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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

Happy first Thursday of 2012, my pets!!!

Do you know that I love triple exclamation points??? more than triple question marks, which I don’t really care for at all!!!

Do you know I love that the word clam is in exclamation?

Do you know that I love this: http://i.imgur.com/CCNSs.gif

I am not sure, however, if I still love Thankful Thursday.

I need gratitude in my life undoubtedly, but I am not sure of the future of Thankful Thursday. I realize this is not some earth-shattering revelation, but it pertains to my blog. The info belongs here and to you, my readers.

In the last few weeks, I notice I’ve hit some sort of snag, if not an outright wall, in my writing, both in the fun and frivolous and in the more confessional, the type of writing I do for this blog. I’ve also been adrift with my poetry (insert frowny-face emoticon here).

I can’t seem to find anything funny to share. I can’t seem to find anything important, either. I don’t want to alienate you, my readers; I don’t want to try your patience; I don’t want to bore you; I don’t want to pour out my whining heart simply because I have an audience.

SPOILER ALERT: stop right here if you don’t love all things menstrual

I’ve been having something of a rough 3 months. Peri-menopause is not always kind, though I love finding new sources of power within.  I just went through an extended bout of bleeding in which, over the course of 64 days, I bled for 47. The days were not all in a row, but what I have been left with is the second most severe period of anemia in my life. The concurrent repercussions of peri-menopause in my personal relationships are also of a flooding nature–tidal and deep, but not always as rhythmic as the tides. It’s hard. It’s confusing. Going deep and in spirals, rudderless and full at the helm–all of these things. If you have a peri-menopausal woman in your life, be kind, take heed, bow down. Throw rose petals and break flower pots. Do whatever it takes. We are forces of nature. FORCES OF NATURE. Get it?

The 2 major bouts I’ve had with anemia have also SUCKED!!! Rather than making any rash decisions while I’m still building up my iron and my health, I will simply play it by ear with the blog. For now, the equation seems clear: lack of iron=lack of creative forces.

I have LOVE LOVE LOVED the last year of blogging. I don’t want to think that it’s over, but I also don’t want to lose you, my readers. If I take a hiatus, I am afraid you’d never know when to come back.

I do have some ideas and plans. I can mix it up a bit, make things simple. Post a photo. Pose a question, strike a pose. I’m thinking on it.

I’ll leave it at that for now.

Thankful for you

Toujours, twinkly

Aw, shucks!!! I can’t really leave you like this, can I my pets? I think this might cheer you up:

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Funny as hell. At least to me.

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My daughters are both back in school. Yesterday was monumental in that my 13-year old was in the annual Flower Ceremony at her school. The tradition at a Waldorf school is this: each 8th Grade student is assigned a 1st Grade student with whom they will spend time doing special things together throughout the year. On the first day of school, the 8th Grader (and at our school, a 12th Grader as well) gives a wildflower to her 1st Grader. At the end of the year, when the 8th Grade students graduate, the 1st grader then gives a rose (symbolic of a student progressing from wild to cultivated) to the 8th Grader and so on each September morn and each June afternoon for the first and last days of school respectively.

On the heels of last week’s Thankful Thursday, I took some photos of a few of the mushrooms that continue to emerge in my yard:

and

and

Aren’t those interesting?

This week, something else sort of special happened. “Best Penis” made a deposit into my spam inbox. I know we all get lots of spammy emails, but as you can imagine, this one had special appeal. Who doesn’t want a correspondence from [the?] Best Penis? Is it the best penis in the world or just in the USA? How can it write an email? All these questions…

In the same vein, one of the ways someone found last week’s Thankful Thursday was by searching for the following information:

can you trip from a phallus rubicundus?

I am sorry that someone out there did not get an answer to that question on my blog and I hope that person is sensible enough not to consume any unauthorized fungi in search of a great hallucinogenic experience.

All of this makes me think of the song, Wildflowers by Dolly Parton. Well, the toadstools and spam don’t make me think of it, but the flower ceremony does. I also predict that my pal pt dismal will be telling me all about Mama Maybelle Carter rockin’ the autoharp, too. Am I right pt?

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I know I’m posting these really late for the Poetry Jam, and that’s probably because I’m not very funny. Limericks are supposed to be funny, so here are my attempts. A really good limerick is harder than it looks (I’ve got the rhythm screwed up, for instance). A bad pun, on the other hand, not so hard.

Laugh Lines

An old mother lying in bed,
Thought “this laughing has gone to my head”
She looked in the mirror,
And saw something queerer:
Many crow’s feet on her face instead

A mom dreamed off into space
‘Til she saw all the lines on her face
“These crow’s feet can’t stay,
For plastic surgery I’ll pay
Or perhaps I’ll stop smiling apace”

September 7, 2011

For Poetry Jam: “something funny”

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It goes like this some days:

good luck/bad luck

I find good parking spaces, often; I have terrible luck with shopping carts, the wonky wheels

I kept passing the same man in the grocery store today, 5, maybe 6, times. A regular guy, maybe two or three years older than me, not too tall. For at least 20 minutes I saw him, passing me in this or that aisle. He never made eye contact with me. I tried to make eye contact with him. A little smile, an acknowledgement. I ended up looking at the ground and smiling to the floor after about 3 times. When he exited the store, I saw that he was empty-handed.

I went to a grocery store earlier in the day. A tall, dark-skinned African woman in a dress made of traditional African cloth (if I knew anything about Africa, maybe I could say what country the cloth was from) was walking in the beverage aisle (I came there to see if the Polar seltzer was on sale, but they never carry the black cherry) toward me. She walked slowly, but with a rhythm all her own, in her own world, and she wore large, Birkenstock-like slippers on her feet. They were incongruous. Maybe they were Crocs with furry linings?

Later, a few hours later, I saw the same woman behind a grocery cart outside another grocery store. I recognized her feet first, I must have been looking down. She never looked at me, neither time.

When I read blogs in which the words are written on a black background, I can’t read. I look away and all I see are lines lines lines. This is unfortunate, I think, and I wonder if other people have this problem. Sometimes I get ocular migraines and I think these blogs could trigger one, but come to think of it, none ever has.

Today was a shopping day, a catching-up-on-groceries-and-errands day. I went to FIVE different stores and to TWO different banks. I still haven’t gone to the post office to mail a package that I haven’t yet packed, sealed, or addressed.

On the road, on my way to the third grocery store, someone in a Suburu Outback wagon was following behind my car and although the driver was not actually allowing her car to tailgate mine, I had the sense that she was in a hurry or pissed off or needing something urgently. She passed me when she could and turned ahead of me, less than half-a-block ahead. I caught a glimpse of her silvery short hair and proper, politically-correct bumper sticker.

In the third grocery store, I passed 2 women talking and I recognized the woman with short silver hair as the driver of the almost-tailgating-me Suburu. She had all of the signs of someone who lives in the Pioneer Valley, just like I do. Right then and there, I decided she was full of shit and I wanted to ask her why she drove like an asshole.

In the Whole Foods Market in Hadley, Massachusetts, one enters directly into the produce department. When I walked into the store (my FIFTH and final store of the day), I heard a high-pitched screaming. A mother shopping with her 2 children, the youngest still in the realm of baby-hood (13 months, maybe?), was pushing the screecher in a cart, her other child walking beside. The sound of the screeching was jarring to my system and painful to my ears. I asked the cute produce man putting up local green peppers, of which I needed at least two, “how long have you had to listen to that?” at which he answered that he was glad his wife had a boy because “they don’t scream like that.” Now that I’m not sure about. I just thought the mother was a particularly indulgent mother who was raising a child who could have been told not to scream. I heard the mother try this once, maybe twice, all the while while the baby screamed and screamed, laughing and giggling and making cutesy faces after every scream. The baby screamed and screeched the entire half-hour that I was in the store. The employees, you can tell, are not allowed to say anything negative in conversation about anything like an obnoxious screaming baby. So everyone, shoppers and workers, just nodded our heads uncomfortably. Sometimes a shopper would hear the screeching baby for the first time, as the little family approached. I could tell it was the first time by the way the shopper would jolt and startle and jump a little in his shoes. I think I jumped a little almost every time until I got far enough away that I sort of forgot about it until now.

I look at the women a lot. The women shopping, in the parking lots, in their cars, in their yoga pants and sports tops. In their good flip flops. With bouncy long hair, with beautiful silver hair. Thinner than me. More fit than me. This one’s got runner’s legs, that one has cork heels too high for safety with her small daughter walking next to her. What if she has to run after her in the parking lot? I don’t notice the men as much and there aren’t as many of them anyway. I have good flip-flops, too, but not flip-flops with bling. When did flip-flops get to have supportive soles?

I love the women at my bank. One has smoked for too long, I can hear it in her voice. She wears a crucifix around her neck. She is beautiful and kind, a little older than me. She has a pretty face and I love her.

I never remember names any more. The cashier I always talk to at WF has 2 daughters, one a new baby, and I ask and ask and I can’t remember. I know where she lives, I see her walking her baby in a stroller on the sidewalk, I know that her grandfather is from Italy, Sicily to be exact, I know the grade her oldest daughter is going into, but I can’t remember the names. What happened to my memory?

It is almost one o’clock and I thought it was only almost midnight.

I went to sing Sacred Harp tonight, as I do almost every Tuesday night at Helen Hills Hills Chapel on the Smith College campus in Northampton, Mass, and my oldest daughter went with me. She looked really pretty tonight and was very happy, but I still got ticked off at her in the car on the way home.

I went to yoga before singing and it was GREAT and I thought that sometimes good yoga is like good sex and I know I’m not the first to say or think or write this, so why bother?

When I used to do a lot of massage, this was a regular thing, someone or another would say that a great massage was as good as great sex. My clients never said this to me, just friends or acquaintances.

When I come across a new blog and I see that the posts are all long or I see a long post, I don’t read usually. So I try not to have blog posts that are too long. But I am full of words, swimming in my head when I am in the car too much or in a certain manic state and now look where it’s got me. And this is AFTER yoga! But also after singing, which can wind me up sometimes.

At a local, annual food-tasting the other day, a guy giving out samples told me I had blueberry eyes and he asked me if I do have blueberry eyes: do you have blueberry eyes? I said I don’t really like blueberries, but I wish I did. That was a new one: blueberry eyes. I’ll take it.

What about the words lush and razz-ma-tazz and linger? Can you guess who I was listening to in the car? Here’s another hint: dame.

Well, I’m tired and wired, so you know that means it’s time for my crossword. If you got this far, you may a. be married to me or b. a really good friend or c. brave and patient, more than I probably am or d. the recipient of my gratitude. I love my readers.

I even have something in common with Ol’ Blue Eyes. Whaddaya know?

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Today is in between my birthday and my brother’s birthday. So that’s something.

I’m excited about tomorrow being my bday, but my 15 yo is away, overnight, for another week-and-a-half and I don’t like that part of tomorrow being my bday.

I watched “Nova” last night with my younger daughter. The show was about cuttlefish. Daughter was very happy and that made me happy. She’s still gushing about cuttlefish, especially the flamboyant cuttlefish. That name rivals resplendent quetzal for cool names in the animal world, don’t you think? And the Linnaean name is also cool: metasepia pfefferi. Is it peppery or did someone named Pfeffer discover it? No matter; those cuttlefish are amazing on many levels, mostly because their skin can change color via 2 layers of specialized chromatophores…yes it’s true. AND, if that’s not enough reason to love the cuttlefish, there’s this Tom Waits lyric from the excellent song Lucinda: “skin as white as a cuttlefish bone.”

I did get a haircut today and I loved that.

I did buy myself a present, too:

Naturally, the photo doesn’t do the necklace justice. It was made by Rebecca Rose. Her work is exquisite and simple and not too hard on the wallet.

(Now to clarify–I’ve been in the dumps fighting a cough for 2 [fucking] weeks [goddamn it]. I thought is was getting better (Sunday and Monday), but it’s gotten worse again for a few days. It’s unfortunately hard to keep happy and positive when I’m feeling so cruddy. I’m hot, I’m coughing, my scalene and serratus mm are sore. I’m tired of doubling over and of taking icky sticky cough syrup and of sucking on lozenges (that attract ants if they fall on the floor; the wrappers, too). I’m sleeping for shit. I hate whining, but I’m whining. I think I need antibiotics. Why didn’t I get them sooner? I have never had a cough like this that lingered so long. It has not been severe, just lasting.)

Thankful that I have a dr’s appt this afternoon.

Whew. Back from the doctor and I have a Z-Pac in hand.

Oh, hell. You know that Tom Waits’ song? It’s so dang good, I was gonna post a video right here. But he can’t sing any more in the live versions (Hubby says he doesn’t need to be able to sing which I suppose is true) and you can find the studio version yourself. I love that song goddammit!

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Happy 4th of July, my American brethren and sistren! I thought it would be unpatriotic if I posted a sexy song or the Habenera from Carmen or Beethoven’s 7th, 2nd movement. Not only that, it would be fucking pretentious. So I found this piece of fluffy nostalgia:

Will this song be around in 50 more years? 100? Time will tell, time will tell. Maybe I underestimate; lookie here: In 2010, Billboard named the song the 20th sexiest of all time (source: youtube). It does say “the thought of rubbin’ you is getting so exciting” after all. But with that tempo and those haircuts and harmonies, sex is not the first thing I think of when I hear it. It’s not even the second thing I think of….While I’m all for sex in the afternoon, sex to the sounds of this song? More like BBQ, deviled eggs, potato salad, and badminton. In other words, perfect for the 4th of July.

I did find this, which really is a 4th of July song. I like it pretty well, it’s short, and this guy is funny:

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