoken sentences. Admittedly, we women can drone on and on… and on… and on… just ask any man, or the customer service representative you were complaining to earlier.

These robots are supposed to be programmed to perform any and all tasks; talk about our jobs being taken over by automation! I mean, really, I don’t care if they take over the blow jobs, but every other job, well, we can’t let that happen. 

Hmm, maybe we can let it happen. 

Because, you know, after some thought, there may be benefits to having a sex robot take care of your man. For one, it’d be a lot less work, and she can deal with all the crap we normally do, like, you know, the Greek stuff. Show me one woman who enjoys doing that

Not that I ever… you know, because if my dad were reading this, I wouldn’t want him to know I might have tried Greek… because he was Italian and we don’t even like Greeks! How many holes does one guy have to use anyway? Is it the same amount as the drills? because if so, we’re in big trouble.

Let’s just let automation take over, ’cause it’s only a matter of time before they make male sex robots. Oooh, just think how long they’ll last. Ladies, prepare to sell your Viagra stock, Daddy’s comin’ to town!

Screw This!

I bought a drill.

I can’t understand why it took me so long to get one, the thing is amazing! 

I went on Craigslist to find a used one and lo and behold, a man was selling a bunch of ’em. He had at least eight drills, which begs the question: Why does a man need more than one drill? Well once I got that thing in my hand and I felt its intoxicating power, I totally understood.

Holding that drill down low around the crotch area, pointing it at things, feeling its rotating vibration in my hand… well I imagine that’s what it must feel like when a man holds his own drill. 

I wouldn’t truly be living in a man’s world if I just bought the drill outright without haggling with the guy, so on my drive over there, I started plotting his demise. Huh, demise… that’s an interesting choice of word… kinda out of character for me. I would never purposely plot someone’s demise. 

Really, I was only thinking of the best way to use my feminine wiles in order to manipulate this guy down in price, and considering how many drills he had, it probably wouldn’t be that difficult. But when I got there, I found he was an older gentleman, so I knew I had a formidable adversary. Old dudes have been around the cinder block a few times, so I knew I had to come up with something good.

He showed me two different drills, one that came with just a battery and a bigger one with more power, but heavier. That one had several batteries, plus a flashlight; it was a tempting choice. If I were a dude, I would’ve chosen the one with the extras, since that’s what men do; they always go with “extra”. But I’m not… I’m smarter, so I chose the lighter drill with just the one battery because I know that it’s not how big your drill is, but rather what you can do with it. 

In the course of our conversation, he asked who the drill was for, and when I told him it was for me, he shot me a dubious look, which I could have taken as an insult, but considering the circumstances, I let it slide right off me like water off a ducks ass. I went on to say I was a single mom and if I had any trouble with it, my son could help me. 

Son… *snicker *snort  

I don’t have any kids.

When he shot me this look of compassion, I knew I had him right by the ball bearings. I offered him half of what he was asking for and he said “Well, since you’re a single mom, I’ll let you have it.” 

Hello, Daddy! 

I took a man down in a man’s world with a man’s own tool… talk about power! I didn’t even have to resort to showing him my panty hamster!

I hopped into my man-made vehicle and hit the man-made road, and as I sped down the highway at 40 miles per hour, I belted out Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” along with David Lee Roth, a man that’s as manly a man as man could get.

Then I noticed this guy trying to get in front of me so he could make a turn at the upcoming intersection, but I said screw that! No way I was gonna let a man overtake me, so I pulled alongside his car to taunt him, and as he looked over to see what kind of man would do that to another man, I winked and gave him the finger.

I was starting to feel my biceps bulging through my blouse and when I looked down at my crotch area, I could’ve sworn I saw a bulge, but then I remembered I had dropped a banana down there earlier.

When I got home, I took out that baby and started drilling and screwing everything in sight, even in places that didn’t need screwing, just like men do. Every time I take out that drill and hold it in my hands, I feel powerful. It’s like a gun, but one that makes sense. 

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