The Ladies Room is Anything But(t)


Humor from the loo.

Originally posted on The English Major: A Dramedy:

It was a Friday night and I needed to use the bathroom. We were at a minor league softball game, and the toilets were inside a trailer. That already spelled trouble. If someone is storing something inside a trailer, that person is basically saying “I give zero fucks about this.”

As soon as I stepped inside, I was slapped in the face with the stench of human excrement. I swear to god, the US Government could have bottled the smell in that trailer and used it at Guantanamo Bay. Of course, I didn’t really expect a public restroom inside a metal trailer, in a dirt lot, at a minor league softball game to have a pleasant smell. But this was over the top. What in god’s green earth caused such a horrid, gut wrenching smell?

Mount Poopsuvius.

Someone had taken all the toilet paper rolls from each stall and sculpted…

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Crazy Irony

It’s been crazier than usual around here. In the great State of Maine, where voter turnout was the highest in the nation, we rolled over Republican. I’ve been knitting up a storm just like Madame Defarge. Well, maybe not exactly like her. Knitting is a mindless occupation for me, it keeps pesky thoughts at bay.

The other night I had a dream where I told someone, quite earnestly, that my fingers were burning to write a story, when I woke up I couldn’t remember what it was about.

My husband continues to commit infractions. Yesterday, he roasted a 14lb turkey, mashed 5 great Jehovaless potatoes, cooked a mountain of green beans, pounds of sausage stuffing that wasn’t nearly as good as mine is (I could tell from looking because I ate none of it) and a freaking swimming pool full of the greasiest hybrid (part homemade-not the right way, of course- and part bottled) gravy you’ve ever seen. I hear you, out there, clucking,  thinking “Oh that poor, long-suffering man.” Whatever.

Yeah okay, so moving right along- This is November, Turkey Month. We only eat turkey on the designated holiday. We don’t spoil it for everyone by having it too soon. No, we do NOT. I told him not to count on me eating any turkey before its time. I told him I would not participate in dining on anything but the regulation turkey on the designated day. Do NOT sympathize with him. He is the enemy. Not only did I tell him once, I had to reiterate and tell him twice, because the first turkey he purchased was ruined during last week’s power outage. Really? You get a message from Gawd and you choose to defy the Great One by appropriating another turkey after the first one was destroyed in a natural DISASTER, really? That was not prudent. The whole house reeked of turkey. I closed the bedroom door and opened the windows. If I wanted my flannel sheets to smell like food I’d slumber in a cafeteria somewhere. I did dishes four times yesterday, by hand. He’ll be eating leftover turkey for a month, force fed or otherwise. I ate homemade guacamole with tortilla chips for dinner.

This morning with the fridge stuffed with leftovers, a deer runs out in front of the car, in front of my husband’s truck. Another message. My husband, who likes to pretend he still hunts, happened to have his hunting license and his gun with him and he put the deer out of its agony. I washed the floor at 4:30A before I trundled up here to work. Of course, he’d called me umpteen times to report the news as it was breaking. Deer, hit-shot, game warden, gutted, butcher, blah, blah, blah. As we’ve established, the floor was clean. Whodoyathink returns? That’s right, it’s himself. Whatdayathink he has with him? A drippy mess, all over the kitchen floor. Nothing would do but I should drop everything to help because that’s what I am, I’m HELPFUL. I get a stupid Ziploc out of the drawer and he looks at me with those big, baby-blues as he puts a bleeding heart in it. I just grinned, stupidly, because I see the irony and I get the message in that.

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Just a Bunch of Tomorrows – Part One


Richard Daybell always tells an amusing story.

Originally posted on Tis Pity He's a Writer:

I really don’t know why my mother took me to see Bessie and Cora.  Perhaps she was worried about the future, my future, and the future was Bessie and Cora’s forte.  These two sixty-something ladies shared a bungalow on the upper end of D Street, a bungalow from which they told fortunes, mostly to the young women whose husbands were off trying their best to wind down World War II.

Bessie and Cora were twins as well as fortunetellers.

Although they looked very much alike, they were not identical, which made life much easier for Wilhelm, Cora’s husband, who also shared the bungalow and whose eyesight and mental prowess had been waning since about 1939, so that it was difficult enough for him to identify his wife as it was.

Bessie and Cora each took a slightly different spin on divining the future:  Bessie was an avowed palmist; Cora dabbled…

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My oldest and dearest friend sent me this link to a piece on fall in McSweeney’s with the cryptic message “Some people don’t like fall.” I laughed, I hope you do too. WARNING- quite a few F-bombs in the piece.

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ReThink Pink

Thinking of my friends who’ve survived breast cancer and those who did not. All of them stronger than the pink exploitation. Huffington Post has a thoughtful piece on the mindless consumerism that surrounds a serious disease.

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Fall Yesterday




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Once. Tim reblogged and I pressed it. It’s hard to do but something I aspire to, someday. Well worth the read.

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