05 December 2012

A Tissue Lament

Oh Mr. Kleenex!  Why did you stop selling your designer tissues?

Why, instead of this elegant, subdued, and I-dare-say-oh-so-slighly-exotic tissue box, am I forced to blow my nose into a run-of-the-mill tissue?  From a box that matches neither my mood nor room decor? 

What will happen to my c'hi, Mr. Kleenex, when - in the middle of a good cry - I shed my tears onto a facial cloth pulled from the depths of a flowery tissue dispenser which looks like it was designed for housewives of the 1960's?

Let's face it. . . I need a good productive cry and it won't qualify as "good" as long as I'm consumed with worry about clashing decorative patterns.  Is the very item whose sole existence is to provide me comfort and solace destined always to fight with my draperies? 

Who wants to stare at gaudy flowers when they're at the height of their misery?  Is the box supposed to cheer the afflicted?  Lift sagging spirits from the doldrums?  Relieve swollen eyes and aching head by screaming bad taste?

Misery loves company, Mr. Kleenex.. .

Misery loves company.

So please send back my tissues to me. 

In utter haste.

 Like now. .  .

Penned a panic-stricken
and dejectable. . . 

02 October 2012


Should I even admit this to you?

And, if so, where do I begin?

Now this particular story begins with the mother's milk of everything good in my life - macaroni and cheese.  And not just any run-of-the-mill-work-a-day-macaroni-and-cheese, my friends, it begins with this. . .

And the reason it's allowed to begin with this is that tomorrow is my birthday.  

Yes, tomorrow is my birthday . . . and birthdays happen only once a year, you know. . . and what's more Drip Dry was scheduled to be out of town on a business trip. . . and that only happens like twice a year. . . so that made today. . .the birthday eve. . .  like a magical day!

A magical birthday-eve-business-trip-day.

A day made even more magical-er because I could schedule my once-a-year-velveeta-pig-out.

Yes, a  magical birthday-eve-business-trip-once-a-year-velveeta-cheese-pig-out day!

With no one looking, mind you. ('Cause I'm convinced that Drip Dry would start divorce proceedings if he ever thought I was eating something as disgustingly unhealthy as velveeta cheese. . .)

And so it was that I dragged my life-threatening ingrown toenail to the grocery store after work to procure the necessary ingredients. . . all the while a wee-bit-uneasy because Drip Dry's departure from the state was timed for 4:30 p.m. and I had not yet had confirmation that his wheels were in motion.   

But I soldiered on none-the-less and trudged home to put the water on to boil - decidedly salivating at the thought of a glorious fun-filled night of cheesy goodness.  And I was debating the possibility of cooking only half the box in the hopes that it would only be half the calories when my phone rang. . .

And I'm sure you can guess the rest of the story from the title of this blog post.

The magic ended.

The much-heralded pig-out thwarted.

Drip Dry came home for dinner.

And if he ever wondered exactly how his pedicure-wounded wife had that spinach ravioli boiled and cooked for him so quickly, he never asked. . .

and, God knows, I never told. . .

26 September 2012

Stick a Pin in It!

So it's become painfully clear that I have yet to stumble upon the optimum social networking site.

If you're reading this particular communique, you're already painfully aware of the fact that I author a humor blog. But did you know that I also have a Facebook page. . . and a twitter account. . . a Goodreads page . . . an iTunes account. . .  a Pin it Board. . . a recipe box?

I have posted, filed, tweeted, listed and stuck a pin in just about every area of my life.

So why do I feel so disconnected?  So fragmented?  How is it that I feel the strong need to mix my messages?  Where can one unearth a platform to put my loves. . .my writings. . . my obsessions. . . .my purchases. . . all on one page - without announcing each move to the rest of the world?

I'm multi-faceted.   Why can't my social media be?  

 I've never really been a fan of Facebook because I still suspect it's a wire service on speed.  And I know it may seem disingenuous for a die-hard blogger like me who lays her life out for the rest of the world to see, but I simply don't like broadcasting every item I decide to "like" or every "friend" I make.

Do you really need to know when I post a new picture or rate a pizza place?

I think not.  It's too boring for me.  And if it's boring for ME, well I pity the poor folks who don't think that minutia matters. . .


But now if I were given a page where I could show you all the TOTAL hilarity that is me at only the time you decide to visit it . . . well that would be. . . well it would be. . .  like perfect!


Stick a Pin in It.
I'm done!

19 September 2012

Reinventing Popeye

Is there a baby boomer alive who doesn't remember Popeye and his spinach? (But Popeye's spinach wasn't leafy like I show here. It came from a can. . . an indication that Popeye has indeed been dressed up, my friends, and now eats fresh spinach.)

And, thanks to Popeye,  I grew up thinking that spinach was the most repulsive thing ever put on the face of the earth.  (I also grew up thinking that the only vegetables God ever invented were frozen, but that's a post for another day.)

And as each child watched Popeye bust that can open and pour that green slime down his throat, even the most innocent of viewers would start to feel uncomfortable. . . instinctively knowing that something had gone terribly wrong with the marketing of Popeye.  Oh yes, he and his spinach would save that bumbling Olive Oyl from the clutches of Bluto all right.   But Popeye was never a hero you would emulate. In fact, you would run the other way if you ever saw him coming!

For who wanted to slurp some ugly green stuff from a raggedly-opened can?  Who wanted biceps that suddenly pumped up to something roughly the size of the Holland tunnel?  Who wanted to have anything to do with Olive Oyl anyway???

It was clear.  Popeye was crude. . . tasteless. . .gauche. .  .passe. . .

Cheering for his successes was hard.

And consuming his spinach was worse.

So how, someone please tell me, did this disgusting leaf work it's way into my daily diet?  How is it that I'm adding it to soups?  Eating salads?   Frying spinach patties? (In olive oil, no less. . .)

Please tell me. . . How do I get in touch with the genius who reinvented Popeye?

'Cause if THAT body and THAT food can suddenly be in vogue. . . imagine what  the same reinventor can do for A Mom on Spin's derriere and her beloved macaroni and cheese?

Oh to hope,
perchance, to dream. . .

18 September 2012

The Elusivity of Dabbling


I like the sound of the word.

But I'm quite sure I like what it indicates better.

Now if you run and google dabble, Mr. Webster will tell you that it means - first and foremost - to paddle or splash about in water.   But that's not what I'm referring to here. . .  I'm talking about the dabble that refers to taking up a habit or activity.  For fun.   Simply because you like it.

Like it?

Therein lies the problem.

For I'm not quite sure that I actually like anything in the traditional dabbleable arena.

I'm a vegetarian with crazy food aversions so I will not, perchance, be dabbling in the culinary arts.  I'm a failure at yoga, so I won't be dabbling with any yogis.  (I dare say that my propensity for sitting on a couch would rule out dabbling in any physical activity. . .)  I have no artistic ability. . .no oratory skills. . . no singing voice or physical prowress.

What will my dabble be?

Now we all know that I take to wine like a duck to water, so perhaps I could dabble in that direction (although, in my case, it conjures up the THIRD definition of dabble which involves totally submerging one's head in liquid to get a specific item . .)

 I could try dabbling in writing. . . or poetry. . . or blogging. . . or reading. . .  but we already know that those are nothing short of OBSESSIONS with me.

Can I dabble in complaining? I think not.

Oh to be a dabbler in macaroni and cheese!  But that also conjures up that OTHER definition of dabbling. . . the submerging one. . .

If all else fails, I can attempt to be a dabblista in vocabularianisms!

In any event, I need to find my dabble before my next-of-kin writes my eulogy. . .

. . . and lets it spill that I dabble
in the insane. . .