βGee, the house sure is quiet. I wonder where everybodyβs gone. Bobbyβs been a little distant lately and that makes me sad. I mean, weβve been best buds ever since he was a little guy. We did everything together and he wouldnβt go anywhere without me. And he gave the best hugs at night. Shh! Here he comes now! Bobby! I just knew you wouldnβt leave without me. What’re we doing today?β
βIβm watching TV with Becky …. alone.β
βGosh, Bobby. You’re my bestie. Whoβs this Becky chick?”
An old man lived alone in the country. He wanted to dig up his garden and plant vegetables, but the ground was too hard. He sat down and wrote a letter to his son, who was in the state penitentiary.
Dear Fred,
It looks like I wonβt be able to plant my garden this year. Iβm too old to be digging up a garden plot. If only you were here, I know youβd dig the plot for me and all my troubles would be over.
Love, Dad
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Dad,
Whatever you do, donβt dig up that garden β thatβs where I buried the bodies!
Love, Fred
Early the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left.
The following day the old man received another letter from his son.
Dear Dad,
Go ahead and plant your garden now. That was the best I could do under the circumstances.
And this is what it looks like now after a few weeks of water and sun; I just repotted into a larger pot; now I’m going to stand back and watch what happens. I’ve been thinking I should name it Audrey III!
It looks a bit prehistoric, doesn’t it? All that new reddish growth will unfurl into giant-sized leaves; if you look closely you can see some are already beginning to unfurl. This is one of the largest plants I have. Stay tuned for Audrey III’s growth over the next few weeks.
βMohammedan-owned Chinese/Tai/Himalayan/Middle Eastern/Indian Restaurant” β well, you certainly donβt see too many of those in Lancaster, Pennsylvania but there it is right in the heart of the downtown dining district. This meeting of culinary minds is definitely intriguing and what an original and humorous name β βTasty Ballsβ.
That caught my eye and gave me a good laugh as I read about the new exotic fusion restaurant in the newspaper. I wondered if my wife Judith intentionally left the paper on the kitchen table conveniently opened to the dining section for me to see. Judith has many fine attributes; subtlety is not one of them.
We met soon after I graduated college. I took a year off to backpack my way through Asia and the Middle East. Money was tight so I had to be frugal while traveling; thatβs how I learned to find really good food at cheap prices.
One day while trekking through Shanghai, I stopped at a noodle and dumpling place. I was drawn to the sound of feminine laughter coming from the next table. There were two pretty blondes who looked to be around my age; I asked if I could join them and they agreed. Judith and Eunice were cousins from England on holiday. I hit it off quite well with Judith and we agreed to meet the next night for dinner. After that night we knew we wanted to be together and the rest, as they say, is history.
As I continued reading the article, I learned this new restaurant was operated by the same people who managed a nearby tea house called βThe Barefoot Magpieβ β another place Iβd never heard of. How can this be? Iβve lived in Lancaster all my life and thought I knew every place there was to eat. Obviously I havenβt been getting out enough lately.
Whatβs this? βTasty Ballsβ serves only one item: dumplings. What made it so special was the staggering number of varieties of dumplings on the menu. Now I knew without a doubt that Judith left this article here for me to stumble upon; she knows I am the worldβs biggest sucker for dumplings!
Well now, letβs see what else the article says: βExtravagantly yet handsomely decorated β¦ moderately priced β¦ perfectly prepared dumplings β¦ culinary delight.β My stomach rumbled and my mouth watered as I read a description of just a tiny sampling of dumplings offered at βTasty Ballsβ:
Xiaolongbao β A Taiwanese delicacy, this steamed dumpling has meat and broth inside. The small, succulent orb is meant to be eaten whole; one bite and the fortunate dinerβs mouth is filled with liquid ambrosia.
Momos β A staple from Tibet and Nepal, these delectable pouches are filled with yak, beef or chicken and have become an obsession with the patrons at βTasty Ballsβ.
Shish Barak β Middle Eastern ravioli-like envelopes filled with seasoned lamb, onion and pine nuts, these piquant squares are boiled, baked or fried and served in a warm yogurt sauce with melted mint butter and a garnish of chopped cashew nuts.
Muthia β This Indian delight consists of chickpea flour, turmeric, chili powder, curry powder and salt bonded together with oil. Once shaped, these fritters can either be fried or steamed, depending on personal preference.
Luqaimat β Originally from Saudi Arabia, this luscious dessert translates into βsmall bitesβ. Found in many Middle Eastern countries, this is a treat of fried dough sweetened with date syrup and garnished with sesame seeds. With a scoop of pistachio ice cream, this is a delightful end to an unforgettable meal.
I suddenly realized the newspaper was wet; either I was salivating over the scrumptious description of dumplings or I was crying tears of joy that this heaven-sent restaurant was now located in little old Lancaster. Oh, what joy, what rapture!
Judith came into the kitchen, took one look at my face and asked βWhat in the world has come over you?β
Holding up the soggy newspaper I exclaimed βThis β as if you didnβt know, you little minx! Tempting me with an article about delectable dumplings. Well, it worked. Itβs βTasty Ballsβ tonight!β
βOh, I donβt think so, luvβ Judith laughed. βThatβs Euniceβs. She must have left it behind when she returned to the UK after her visit. That paper is from Lancaster, England!
A rare alternate album cover of Heep’s “Demons and Wizards”
It was the early 1970s and the four of us scored tickets to see Uriah Heep in Allentown, PA. It was the dog days of August β¦ the kind of sun that blisters your skin in minutes β¦ and the concert was outdoors. The drive was 3 hours each way in scorching temperatures but we were going to that concert come hell or high water. Allentown became our Mecca and the road trip our personal hard rock pilgrimage. The details of that day are a little sketchy but the concert was freakinβ awesome.
In the middle of a field there stands a great big tree and at the base of the tree’s very broad trunk is a miniature door with a little knob. Beyond that miniature door is the most dizzying of spiral staircases intricately woven together with twigs and seeds, licked-clean popsicle sticks and discarded toothpicks. Each landing of the staircase leads to a cluster of tiny rooms .β¦ storage rooms, dining rooms, play rooms, sun rooms and hibernating rooms. Inside those tiny rooms are the giddiest chipmunks busy storing, dining, playing, sunning and, when the wintry snowflakes bluster about, snugly hibernating. πΏοΈ
Melissa at dVerse poets has asked us to write a poem for the prompt “If You Don’t Like Cats, I’m Sorry”, based on one of Louis Wain’s drawings. I have written a Dectina Refrain for βCatβs Nightmareβ. Oh, but thereβs a catch: we canβt use the word “cat” in our poems!
A Dectina Refrain is written as follows: 1st line is 1 syllable, 2nd line is 2 syllables, 3rd line is 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone sentence.
“Cat’s Nightmare” by Louis Wain
WHO do you think you are, trying to hide from the likes of us? We have our eyes on you watching every move you make; foolish kitties, thereβs no escape. A tasty whisker pie we will bake! Who do you think you are, trying to hide?
It was Friday night and my paycheck was burning a hole in my pocket. As it turns out, my on again/off again boyfriend, Jagger, was off again so I was free as the proverbial bird. Just as well; I was getting tired of the slouch anyway. But it was New Yearβs Eve 1946 and I didnβt want to be alone.
Anxious to hit the tables and ring in the new year, I got myself all dolled up in an outfit that was quite possibly illegal in 33 states β a lowcut slinky little black number with a high side slit, silk stockings with lacy garters and red satin stilettos. Maybe Iβd run into a high roller ready, willing and monetarily able to treat me to a bourbon, a thick juicy steak and a slice of pie a la mode.
I grabbed a taxi to the casino, the driver giving me the once-over in the rearview. I wasnβt interested in any two-bit palooka so I played it cool. Averting my eyes, I glanced out the window, snuggled deeper into my fur coat and lit a Chesterfield. The smoke encircled my head and my bright red lipstick left a perfect kiss around the filter.Β
When we arrived, I tossed a fiver at the cabbie and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The staccato of my heels alerted the man in black .β¦ Special Agent Sam Bishop.
βEvening, Candace. Youβre looking angelic, if you donβt mind my saying. I donβt suppose youβve heard from Jagger.β
Our gracious host Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers is encouraging us to get creative in 100 words or less using this photo as our inspiration. This is my story.
In the 7th grade, ballroom dance class was a rite of passage β a Friday night event that lasted six months, culminating in a semiformal dinner-dance. The boys wore ties and jackets, the girls in party dresses and white gloves. It was not mandatory but if you didnβt sign up, you were snubbed. It was the highlight of the year β¦. not for the 12-year-old students but rather for their moms.
My son balked but signed up.
βYouβll never regret knowing how to danceβ, I told him.
Since then, Iβve seen him dance on two occasions β his wedding and his brotherβs.
When my sister Rosemarie had her 16th birthday, our parents decided it was the perfect time for our first family vacation in Italy. Plans were made for the summer β¦. three weeks traveling around Italy and another three weeks visiting family in Sicily.
One of our stops was Florence where we stayed in a breathtaking guesthouse called Pensione Mona Lisa. Our accommodations were similar to an apartment but without a kitchen; all meals were served in the communal dining room. Our parents took the master bedroom on the first floor while Rosemarie and I shared a loft bedroom which also had its own bathroom.
All the rooms were exquisitely decorated with beautiful furnishings and expensive rugs. In our bathroom there was a claw-foot tub, separate shower, a pedestal sink and an enclosed area with the toilet. Next to the toilet was an odd-looking fixture neither of us had ever seen before. It was the same size as the toilet but with extra faucets and handles and a strange sprinkler contraption in the center of the bowl. When we turned the faucets on, water shot out straight from theΒ sprinkler; we immediately turned off the water, then sat there trying to figure out just what the hell the damn thing was.Β
After considerable thought, we came to the conclusion it was for foot-washing. Happily kicking off our sandals, we turned on the water and bathed our hot, tired feet. We dried off with the small paper guest towels in the bathroom and tossed them into the bowl, then pulled one of the levers expecting the towels to flush away. Well, they didnβt. In fact the βfootwasherβ very quickly filled with water and overflowed as Rosemarie and I tried desperately to stop it.
Before we knew it, the bathroom floor was covered with water which leaked out into the bedroom, soaking the rug. We watched helplessly as the water trickled down the stairs into the main living section, drenching the gorgeous rugs. Our mother saw what was happening and rang the front desk for help but it was pretty much a lost cause.
The pensione staff arrived and started yelling and screaming at us in Italian as other guests hurried over to see what all the commotion was about. The rugs were ruined and we were responsible for the damages. The rooms became uninhabitable and when we inquired about other lodgings, the pensione manager told us they were all booked and we had to find another place to say for the remainder of our time in Florence. After paying off the front desk clerk, he begrudgingly made a few calls for us; we were told there was a small hotel in Pisa that could accommodate us.
Despite all the angry hotel personnel, the name-calling, the expense for damages, the inconvenience of relocating and our parents general frustration, nothing could have prepared them for the embarrassment and mortification they felt explaining to their sixteen year old daughter and her tween sister the purpose of a bidet.
Battery Park. The glittering lights of tall ships parading up the Hudson River. New York at its brightest. The Big Apple β excitement and energy down to its core.
So how the hell did I end up in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, hopelessly in love with my Amish husband Abel, married for four years with three kids and twins on the way?
Good old revenge. I wouldnβt play ball with my boss so instead of being assigned to photograph the tall ships in New York Harbor, I was banished for a month to cover the βPlain Peopleβsβ Summer County Fair.
What I thought was going to be a nightmare was a delicious surprise. When the handsome, lusty Abel Jansen and I locked eyes, it was βGoed gevoel”β a βgood feelingβ from head to toe and all parts in between.
Being accepted into the Amish community, let alone marrying, is difficult but we had a few things going for us. I was a city girl, not afraid of getting my hands dirty. We were mature. Most Amish were married before age 20; Abel and I were both 26.
But the clincher was the serendipity attached to my name …. Menno Jakob.
The most revered men among the Amish were Menno Simons and Jakob Ammann. The elders were convinced I was descended from them when I was actually an Italian Jew from Canarsie! Who was I to argue?
Abel was my tall ship and I was his splash of Manhattan sparkle. Nothing else mattered.
Our gracious host Jenne at The Unicorn Challenge has offered up this photo prompt hoping to inspire us to creatively write something in 250 words or less. This is my 250-word response to the photo prompt.
The year was 1987. Bill and I were celebrating our 15th wedding anniversary by going on a cruise to the Bahamas with our sons, aged 10 and 8.
On the third day we made plans to disembark at our next port of call β¦. St. Thomas β¦. and asked one of the stewards to recommend a nice beach. He gave us a name, saying it was not a touristy place and if we were lucky, weβd see some iguanas. Having had a pet iguana before, the boys were excited.
We ate breakfast in an outdoor cafe with thatched umbrellas before heading to the beach, bringing with us some leftover croissants and muffins too delicious to leave behind. The steward was right; the beach was deserted. It was pristine with the clearest, bluest water weβd ever seen. After a couple of hours, there was still no sign of iguanas anywhere and our boys were sorely disappointed. We searched a large rock outcropping, knowing the little lizards like hiding in crevices, but none were there.
Rounding the rocks to check out what was on the other side, we stopped dead in our tracks. It was like a land before time with iguanas the size of small dinosaurs sunning themselves on the beach. They were magnificent and, aside from their enormous whip-like tails, appeared harmless.
Cautious yet unafraid, we slowly approached as the herbivores watched from heavy-lidded eyes. To our sons’ utter delight and amazement, iguanas enjoy being fed leftover muffins and croissants!
Our lovely host, Rochelle, at Friday Fictioneers has offered up this photo prompt to inspire us to write creatively using 100 words or less. This is my 100-word story from days in Montauk.
βSurf rods are the heaviest and longest rods you can get. They’re designed to cast very far distances and pull in heavier fish from breaking waves. Depending on which bait you’re using β worms, squid, bunker β youβll need to choose the right rig.β
Bill quietly explained to our pre-school boys, blissfully ignoring the fact that the rods were four times taller than them.
βThis is a science, boys. You have to be patient and psyche out the fish.β The kiddos were gleefully lost in their mini boxes of Frosted Flakes.
Bill was content; this was cherished father/son time. Pivotal first steps.
In response to a prompt from Carrot Ranch, write a 99 word story (no more, no less) about an awkward situation.
When I was newly married, my husband and I lived in an apartment building. It was a nice place, quiet, and we only saw the people who lived on our floor.
Iβd run into Meg by the elevator every so often; she was extremely pregnant.
This one particular day I saw Meg and realized it had been a while since our last elevator meeting. Noticing her protruding belly, I said βYou must be getting close now, eh?β
She stared at me and bluntly responded βI had the baby three weeks ago.β
Eyes darting, mumbling βCongratulationsβ, I fled the scene!
Clark at Wakefield Doctrine is asking us to join bloggers from all over the world as we come together to share those things that we are thankful for. He has asked for ten; Iβm sure I have many more than that.
First place on my list is my husband Bill who does everything from changing tires to changing diapers. He has always been a hands-on partner, happily helping me in more ways than I can count.
I am grateful for our sons, their wives and their children, all of whom seem to have turned out to be perfectly normal, happy and well-adjusted.
Iβm thankful for the four seasons and, as much as I dislike snow, we have a top-notch snow removal system in our town.
Being a good cook able to prepare a variety of meals; take out is a rare treat.
We have great neighbors who also happen to be dear friends. We’ve shared happy times and have waited anxiously together in the emergency room. We are here for each other.
Good movies and baseball games to watch from my recliner while eating the aforementioned HΓ€agen-Dazs.
Music and the ability to create it, listen to it, feel it in my soul and blog about it.
I am eternally grateful for accepting the challenge to write a 250-word story back in 2017. If not for that, I would not be sharing my stories with you today, meeting people and making friends along the way.
And finally, Iβm thankful for the longer periods of daylight that come with Spring and even though it means losing an hour of sleep, itβs ok …. today is a free day with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Changing the clocks is silly; I vote we stick to DST all year long.
Thanks to Clark for giving me the chance to write about ten things for which I am grateful.
Take care, stay well, be safe always and give thanks!
PS: I am supremely thankful for George Harrison, an extremely talented musician as well as a funny, introspective, thoughtful, spiritual and quietly accepting man.
Are you ready to cast off the winter doldrums and rejoin the land of the living? I know I am! Although daylight has been lasting a bit longer each day, the change is imperceptible. However, on Sunday here in The States we will turn our clocks ahead one hour as Daylight Saving Time begins. Spring ahead, fall back. Losing that one precious hour of sleep will be worth it just to close the door on Old Man Winter.
It seems the older I get the less I like cold weather. Iβve never been a fan of winter, not even as a child. While all the other kids were sledding and skating, Iβd be watching them from my window under a cozy blanket drinking hot cocoa. Not much has changed! Iβm a βbeach bumβ, not a βsnow bunnyβ and much prefer walking into the surf than trudging through the drifts.
Winter is when everything turns grey and fades away. The birds fly south and the trees go bare. The deserted playground swings get tossed about in the cold wind and wisps of smoke spiral out from chimney tops as families enjoy the warmth of their fireplaces.
It takes forever for people to get dressed to go outside β donning boots, parkas, scarves, hats and gloves β then they make a mad dash from the house to the car and another dash when they arrive at their destination, hoping they donβt suffer a βmad dash ass smashβ in their icy haste. Believe me β the βslip-sliding awayβ happens and it ainβt pretty! How about the hundreds of people waiting for public transportation? Fur-lined hoods pulled up over their heads, faces red and chafed, lips cracked and sore, noses dripping and eyes tearing from the wind. Talk about βyour huddled masses yearning to breathe freeβ!
In less than two weeks spring will arrive. Boots will be replaced with sandals, snowsuits with bathing suits, winter skis with water skis, hot chocolate with lemonade, sleds with bicycles, snowballs with baseballs and winter mittens with gardening gloves.
March winds bring April showers and April showers bring May flowers. Is there anything lovelier than a sunny day in spring? The birds have returned and are chirping their little hearts out. The resilient crocuses and daffodils have popped up through the defrosting earth and tiny buds are forming on the trees. Now is the time for planting seeds and saplings that were started months ago inside warm houses. The sky is clear, the sun is shining and thereβs just a hint of a breeze. Couples walk hand-in-hand through the park and the playgrounds have come back to life. Children pitch tents in their backyards and dads grill the first hot dogs of the season.
Iβve often said I donβt like February; itβs the shortest month but to me it feels like the longest and the loneliest. Now March is here and it came in more like a lamb than a lion with temps in the 40s and only a slight breeze.
Youβll get no complaining from me β not yet, anyway. But itβs still early; why, itβs not even April. Just wait for the blazing summer sun, the mad dashes to our cars to blast the AC, the scalding hot sand at the beach, the highways jammed with people escaping the city for a week at the shore, the lines at the ice cream stands, the agony of a blistering sunburn and the howling dog days of August.
When will autumn get here? Thereβs just no pleasing some people!
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is once again challenging us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “ace”. This is my story.
The other night as I was getting undressed and ready for bed, I pulled off my sock and saw something on the sole that looked like a bit of fuzz or a piece of string but upon closer inspection I realized it was something imprinted on the bottom of the sock itself; since I can’t see a thing without my glasses, I thought it was the letter A for the company name which is Ace USA but I soon found out it was the letter L, obviously for LEFT.
βWhat are the odds!β I declared to myself, rather tickled by the fact that I put the LEFT sock on my left foot without even checking the bottom of the sock, but when I took off the other sock, fully expecting to see the letter R indicating the RIGHT sock, I was confounded when I saw another L!
βJust my luckβ I again proclaimed to myself, somewhat annoyed that I would be the one to get a defective pair of socks, with two LEFT socks and no RIGHT sock!
I promised myself that in the morning I would call Ace USA and encourage them to correct their oversight by sending me two RIGHT socks, one as a mate for one of the LEFT socks and the other as a mate for the other LEFT sock, leaving me with two perfectly functioning pairs of socks.Β
The next morning I called Ace USA, explained my problem to Eleanor in customer services and requested two RIGHT socks to match my two LEFT socks; well, Iβm sure you can imagine what a good laugh I had when Eleanor sweetly explained that the L on the bottom of my socks did not stand for LEFT but rather for LARGE.
Now I find myself rethinking that box in the front closet full of defective mittens.
When I die, Iβm going to donate my body to science. Donβt mistake me, Iβm not being altruistic. Iβm being realistic. Maybe one of those brilliant doctors or scientists can finally figure out what the fuck was wrong with me; I sure as hell havenβt had any luck so far. This long sought-after info wonβt be worth a pile of beans to me cos Iβll be dead β¦. just saying.
There are 168 hours in one week. Just for fun, letβs divide that in half to represent day and night β awake hours vs asleep hours (not very accurate, I know, but you get the picture). Half of 168 is 84. Of those 84 hours, I experience a tingling sensation for about 70 hours per week, maybe more. And it’s not the good kind of tingling. You know what I mean, wink wink.
When the tingling first started, perhaps two years ago, it was fleeting β much like the feeling you get when your foot is about to fall asleep. It was located in the left side of my lower back and traveled down the back of my left thigh to my knee. It was annoying but not horrible. Over time, the tingling spread down to my toes; now it has also begun to travel up into my back, shoulder and neck β¦. all on the left side. And it is insatiable …. kinda like that feeling I get when I see Colin Farrell. There are few and far between times when Iβll notice the tingling is gone; itβs sheer bliss and feels absolutely magnificent to be at rest. Then it comes back just a couple of hours later. Itβs back right now but this time in both legs! Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
I really enjoy walking but havenβt been getting out as much as Iβd like. Walking saved me the last time I had a major flare up. Everything just sort of healed itself. I got my strength and stamina back and I was feeling the best I’d felt in quite a while. I need to get back into walking. I know it sounds like a lame excuse but I really don’t enjoy walking when it’s freezing outside and there are no malls nearby to walk in.
Today was like Spring so I went for a short walk; I took it easy and was out for only about 15 minutes. I do not subscribe to the ”no pain, no gain’‘ school of thought; 15 minutes today was quite enough, thank you. After walking, I relaxed in my recliner for a while with an ice pack, just to be on the safe side. I love my recliner. Itβs where I make pit stops during the day, when I need a break from housecleaning, cooking, babysitting. Iβll put my feet up and ice my back and neck and it helps.
Lately my head has developed a tendency to tilt to the left; it happens when Iβm watching TV or sleeping or checking out the new house being built across the way or sitting at my Mac, as I am right now. When I get really tired or Iβve pushed myself too far, my lower back will start screaming while my left side becomes an angry buzz of tingles. My head will tilt dramatically to the left and I imagine I must look like Marty Feldman, the actor who played Igor in Mel Brooksβ βYoung Frankensteinβ. (If youβve seen the movie, you’ll know thatβs Eyegor and FrΓ€nkenstΔΔn). I adore Mel Brooks, the last of the real comedic geniuses. At least I have managed to keep my sense of humor through all this physical bullshit.
Now Iβm noticing a lovely new development: it’s all but impossible for me to tilt my head to the right! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? Itβs either sitting perfectly straight on my shoulders (which is good!) or tilting to the left. Thereβs a tendon, I think, that is stretched to the max like a big fat fully extended rubber band and itβs tight as a drum. Iβm pretty damn sure thatβs whatβs keeping me from tilting my head to the right. I saw my orthopedist the other day; she felt around my shoulders and said βJeez, youβre really tight!β Ya think!?!
Iβve had multiple trigger point injections, nerve blocks, epidurals and cortisone shots, all resulting in extremely short term relief. X-Rays, scans and MRIs show a lot of arthritis, spinal stenosis and some funkiness going on with my discs but nothing βremarkableβ. How can that be? Ain’t that a freakinβ kick in the head!? Hey! Maybe thatβll set everything straight β¦. a good kick in the head!
So, hereβs the plan: next week Iβm going to have another bilateral shot in my lower back in the hope it will βalleviate my discomfortβ. If it doesnβt, Iβll have another series of MRIs to see if anything has changed over the 12 months since my last set of MRIs. It will be fantastic if the shot helps but Iβm not betting the house on it. One thing is certain: after this upcoming shot, Iβm done with injections. Iβve had it so wish me luck! Well, you might be interested in knowing that besides the arthritis/stenosis, there’s not another single thing wrong with me. I’m in perfect health, totally aware of what’s happening to this “vessel” in which I exist. Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
My mister is one of the funniest people I know and we make each other laugh. It’s not always easy keeping a good sense of humor but it helps me get through everything. And to be perfectly honest …. Iβm getting really tired of walking around like Igor!
From Mel Brooksβ βYoung Frankensteinβ, the first meeting of Igor and Dr. Frankenstein:
This is Dean Martin with “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head”
Lovely Jenne from The Unicorn Challenge is teasing us once again with this photo. We are to get creative in 250 words or less. In exactly 250 words, this is my response.
βCoroner? What do we need the coroner for?β asked Police Sergeant Jeffries. βItβs obvious this poor slob jumped off the roof. Just look at him!β
βNot so fast, Jeffriesβ snapped Police Captain Russo. βTake a close look at his hand.β
Knowing his boss was expecting him to man up, Jeffries crouched down near the splattered corpse. God, he hated jumpers.
βYou know what I think, Cap? This guy was some sort of perv into the kinky stuff. That bottle in his hand is from Club Kashmir, the notorious sex den.β Jeffries looked up at his superior hoping to have made a good impression.
βJeffries, sometimes I wonder how you ever made it onto the forceβ sneered Russo. βIf you hope to be Lieutenant someday, you better prove you have what it takes. Pervert, my ass!β
Humiliated, Jeffries was beginning to think he wasnβt cut out for this line of work β always tripping over himself to impress the captain.
β Jeffries! Make yourself useful. Put that bottle in an evidence bag. And for Christβs sake, put on a pair of gloves first!β Russo shouted.
Jeffries felt like an idiot but did as he was told.
Captain Russo ordered everyone back to the station. βNot you, Jeffries. Youβre done for tonight. Go home. Report back tomorrow.β
Jeffries nodded curtly but smiled to himself as he fingered the Club Kashmir passkey in his pocket which he pilfered off the dead guy. At least some hot chickie will show him a little appreciation tonight.
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt has challenged us to write something clever in exactly 91 words, using the word βintentβ. This is my response in exactly 91 words.
Angie eased into the bathtub.
Her once lithe and graceful body had been rebelling for a while; now it had declared mutiny.
She didnβt expect to have free time today so this moment of solitude was bliss.
Angie barely had time to relax when she heard the persistent nudging on the door; a black paw soon found its way into the narrow opening.
Sidney, the cat.
He was intent on getting into the bathroom to see what Angie was up to without him.
βSid!β Angie scolded playfully. βA little privacy, please!β
βDonβt look at me, Helen. Last year’s lessons with Vanessa nearly put me over the edge.β
βWell, I canβt do it! Ever since Marcia Morelli snatched that promotion for Real Estate Agent of the Year away from me, Iβm spending all my time at work playing catch up.β
βThatβs not my problem, Helen. Anyway, I signed on to coach Brandonβs baseball team this season, remember?β
βOh, cry me a river, Bob! Youβre the one who took an early retirement; your schedule is much more flexible than mine.β
βThatβs right, I retired so I could do things I enjoy like playing golf and going fishing. Itβs important to stay mobile after retirement so we donβt become dust in the wind.β
βWell, if you canβt do it and I canβt do it, why donβt we get Vanessa to teach Danielle how to drive?β
βAre you out of your mind, woman! Vanessaβs been driving less than a year. She canβt take Danielle out driving! Can you imagine the mayhem when those two hit the streets?β
βAt least Iβm making suggestions, Bob. All youβre doing is justifying why you canβt do it.β
βOh, Helen, save your breath and donβt look at me with such contempt. Iβm right and you know it. I wonβt idly sit by and watch both our daughters driving without an adult in the car. Itβs out of the question.β
βYou wonβt? Oh, thatβs wonderful, Bob! I knew youβd come around!β
βNow hold on there, Helen. I didnβt agree to anything.β
βWhy, sure you did, Bob. You said you wouldnβt sit idly by while the girls are driving around without an adult in the car.β
βBut I didnβt meanβ¦..β
βLook at it this way, Bob. Danielle is used to being driven everywhere she goes. If you donβt teach her how to drive, youβll just have to drive here wherever she wants to go. Iβd say this is a win/win situation.β
βAnd how do you figure that, Helen?β
βSimple! By giving Danielle driving lessons, youβll be doing your part to keep our insurance rates down, youβll be able to coach Brandon’s baseball team and still have time to do the things you enjoy and you wonβt turn into dust in the wind. And all it takes is just one daily one-hour driving lesson! Youβre a genius, Bob!β
βI am? Yeah, I guess I am. Hey! Wait just a gosh darn minute, Helen!β
Presidents’ Day is a federal holiday in the U.S., celebrated on the third Monday in February; Presidents’ Day 2024 will occur on February 19 …. hey, that’s today!
Originally established in 1885 in recognition of President George Washington, the holiday became popularly known as Presidents’ Day after it was moved as part of 1971βs Uniform Monday Holiday Act, an attempt to create more three-day weekends for the nationβs workers.
While several states still have individual holidays honoring the birthdays of Washington, Abraham Lincoln and other figures, Presidents’ Day is now popularly viewed as a day to celebrate all U.S. presidents, past and present. Very few people do that and the holiday is a day off for federal employees, kids have winter break this week and Presidents’ Day sales are going strong in stores around the country.
Hey, if you can’t laugh at the leader of the free world, who can you laugh at? Enjoy the holiday!
Presidential Bloopers
Here’s One Weird Fact About 45 Presidents (sorry Joe!)
Itβs time for Friday Fictioneers Fun with Rochelle! Hereβs something different for you today. I wrote Part 2 to Dale Rogersonβs terrific story, Β Endless Love and piggy backed my story onto hers. Hereβs the link to Daleβs site; please read her story before mine. Thanks to our host Rochelle and my friend Dale for a fun read and a great photo!
Rachel and Paul had been together for six years. They assumed one day they would marry, have kids β the whole nine yards β but life has a funny way of taking twists and turns. Their romance and dreams just fizzled out but they remained very close and relied on each other for guidance β from the job scene to the dating game.
One night Rachel texted Paul: “Hey, babe. Ella & Sam set us up with blind dates for Fri. U in?”
Paul: “Y not? No plans anyway!”
Rachel: “Great! Emilio’s @ 7. Glad U R my back-up!”
Paul: “Ditto, babe! C U there.”
Both kicked themselves for calling the other “babe”. Old habits.
Friday night the foursome met at Emilio’s. While checking-out their prospective dates, Paul and Rachel exchanged alarmed glances; her eyes were screaming “WTF!” It was the fastest dinner in the history of Emilio’s restaurant.
As soon as Paul got home, he called Rachel: “What was that?!“
Rachel howled: “A TOTAL FREAK SHOW!! Your date was downright scary! She looked like Vampira and I swear her eyes were red! And what was up with that black cape β with a hood, for Christ’s sake? Did you notice her steak? It wasn’t rare; it was raw and practically throbbing!”
“And what about YOUR date?!” Paul exclaimed. “Wrist-to-neck tattoos, eyebrow, nose and lip piercings, boots with spikes and a “Carcass” t-shirt! He downed a bottle of beer in two gulps and belched like a bloody Viking!”
“I’ll never let Sam and Ella play matchmakers again. I’m sure they thought it was hysterical” Rachel quipped. “Anyway, my mother set me up with her friend’s cousin’s son, “The Doctor”, for next Saturday …. on Valentine’s Day, for Pete’s sake! If you get a date maybe we can try this again.”
“Sure. Nothing could be as bad as tonight” Paul replied. “I’ll call ya.”
A few days later Paul called to say he had a date for Saturday β a friend of a friend. “But she said “drinks only” and she’ll take a taxi.”
“Ok, fine, with me, but if it turns into another debacle like that last date, we all go our separate ways.”
Arrangements were made to meet at The Aviary in Central Park. Rachel’s date was Wesley, an OB/GYN. He was handsome, tan and suave. Paul’s date was Ginger, a salesgirl at Victoria’s Secret with modeling/acting ambitions. She was a vivacious redhead with mischievous green eyes.
“Well, there’s no point in me hanging around” Rachel said glumly. “Ginger should be back any second and three’s a crowd.”
As Rachel got up to leave she glanced out the window and saw Wesley and Ginger getting into his car. “What the hell? Paul! We’ve been dumped …. on Valentine’s Day!”
Paul and Rachel started the slow walk of rejection through Central Park. He jokingly bumped her shoulder with his.
“There’s a hockey game on tonight. Any chance you wanna watch?” Paul asked.
She bumped him back.
“Why not? I don’t have any plans now, anyway” Rachel sighed.
After receiving the diagnosis “ULCER”, Brian’s wife Ali had been lovingly, carefully packing his lunches. He checked the contents of his bento box: plain broiled cod, boiled cauliflower and coconut milk. βThis must be her White Periodβ,Β he thought, wistfully.Β
Sensitiveand embarrassed coworkers averted their eyes as they passed Brianβs cubicle on their way to lunch. Gone were the cheerful calls βCβmon, Brian! Weβre going to Smokinβ Joeβs Hot Wings for lunch!β or βSalsa and nachos in the hospitality room, guys!β Oh, the humanity!
Brianβs computer pinged. It was an email from Ali: βHi, hon. Hope youβre having a great day. Did you find the Maalox I put in your backpack? Weβre having something special for dinner tonight …. poached chicken, brown rice and garbanzo beans …. hope youβre hungry! Love ya, babe! xoβ
βAh, Aliβs Beige Period.β Brian stared blankly at the computer screen. βI wonder how many beige foods there are …. oatmeal, boiled potatoes, matzoh….β
Depressed, fatigued and hungry, Brian put his head in his hands; a solitary tear fell through his fingers onto his khakis. Slowly the wet spot morphed into the shape of a slice of pizza. βWhat the …. ?!β Incredulous, Brian blinked and wiped his eyes. βWhatβs happening to me?!β Images of devilish, cramp-inducing, bowel-seizing delicacies danced βround his head …. jalapeΓ±o poppers, tacos, barbecued ribs.
The dreaded hunger hallucinations!Sweating, Brian texted Ali. βBabe. Last minute meeting with the deputy mayor. Sorry, Iβm gonna miss dinner. Love ya!β
Brian lied.
Grabbing the bottle of Maalox and a Smokin‘ Joe’s menu from his desk drawer, Brian bolted from his cubicle, giddy as a school girl at her first dance.
βOutta my way, boys, outta my way!!β
Brian knew he was taking a big chance but he just didn’t care. He was starving, dammit! And out he ran, laughing and joyfully shouting, “JalapeΓ±o-effing-poppers, baby!!”
7:30 AM Friday, Drew texting: “Hey, sorry! I know it’s early. Got any plans this weekend?”
[OMG! My heart starts racing. My biggest crush in forever is asking me if I have plans this weekend. OK, get a grip. I donβt want to appear too anxious; after all, we’ve never actually dated β just the occasional coffee and walks in the park with our dogs, Arlo and Dexter.]
[Alright. A sufficient amount of time has passed.]
7:40 AM, me texting: “This weekend? Um …. I don’t think so. What’s up?”
[Just the right tone. Cool and calm …. which I’m neither at the moment. Gotta love texting. It’s so impassive when necessary.]
7:42 AM, Drew texting: “I scored two ticketsto Springsteen for Saturday night in …. are you ready for this? Vegas!”
[Vegas! I love Vegas! I love Springsteen! I’m practically hyperventilating. Settle down and take a deep breath. Remember …. cool and calm.]
7:44 AM, me texting: “Wow! That’s fabulous! Let me just check my calendar.BRB“
[Exit text, count to 30.]
7:46 AM, me texting: “Hey Drew, my weekend’s open.”
7:47 AM, Drew texting: “Excellent! Even Arlo’s excited!And Amy, listen …. it’s an overnight trip; we’ll begetting back late Sunday. I don’t want to push you. Are you cool with this?”
[Am I cool with this?? It IS a bit sudden but I have to admit it’s what I want. Go for it.]
7:50 AM, me texting: “I won’t lie, Drew …. it is kinda sudden but I’m ready; it’ll be fun.“
7:52 AM, Drew texting:“This is gonna be an amazing weekend, Amy. I’m so happy you said ‘yes’.See you at yourplace tomorrow morning at 8:00.The flight’s at 11:00.”
7:54 AM, me texting: “Perfect!See you then.”
My head’s spinning. This is really happening! So much to do before tomorrow! Skip lunch today and go to Victoria’s Secret. Get a bikini wax on the way home from work. Pack tonight.
I couldn’t concentrate at work and excitement kept me awake most of the night; I finally gave up at 5:30. Time for coffee and a shower.
A quick glance at the clock …. ten minutes before Drew gets here. I place my carry-on bag on the bed, toss in my toothbrush and zip it up.
The sudden shrill ring of the doorbell startles me. Forcing myself not to lunge for the door, I pace myself, smile and casually open it to see Drew smiling back at me, one arm cradling Arlo, his other arm around the shoulder of a stunning brunette in tight jeans and a Springsteen tank top. My smile freezes in place.
“Hi, Amy! This is Charlotte. I’m so glad you can take careof Arlo this weekend; we’re really looking forward to this trip. Anyway, the routine is the same as the last time you watched Arlo. We’ll pick him up Sunday night.Thanks, Amy. Sorry about the short notice. You’re a real pal!”
Taking the pup, I manage a “Have a great time” and watch Drew and Charlotte walk down the hall and head for the elevator. They are laughing in that carefree way. Slowly I close the door, my stupid grin gone as I snuggle Arlo.
When I first started writing on WordPress, I printed out every story I wrote along with its accompanying graphic.
I filled five of the largest 3-ring binders I could find at Staples.
I was so enthralled with the fact that I was actually a βpublished authorβ! I felt my work needed to be immortalized in plastic.
For what? My 15 minutes of fame? To prove I existed and to share my brilliant thoughts with the world? To have something to pass on to my children and their childrenβs children?
Who the hell do I think I am?
Then the stark reality hit me: who cares? No child of mine is going to want these tomes cluttering their shelves; besides, theyβll never find the time to sit down and read them. Theyβll get tossed in a basket next to the recliner, with all the other good intentions. Soon theyβll be relegated to the basement or worse, the attic β¦. the black hole in every home.
I know what youβre thinking: βWhy not self-publish on Amazon, Nancy, and have pretty books to keep on your shelf (or in a box) instead of unwieldy, unattractive 3-ring binders?β Honestly, I know me and it wonβt get done. I just donβt give a rat’s ass and those pretty books will end up as kindling or more βstuffβ to be disposed of when I croak.
I suppose I can have them buried with me so Iβll have something to read as I become one with the earth. Thatβs a thought.
And so I made the call. Sometime during the summer of 2023 I stopped printing out my stories. I now have a little more free time not to mention plenty of ink for my printer.
Anyone interested in five 3-ring binders of my stories? Theyβre going cheap.
The Elephant's Trunk 