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Foreclosed Without Purchase
It was the yapping that yanked me to consciousness. Bad doggie woke me. Curse the bad doggie. But what doggie? All previous yappers had met their fate as Main Ingredient in Jocelyn’s Yippy Puppy Stew (oft-requested at local potlucks). So what was this odd barking noise that was killing my snooze? New doggie. Across the
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Lord of the Borax
Ever since the execrable Laundry Elf Massacre of 2006, my lot has gotten much harder. Effing Dishwasher Dwarves and Vaccum Chimeras and their insatiable need for random beheadings and household domination. Their bloodlust has resulted in constant heaps of wrinkled fabric splayed across the carpet, awaiting my attention. Effing, effing, effing. The creatures are mythical,
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Dear ObaMcCain: Good Luck Targeting This
I’m sitting on the ground next to an elementary school, the backs of my legs tickled by grass. I’m watching a crew of five-year-olds play soccer. One of them is mine. He’s kicking a red ball and scratching at his scalp, leading me to think some adult in his life should see that he
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The Day of Your Life
Patriotism tires me; xenophobia makes my eyes cross. Doping is poop on a Triscuit. So I should be able to bypass them Olympiciacites that are being broadcast on the talking box, right? Not so much. Every night of late, the fam has been gathering on our full-sized bed in the master bedroom and watching the
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My Mom’s Visiting from California, and I’m Busy Chauffeuring Her and the Kids Around Town to Clang in the the Trolley, Toot in the Train, Bob in the Lake, Strike (Out) in the Bowling Alley, and Gnosh on Sweet Treats, So I Haven’t a Breaf in My Body Left for the Blogging I Really Want to Do–All of Which, In Sum, Means I’m Quickly Tossing Out a Poem I Love, One That Captures My Current August Zing
Indeed, this poem has a summertime feeling for me–bright and cornucopial and ticking along. I’d like to fancy myself the woman in this poem, but the truth is I’m more the lucky fool. THE RED PORSCHE By Charles Bukowski it feels good to be driven about in a red porsche by a woman better- read
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Feeling All Oogie Inside, with Nary an Assist from Mr. Daniels, Mr. Jack Daniels
It’s a little sobering to realize that my advancing age means I get as excited about flowers and gardens as I used to get about a Long Island Iced Tea. The bliss formerly proffered by a glass containing shots of tequila, rum, gin, triple sec, vodka, and a widdle splash of Cocoa-Cola is now matched,
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Self Actualization for the Kindergarten Set
Many of us, even those who have been tracking Amy Winehouse’s adventures at the crack pipe, might be unaware of a certain famous Creature of the Pit. However, if you are a 37-year-old white male, I wager you’re well aware of the beast called the rancor, he who spiced up RETURN
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Stop Being So Square, Big Daddy
I would have made a great 1950’s housewife–and not just because I can whip up a chrome-plated five-can casserole and smoke and drink like a fiend while pregnant. Witness this exchange between The Groomeo and me, transcribed from the dictaphone in our secretary Miss Walcott’s shorthand during the year 1958: Groom: My ear still hurts.
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More Importantly
The sad part, for me, when I look at this photo of two immensely lovely women exchanging rings and making a life-long and public commitment to each other, is the fact that you can’t see I was wearing some seriously kick-ass earrings.
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Rolling Down the Adventure to My Early Retirement
It’s official. Although I’ve been fighting off encroaching fine lines for several years now, and although I’ve been crochety for far longer than that, I’ve always maintained I’m still “young” (or, more recently, “young-ish”). But now, the sham has been revealed. Undeniably, I is old. I know this for sure because, just the other
