Thursday, February 13, 2014

Reposting a favorite...THE MURDER OF LOVE

Twas Valentine's Eve and I slumped in my chair,
No chocolates or roses, or man in my lair.
Cupid lay dead on the Persian rug in the hall
His bow to his side, an arrow stuck in my wall.

They'll think I did it, killed "Love" out of spite,
Single people everywhere will rally to fight.
The truth will stay hidden, I won't have my say,
They'll jump to conclusions and lock me away.
The pink cherub had it coming, arriving so late,
I waited all week for him to change my fate.
When he never showed, I surrendered my plight
All I wanted was a bath and to call it a night.

Surrounded in bubbles and candles aglow,
I resigned to my destiny at Cupid's no-show,
But when something downstairs made a thump and crash,
I jumped from the tub with nothing covering my ass.
I fumbled in darkness not wanting to be seen
For a gun, a bat, a weapon of means.

Soapy footprints marked my descent downstairs,
Without knowing I stood naked, in the crosshairs.
I screamed when the pain shot through my behind
And swung my bat fast, dazed out of my mind.

He squealed like a pig but my aim was too good,
His wings beat hard, but he still smacked the wood.
With arrow still dangling from one precious cheek,
I painfully scurried to save Love's little "geek."
No time for the lights when I saw my mistake,
But the comment he made determined his fate.

"Seriously, lady you should join a gym,
"I'm having a hard time finding just the right 'him'.
"They all want a model with boobs that don't hang,
"A washboard stomach and a long golden mane.
"You're funny and sweet, but slightly plump
"I had to use 'turbo' to penetrate your rump.

"Are you saying I'm fat, you insensitive pest?
"Which coming from you meets an ironic best.
"You're nothing but blubber, chubby and round,
"Those wings barely keep you off of the ground.

He raised his bow, a fiery red in his eye,
I'd pushed too far, hurt his pride.
But he flew in a circle, one wing badly bent,
I ducked out of the way when an arrow he sent.
It hit the light socket, shooting sparks in his hair,

Startled, the cherub flew into the stairs.
He bounced off the railing, hit the banister post,
Ending prone of the rug, smelling a lot like burnt toast.
With the arrow from my butt I gingerly poked,
But he didn't move, just laid there and smoked.
I called 911 to report the break-in and assault,
Quickly dressed and rehearsed why this wasn't my fault.

Red and blue clashed against my sage green walls,
And dozens of officers filled my entry hall.
One noticed the arrow now glowing red hot,
And the Fire Department arrived on the spot.
I recalled my terrifying brush with death,
Noting most of them snickered under their breath.

The "murder of Love" was declared self defense,
No charges were filed, because nothing made sense.
Cupid suddenly vanished leaving no trace,
No bow, no arrow, nothing left in his place.
We all swore an oath we weren't losing out minds,
And the officers left, but one stayed behind.

"I hope you don't mind my asking so late,
"But would you consider being my Valentine date?
Cupid's arrow did more than just inflict strife,
It brought "him" to my doorstep and into my life.
I rubbed my backside, while nodding my head,
I had a date for Valentines and proof "Love" wasn't dead.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Wacky Wednesday!

Surprise! I'm not dead. Now while that may come as a disappointment to some, hopefully I'll give you something fun for hump day (which conjures up visions of anything but camels).

I've considered myself somewhat of a fashion diva...on a low budget. I also have the illusion when I look in a mirror that I'm still a size 4.  Those who know me just peed themself. Bitches. I really was a size 4 when I married Forever Guy. Then I gave birth to twins, turned 50, hit menopause, and became a writer. I can't even push my arm through the leg of a size 4 pant now. But "magic mirror" lets me live the fantasy.

The fashion crave [or disaster] of 2013 has been leggings, or as my generation calls them "tights." Long tubes of opaque nylon material in various colors you wear under skirts and dresses (or ski pants - made great thermals back in the day) - not with a belly shirt.

The first "legging" sighting I experienced was at the mall in the early fall. A lady, older than moi, walked by sporting gray and black striped "tights" with a short, waist-rimming leather jacket and black ankle boots. I picked my jaw off the floor and thought about running after her to tell her she needed to cover up. Everything was visible from her panty line to the mole on her left derriere cheek, yet she strutted like a proud peacock. And no one reacted.

Here I'm thinking the poor old doll has wandered away from a nearby lockdown facility, her mind half gone along with her wardrobe. She waltzed into Dillards, the swankiest department store in my little town, conversing with the sales clerk at the jewelry counter and heading straightway to the expensive makeup counter. It was beneath the Lancome sign that I was introduced to the latest fashion statement. Three sales girls gushed over how chic "Dolly" looked and questioned where she found such darling "leggings." Leggings? As in acceptable leg coverings? Alone and not under something?

In unison, the three near-starved-to-death-dressed-to-kill clerks let their false, spidery lashes brush down their noses when they took in what I wore, glaring as if I was radioactive. Dress pants. What was I thinking?! I almost stripped down to my panty hose to feel more stylish (they were "tan") until I remembered they were reinforced with steel girders from the knee up. More like a vision of industrial strength bermuda shorts instead of a uniform thickness from top to bottom, fitting a "legging" appearance.

Now had my nylons been "sheer-to-the-waist" and I wore some silky "Secret" beneath instead of practical 100% cotton covered in tiny daisies and washed like a thousand times," I might have passed the judgment trio and maybe even given Dolly some stiff competition. Granted, I would have had to dump the prison-issued loafers and strapped some Jessica Simpson death traps on my swollen feet, not to mention "lift" a leather blazer and try to move gracefully with a two-ton metal detector ring dangling from the wrist, but there's a chance [like snow in Hell] that I could have pulled it off.

[No matter how much alcohol you pour in your eyes, you will never be able to erase the mental picture I've just seared into your brain.]

All the way home, and clear through the month of October until bravery allowed me to buy a pair, I swore I'd never be caught dead in public wearing something so vulgar. Then I tried a pair on.

Comfort - soft butter and angora type comfort. Black and white with a stark pattern to disguise the "lumps." They caressed my legs as I pulled [okay tugged] them upward, flipping the lycra over my backside like a large, tight elastic band, and settling them in an area on my torso where my waist used to exist. I turned this way and that in front of Magic Mirror, listening to the phantom"oohs and awes" whispering in my head. I didn't look half bad! [Or half good, but I didn't give a damn].

I slipped a black tunic that barely covered my cushiony backside curves, then topped it off with a long sweater that nearly hit mid thigh. I added bulky leg warmers over my boots, leaving only about six inches of my lycra-wrapped leg exposed. To distract from any exposed jiggling that might occur, I wrapped my neck in a sparkly scarf and sponged my lips ruby red. All "look here - not there" tactics. I'd transformed into a fashion diva -- a larger than lifesize version, but one nonetheless!

What surprised me more than the fact the leggings actually fit, was the new found sense of confidence I sported. I dared to break the rules and have some fun. And just like Dolly, I strutted the mall, the grocery store, restaurants, and even dared to wear them to work on casual Friday. I also bought a second pair and put them in my Christmas stocking.

Do I hope it's a fashion fad that will disappear in 2014? Oh hell yes. While they may be the latest and greatest, they look ridiculous on anyone older than six, regardless of body shape. But right now, I like looking fabulous at ridiculous. And I'll keep them until they're thread bare. The beggars really are comfortable and warm. After the craze wears off, they'll make great jammies!

How about you? What's the craziest fashion fad you've dared to wear?

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


I know….it's been forever since I've stopped by. "Life" is my only excuse…oh…and I released "Designer Genes – TheBoyfriend Cut!" Yep, being an author, promoting myself as an author, and keeping up with the day job VISA dictates I still maintain, let alone pay attention to Forever guy and the family, has pretty much sucked my blogging time. But I thought I'd take a moment and share my latest morning giggle.

School has started. The minivan assault begins about 8:20 a.m.—an endless parade through my neighborhood to the elementary school at the top of the hill. I have a thirty second window between the brigade and the succession of yellow school buses to get through the intersection.

I've also noted the latest in "mommy attire" required for drop off. Coordinated workout gear. The fashion runways in New York don't compare to what I see in the mornings. White minivan "A" pulls into the drop off circle. Perky Mom A bounces (yes bounces) out of the driver's side and makes a full sweep of the car, complete with manicured fingertips drawing a sexy trail around the back fenders until she reaches the side door. Today, she's dressed in a purple ensemble with lime green stripes accentuating her curves. A rim of lime green peeks out of her purple sneakers and trims her ankles. Her hair is pulled into a thick ponytail just below the coifed "bump" and she makes a point of "swishing" said ponytail as if she's a racehorse leaving the track with the winners wreath circling her neck.

Minivan "B" pulls in behind "A," leaving enough room for Perky Mom B to take her fashion walk, sporting a little hot pink and black number. Same ponytail, full make-up as well, and a 12-rep toe warm-up to show off her muscular calves while she unbuckles Junior from his safety harness.

Minivan "C" is next, Perky Mom C offering stiff competition in her royal blue and neon yellow ensemble. Unlike Perky Moms A and Bin their thigh-hugging long shorts, however, Perky Mom C has chosen shorts barely qualifying to earn the title, and a sports bra. Her long legs deftly carry her in smooth sashay, drawing the attention of any male within a half-mile radius. She has also wrapped her hair in a messy bun (which I have discovered takes more time to look messy than curling every strand of hair) to allow as much skin exposure as possible. She does a deep bend to unlatch the side door, releasing her primped and coifed offspring. A lipstick stain adorns the cheeks of her children, followed by finger waves all the way to front doors.

Moms A and B, embraced in a tight purple-hot pink huddle and engaged in judgmental conversation, suddenly realize they have not shown sufficient affection to the fruit of their loins, and summon them from the playground to suffer an embarrassing display of lipsmack while their friends giggle behind the chainlink fence.

The choreographed movements of the three fashion divas moving around the hoods of their "tribe transporters" is worthy applause as three doors shut in synchronized succession. I can't help but wonder of the three, which ones will actually head for the gym.

In order for me to take my little darlings to school, the weather had to be worthy a news report or they were seriously late due to my failure to have them ready and out the door on time. Many a morning I wrapped in a robe, slipped my feet into fuzzy slippers, and shepherded my herd into the family van. If my hair was swept into a clip or brushed at all, it was purely accidental.

When I got to the school, I slowed to a speed I felt my children could handle, already instructing the child nearest the door to have the "hatch open," and when the open side door aligned with the front door of the school, I yelled "jump!" The last one out of the van ran alongside until the door was closed again. This way, I figured I trained them to break track records in high school and earn a scholarship, or if they dropped out and became homeless, they'd have the skills necessary to hop a freight train.

I did manage to screech out "have a nice day" before leaving skid marks on the roadway in my retreat. I had exactly 7.5 hours to myself before they'd return and I wasn't going to waste a single minute.

So are you a Perky Mom or sought by Child Protective Services when it comes to school drop off? Do you dress for the other perky moms or, like me, figure if you're coordinated from the waist up that's all that matters?

Thanks for stopping by and if you pick up a copy of "Riley's Pond" or "Designer Genes," a review on Amazon or Barnes & Noble would be greatly appreciated! Happy Tuesday!