Category Archives: crabby panties

grumpy food

my potato seems mad at me

kinda gwumpy in da mornin

lately when i get up and out of bed, i sorta feel like,

MSNbc ~ appalled and angry


I don’t usually watch MSNbc, but tonight I caught part of a program that was interesting, and I didn’t realize I was on the channel.  Now I remember why I never watch it.

After the program I was watching, another show started to air.  And while I didn’t particularly like the sound quality, or the schmaltzy feel of the studio, this show was discussing a criminal situation that occurred in Syracuse NY, where an old man kept young women in a basement, locked up and forced to do as he told them for years.  Apparently, one at a time, this old man captured young girls and locked them up – CHAINED THEM – and, well he didn’t let them sit around and watch soap operas all day, if you understand what I’m saying.  One girl was chained in this basement crap place for a year, and stayed with the old man a total of THREE years.  Then he went off and got another girl once he let that one go.  Then another.

This television program explains the horrible situations these girls have gone through, and then the ‘reporter’ announces how he was finally captured.  The old man and a young girl were spotted in a karaoke bar, and I guess the girl was singing.  She escaped – which is an amazing and brave feat on her part – and called her sister to help her.

So, the ‘reporter’ says: “Quicker than you can say KARAOKE” the police grabbed him.     REALLY?  You’re talking about heinous sex crimes, kidnapping, rape, and violence, and you’re going to try to use a funny, catchy phrase?  Do you really think that is appropriate with this topic?  Are you making light of the horrendous, nightmarish events these girls have gone through?  Do you think it’s going to make it easier for people to listen to a gruesome story by talking like a Saturday cartoon character?

I’m disgusted at this reporter.  I’m appalled that the editor, producer, or fellow workers didn’t suggest a rephrase, or re-write that part for themselves.  Am I over-reacting?  Possibly.  Horrendous things have happened to me as well.  And I use humor and tricky phrases to deal with the discomfort of the situation also.  But this was just inappropriate.  If one of the girls had made the comment, then I wouldn’t react like this, ’cause it’s their story, their issue, their way to handle how they need  to.  But for a young, male reporter to flippantly throw that phrase in – like it was fun and funny, a quick little grab of a rapist, quicker than you can sing “Love Shack”…



this is only my opinion of course, but for future reference: writers, reporters, and such – please stop capitalizing on other’s misfortunes and tragedies.  at least PRETEND you are reporting news.


especially when you stay home and let the rest of us alone.

oh wait, i’m a crazy too.

OH!  i get to go home then!!!


pretty sure i live next door to an elephant.

i don’t recall the elephant moving in.  i mean – i’m pretty sure that’s something i’d remember.  it would take a lot of effort to get an elephant into the complex we live in, especially considering that it occupies an upstairs apartment.  so no, i don’t remember this happening.

still, an elephant seems to live next door to me.  early in the morning this creature careens into his or her kitchen and fumbles around in the cupboards, eventually making what i imagine is peanut flavored coffee.  then the critter rambles up and down the hall, stomping mice under its huge trash-can-lid-sized feet.   and sometimes i hear Dumbo crashing down the stairs and out into the parking lot, finally driving off in some sort of SUV.

it’s impossible to sleep when this creature is awake and moving about.  and i’m mildly worried that one day this being will stomp its way straight through the floor of their home (my ceiling) and crash-land into my lap.  maybe i need to go to my local library and check to see if there is an Eloise Etiquitte Book for Zoo Animals and Other Noisy Beasts.

On The Seventh Day God Created Allergies

One day, God decided He was kind of bored.  Being Omnipotent and Omnipresent isn’t all that exciting if you’re the only One that knows about it.  So God decided to build Himself some playmates.

Now God – who is an all-or-nothing kind of Being – got to work right away.  He imagined a world of danger and beauty.  He imagined lovely landscapes and frightening thunder storms.  He wanted raucous noises and scary animals.  He felt like making gorgeous trees and whimsical flowers.  His imagination was active and fertile, once He figured out he was going to build His own play town.

And so He worked.  He worked all through the night, and then He decided to make day, so He could keep working but see what He was doing better.  And He kept going.  Oceans, chimpanzees, sea anemones, volcanoes, bats.  Animals on top of things, critters underneath, and everywhere around: wind, air, song and scent.

God is sometimes a bit intense, and also a workaholic.  He didn’t have to make so many of the things in the ocean beautiful; most that stuff never gets seen, or played with.  But he likes stripes and polka dots and glow in the dark motifs, so everything has the chance to be strikingly gorgeous.  Except for hyenas.  Poor things.  They must have really pissed Him off somehow.  And God being the workaholic type, He isn’t prone to taking coffee breaks.  He’d made the beans by this point, but not the Mr. Coffee drip pots.  But He wanted a chance to view His handiwork and pat Himself on the back, and He really needed a break.  So in order to make Himself feel better – less guilty for just hanging around when He could be working on the next batch of Alien Life Forms – He created allergies.  Everyone knows that when allergies hit, you’re not worth anything.  All you can do is sleep, whine, sniff, and flip the remote control button a thousand times per minute.  Now, God didn’t have a remote, but He did have the allergies; so He just sat and sat on the seventh day, reclined back in His cloud-stuffed LAY-Z-BOY, surveyed His creation, and had a good nap.

And that’s why you get nothing done during ragweed season.




i’m a zombie today.

not because i had something strange and wiggly for dinner last night, but because my allergies have been off the charts this year, and breathing is nigh unto impossible right now.

i’m stuffy, congested, watery eyed, and sleepy to the heavens.  it’s like my indoor plumbing has gone hay-wire, and i really need a sinus roto-rooter.

so i’m a zombie.  i’m walking around like the “stumbling dead” (a: i’m not walking fast  b: i don’t want to infringe on anyone’s copyrights; you get what i’m saying?).  i probably look like i fell out of a crypt.  my energy is almost equal to that of a houseplant, or at least a light switch.  and all i can think about is going back to sleep.

hmmm…now that i think about it, i should be concentrating more on brains.  so perhaps i’m really a MUMMY today, longing for my tomb?

either way, i’m feeling pretty monstrous

stupid frickin frackin frickity frock

I don’t know if anyone else has made this discovery, or if it’s just me.  But:

mosquitoes are assholes.

I totally get that there is a circle of life, and that we are all sustained by one another.  I also understand that vampires and insects are apt to want to nibble on me, because my blood is so sugary sweet and apparently I taste like cinnamon or honey.  Who could resist that? 

But seriously, do you have to go up into the highest part of my thigh, next to the Holy Land to get a bite to eat?  I’ve got perfectly good skin in other, less inconvenient places.  Now I look like I have crabs because I’m fidgeting all day, trying to rub my legs together to scratch in an awkward area.  And thanks also for leaving bites on my ass, because it’s always attractive to be scratching there too.  I look like a fucking baseball player. 

So yeah, mosquitoes are complete assholes, and if I knew where their private parts were I’d stick ‘em with a pin to see how they liked it.

confessions of a dangerous writer

Today we will be discussing something that is commonly known as “Creative License”.

First off, I must confess that I haven’t yet read the controversial book “A Million Little Pieces” by Stephen Frey.

Although I do admit that I love both the title and the cover art. What I know of the book is this: Frey got into a heap big trouble for claiming to have done things that I guess he didn’t do. I believe he was outed on Oprah and his previously huge bestseller suddenly became a questionable piece of fiction. Potentially.

I too am a writer. I too take creative license here and there. Some things just sit better phonetically or dramatically. For instance:

I really do have annoyingly loud construction workers outside my window at this very moment, tearing my street to bits and making me crazy with their early morning antics. However, in a previous post I claim that they start their work at 7:30 in the morning. It may really be more like 8, or 8:15. But you know, I was really irritated, and it FELT like 7:30 in the morning. So that’s what came out. I think most people can understand this stretch of the information.

And then there’s my thing with coffee.

Any writer out there should be addicted to coffee. You know, you watch the movies, or the old Alfred Hitchcock shows and it seems that writers, coffee and cigarettes all go merrily hand in hand. And, being a writer type, I love coffee. Although the coffee I drink is usually mochafied, half coffee half hot chocolate. But I dearly love the smell of coffee, both the grounds in the package and the cup wafting its flavor through my olfactory glands. I love the flavor and the warmth and the snuggliness of it.

But really, if I get out my honesty meter, I don’t drink it that often. Coca~Cola is my true addiction, and black tea. Lipton’s. I drink like a pitcher a day. I need the antioxidants as well as the caffeine. So while I’m not actually lying about liking coffee and seriously needing a cup on a regular basis, it’s more often a can of Coke on my table next to my laptop.

But that just doesn’t sound the same. When I’m writing a poem about a rainy day, and the melancholy mood I’m in because it’s cool and overcast and fall (which it’s not, because it’s 80 and summertime here) coffee goes along with the mood and feel of the poem. Coke just doesn’t fit the emotional landscape as well.

So I have this ethical delimma. Or question, really, cause I’m not losing any sleep over this. I like being able to dramatize a situation, and express an anecdote in a slightly exaggerated manner. This is what makes any good writer good; they tell a story. But what exactly is the line between exaggerating, or emphasizing the fantastical elements of a story or situation, and Stephen Freying?

the land full of silver (aka: my hair)


i just turned 42 last week.  you’d think i was seventy with all this gray that’s cropping up.  (wait, grey?)  i almost wanted to just let my hair go natural, take on the whole crazy-curly-white-haired-witch-lady look.  my sister advises against this.   i guess i look like i’m still in the 26-32 age bracket, so she says having my natural grey hair would confuse people.  maybe they’d start asking me if i have some kind of hair disease or something.

so for now, it’s like the kentucky derby around here.  color hair.  fight off greys.  greys grow back.  color hair.  i can’t seem to convince them to stay the color i want, little pukers. 

so for now, i have a sprinkling of glitter in my hair i guess…