Monday, November 30, 2009

And we're back ...

I'm back!
Although my pants say otherwise,
I lucked out and didn't gain a pound!

We met quite a cast of characters
while on vacation.
Of course, everyone was given a nickname.

Side Show Bob
Is really named Marco.
He was the entertainment director
who wore a wild Rasta wig,
hence the name.
Oddly, he understood
who we were talking about
when we called him this.

Duff Man
Is really named Cesar.
Cesar was one of the bartenders
who pushed the Dos Equis beer cart
around the pool.
Needless to say,
Cesar quickly became our BFF.

Dos Equis Man
If you've ever seen the Dos Equis commercial,
you know what I'm talking about.
The Husband came back from a
bathroom break
to tell us he just met
the Most Interesting Man in the World
from the Dos Equis Commercial.
It seems that while TH was washing his hands,
the old guy clapped him on the back and asked
"Are you having fun my friend?"
TH pointed him out to me one night.
He was the spitting image of the old guy!
"Stay thirsty my friend"
became the slogan of the trip.

Comic Book Guy
The epitome of an IT Geek,
this guy was overweight,
had unkempt hair, a scraggly beard
and wore a ragged grey sleeveless shirt
every day in the pool.

I'm pretty sure I saw this spoiled brat
on some Sweet Sixteen show.
She was so rude and demanding
to the staff.
Someone needed to bitch-slap
this blonde bimbo.

Titanic Lady
There was this cute old white-haired bitty
who looked strikingly like the old lady
from the movie Titanic.
She walked about with a walker,
but surprised us one morning
by walking quite briskly without it.

Aunt Bea
We met an elderly couple half-way through the trip.
They retired to Mexico 30 years ago.
We introduced Aunt Bea to a
marvelous drink called a Dirty Monkey.
Rum, cafe liqueur, cream and banana.

But not to be outdone,
TH re-christened our friend Karen, as

We were sitting at the swim-up bar.
(not surprising, we spent a lot of time there!)
Crayon was wearing a blue bathing suit.
TH, having had a few, suddenly starts laughing,
points at Crayon and says, giggling,
"Mon Crayon est bleu!"

Friday, November 27, 2009

Comfort Food

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


Comfort Food
by Monica Manning

The sun penetrates through the blinds; bright stripes dance across our sleeping bodies. The smell of brewing coffee nudges me awake and I send a silent thank you to the gods for inventing automatic coffee makers.

A grunt behind me lets me know that my love is also waking. He turns towards me and wraps a possessive arm around me, drags me closer to nuzzle into my neck. I turn to face him and push his hair from his eyes. He needs a haircut. But we’re newlyweds, and we have better things to do.

I hear the grumble of his stomach—an angry demand for fuel. He opens an eye and I raise an eyebrow in question. We both laugh. I sit up and ask what he wants for breakfast.

I can make pancakes, I offer, or how about French toast with some bacon? Or I could make an omelette with sausage and fried potatoes. Or how about …

He just stares at me and a grin slowly begins to spread across his face. I know that look. I’ve been seeing that look quite a bit lately. But before I can stop him, he wraps an arm around my waist and traps me between him and the bed.

Alright, I concede. Breakfast can wait.


The comments that I received on this post
over at Monica Manning
were hilarious.
People! Believe me when I say
this is a work of fiction.
If you know TH ...
the boy has no hair.
AND ...
I'm not a morning person.
Not to mention ...
TH would likely take
the homemade breakfast
over the alternative any way.
We ain't fluffy for nothin'!


I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Thursday, November 26, 2009


I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


by Monica Manning

"Do you need to keep this?" The exasperation in her voice was obvious as she held up a metal toy truck. Only one wheel remained and most of the red paint had been replaced with rust. Phil glanced over and sighed.

"No." The word was dragged out—a mournful surrender.

"Look," she began, "you can't keep everything. Our old junk is starting to take over the house. We need to purge." Jennifer tossed the truck into a nearby box designated as garbage.

Marrying a fellow pack rat had finally taken its toll. The basement had begun to look like a small-town flea market that sold only tattered out-of-date clothing, broken toys and worn furniture. Jennifer had already filled several boxes with her own memories. Dolls, stuffed animals; even her high school cheerleader uniform. Phil had argued the merits of keeping the uniform but—rolling her eyes—Jennifer had added it to the trash pile.

And now they purged Phil's mementos. Half-finished car models, armless action figures, moth-eaten Varsity sweatshirts. Was that a KISS poster?

Jennifer pulled a tackle box from a bookshelf, brushed the dust off. She wondered when Phil had last gone fishing. Before Jennifer could open the box, Phil snatched it away from her.

"I'm keeping this." His tone made it clear that this was not negotiable. Intrigued, Jennifer held her hands out.

"What's in the box, Phil?" She wiggled her fingers in a "hand it over" motion. Phil shook his head.

"This is my personal stuff." He held up a hand, palm facing his wife. "You can't have this."

Jennifer was only more intrigued. What was in the box that he needed to keep? What could possibly be so important? She raised her eyebrows and thrust her hands out.

"Hand it over."

Phil closed his eyes and sighed; knew it was fruitless to argue. Shaking his head, he reluctantly placed the box in her hands. Lifting the lid, she was surprised to find the metal box held nothing but paper. Dozens of squares, worn from repeated folding; cards with faded graphics. Frowning, she pulled a piece of paper from the stash and carefully unfolded it.

Jennifer's eyes filled with tears as she recognized her own handwriting. A letter written some 20 years earlier professed her undying teenage love. She opened cards and unfolded other letters—all written so many years ago and long-forgotten by her.

She looked over at her husband, dazed. Phil shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

"I kept every letter and card you've ever given me." It was said as though he challenged her to laugh at him. Instead, Jennifer wrapped her arms around his waist, overwhelmed by the surge of emotion that had filled her. "It's no big deal," he muttered, but pulled her close to him.

Jennifer lifted her head and met Phil's gaze. The corner of her lip turned up as she gave him a knowing look. "We'll keep the cheerleader outfit."


I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Running Loose

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


Running Loose
by Monica Manning

Jerked suddenly awake, Shawna sat up in her bed, her little chest heaving, gasping for breath. Carefully reaching over she snatched Teddy up, squeezing him against her in a strangle-hold, knowing he’d protect her, despite the fact that he was missing an eye.

Shawna strained her little ears, listening for the slightest sound, the tiniest warning. Then she heard it. A slight creak of the floor. Someone—or more accurately—something had stepped on the loose floorboard at the end of the hallway.

She eyed the large expanse of her bed, the boundary defined by the SpongeBob SquarePants bedspread. That was one good thing about getting the new big bed. And just about the only good thing. She had pleaded with her parents to keep the old bed, but they had patiently explained that Grandma and Poppa could sleep in her new big bed when they visited and she could sleep on the camp cot. Shawna had tried to explain to them that the old bed was much safer because there were drawers beneath it and nothing could escape. Never mind the fact that she would be even more vulnerable on the cot!

But they wouldn’t listen. They had simply laughed at her, dismissively waving their hands, telling her that there was absolutely nothing under the bed.

What did they know? Shawna snorted into the dark. They were grown-ups, and grown-ups didn’t understand monsters. In fact, they couldn’t even see them, every kid knew that. But Katy Wilson’s brother told her that his best friend Mark Henderson’s older sister told him that their little cousin saw a monster.

That—in Shawna’s mind—was proof enough.

And now, one of the monsters living under her bed was wandering around the house. She knew there were more of them...there always were. One had obviously escaped already, the rest were just waiting for her to make a move, or worse, a mistake. Kneeling on the bed, she contemplated how she was going to reach the salvation of her parents’ bedroom, knowing that the moment she stepped onto the floor, she would likely be attacked. As she considered whether she could run fast enough, she saw a shadow slowly creep over the crack below her door, plummeting the room into complete darkness.

With a squeal, Shawna dove under the covers, yanking them over her head, knowing instinctively, as all children do, that bed sheets offer an invisible force shield that no monster can penetrate.

Trembling uncontrollably, Shawna squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering quietly, willing the monster to simply crawl back under the bed. She heard the squeak of her door as it opened slowly. Her hand edged over, reaching for the comfort only Teddy’s fur could provide, but she found only empty air. Horrified, she realized he must have fallen off the bed. Paralyzed with fear, Shawna shrank under the covers, imagining the gruesome tortures that Teddy would endure.

As she wondered if the protection of the bedspread would fail, wondered what would happen if she dared try and rescue Teddy, there was a loud—SNAP!

The room was immediately drenched in light.

Sharp footsteps carried across the room toward her bed, then suddenly stopped. The covers were snatched from her and Shawna tremulously opened her eyes, looking up into her mother’s face, who appeared to be holding back a smile.

“I know you’re scared, honey, but believe me—there is nothing under your bed.” And to prove it, Valerie Phillips got down on her knees and peered under her daughter’s bed. Popping her head back up, she announced brightly, “all clear!”

Valerie picked up her daughter’s teddy bear and, turning the stuffed toy over, noticed that he was becoming quite worn. “Teddy’s getting kind of old, don’t you think?” She waved the bear in front of Shawna, then tucked him in beside her. As she left, Valerie glanced back, Shawna’s terrified face stared back at her. Shaking her head, Valerie left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Left alone in the dark, Shawna pulled Teddy closer to her, smug with the knowledge that she, herself, now had proof of the monster conspiracy, for she had seen Teddy’s face clearly when her mother had swung him over her.

Teddy was now missing the other eye.

As she lay grieving for Teddy’s blindness, she heard the distinct tink, tink, tink, of a button bouncing across the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of hollow, mocking laughter coming from under her bed.


Although this story isn't finished yet (and I may never finish it) there are two more chapters. If you're interested, pop over to the Monica Manning site to read Chapter Two. From there, you can link to Chapter Three.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

The Last Supper

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


The Last Supper
by Monica Manning

He sat alone at the table, his calloused hands folded in his lap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fine meal. Perhaps never.

Footsteps echoed off the walls and he sat up straighter, fidgeted a bit. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses, wanting to savour this moment, burn the memory in his mind.

The smell assaulted him first. His mouth watered in Pavlovian reflex and he swallowed thickly, greedily licking his chapped lips. Aroma wrapped around him, caressed him like a familiar lover who promised to fulfill every perverted desire. The plate gently touched the table before him and he waited until the footsteps faded away.

Alone again, though he knew he was watched, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the feast before him: an enormous piece of prime rib—rare—garnished with a large dollop of strong horse radish. Arranged around it in homage to the succulent meat were parisienne potatoes, crisp asparagus and fried mushrooms.

He slowly cut into the tender meat then placed a small sliver on his tongue, relished the juices as they filled his mouth. The small morsel all but melted. The crisp outer shell of the potatoes housed a tender white interior. A mushroom cloud of steam erupted when he split them open. The asparagus, steamed to perfection, lay in a pool of melted butter next to over-sized seasoned portabellas.

His contented sighs punctuated the silence as he steadily ate through the meal, laying down his utensils after each mouthful, delaying the end as long as possible.

Crème brullée was the final indulgence. He tapped the crust gently, watched as the fault undulated across the golden scab, exposing the vulnerable richness beneath. Each spoonful was sheer joy.

The utensils now lay across the empty plate, meticulously lined up. He wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin and gently lay it atop the china. His eyes closed briefly as he sent silent thanks to the god he was convinced had long since turned away. He would remember that banquet as long as he lived.

He smirked as, once again, the footsteps approached, confirmation that he was watched. How else would they know he was done?

“Ready?” The question was asked, as though he had a choice. He merely nodded in reply, rose awkwardly and shuffled towards the door. With one final glance at the barren room, he followed the uniformed fellow out the door.

As he hobbled down the long corridor, the chains around his ankles clinked ominously, barely heard above the bellowed “Dead man walking!”


I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Sad Little Bear

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


Sad Little Bear
by Monica Manning

He remembered that first day as though time had not passed. The grown-ups held him by his waist and swung him to and fro while the child gazed at him in wonder, giggling with delight. Small, pudgy hands squeezed and held him tight, while strong gums gnawed and sucked his left ear until it was mangled beyond recognition.

In the early years, days were spent attending lavish tea parties and participating in extravagant parades, always wearing the gaudy orange hat and the pink feather boa. Evenings, he was lovingly held close in peaceful slumber; though he often woke up on the floor as if he'd spent the evening on a wild bender.

Later on, he was privy to such classified information as to what was said at recess, to whom and how, and detailed dossiers of those who didn't play well with others. It never occurred to him that he could retire on the royalties that such a tell-all book would bring.

Recent years were a mixture of long hours of solitude, lying prone on the flowered bedspread, and listening intently to the tortured lament of teenage love, offering the condolence only a hug can provide.

It was all coming unravelled now, as he sat watching her pack her worldly possessions, eagerly anticipating the freedom of university. He contemplated his dismal future, imagined it would involve being boxed and sent to a charity where he would lay with other abandoned stuffies, bewailing better times.

She stood up then, set the last box upon the bed beside him and looked around the room, a wistful expression flickering across her face. She picked up the box and, tucking it under her arm, scooped him up in a one-armed hug, squeezing him close to her.

"You have to come with me," she mumbled into his fur. "You're my best friend."

And with that he left the room, held firmly in her hand, happily swinging from one leg, visions of the next great adventure speeding through his fluffy head.


I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Sunday, November 22, 2009


I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


The challenge/rules for this piece:

Select a word to be the title of your 11-line poem. The last word of each line must be a word of no less than four letters created using letters from the title of your poem.

* * *

by Monica Manning

“He partied at a festival, was filled with great elation,
and staggered out knowing he was too filled with libation;
his drunkenness forgotten—completely in denial.”
screamed the burly big-shot lawyer hired for the trial.

“If this man had only thought, used only half his brain,
that woman’d be alive now, and we would not detain.
Instead I’m here before you; my temper in a rile.
In fact, I must pause now, to swallow down my bile.”

The prosecution rests, no longer does berate.
The drunkard sits and waits while the jury does debate.

The verdict’s in, the man has sinned, the public does elate.


I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

The Narrator

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.


The Narrator
by Monica Manning

The streets were thick with fog. Minute tornadoes swirled around her feet as she walked purposefully, her hands crammed into her coat, the collar turned up against the chill. Straight, raven-black hair, seemed to sparkle as the streetlight reflected off the tiny drops of moisture. Impatiently pushing a few stringy strands away, she shot an annoyed glance at …

“Cut it out!” Anger shot off her in waves. “You’re pissing me off!”

He glanced away, shrugging. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Well it’s annoying.” She walked faster and he lengthened his stride to keep up with her.

If he didn’t accomplish the mission, he would certainly be punished. And eternal damnation was not something he wanted to experience. He was unsure what the gods expected him to learn from this mission, but he was determined to succeed. No matter how irrational it seemed.

They arrived at the tall building she called home.

She fumbled in her bag, looking for ...

“That’s it!” She shoved at him hard so that he stumbled back two steps. “I’ve had it. Go back to wherever you came from.”

“I told you already...”

“Yeah, I know.” She dragged a hand through her wet hair. “You’re being tested, the gods sent you to be my Narrator, yadda yadda yadda.” She looked up at him, into those deep grey eyes that seemed to reach right into her soul. If he wasn’t so annoying, she could actually let herself get lost in those eyes. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “You’ve been following me around all day. Aren’t you done yet? I have a boring life. There’s not much to Narrate.”

He slipped into the elevator with her just as it closed and followed her to the penthouse unit. At the door, she turned to him, a bemused look on her face. “You can’t come in.”

“Oh, but it says so in the Decree.” He pulled a piece of tightly rolled parchment from his cloak and unfurled it. She snatched it from his hands and scanned the paper, her eyes growing wide as she read.

“You idiot!” Dropping the parchment on the floor, she opened the door to her unit and slammed it resolutely in his face. He picked up the scroll and read it through once again.

“Oh my.”

There, clearly written in the Lord’s intricate penmanship was the Decree that he should be her Navigator.

Not Narrator.

“Oh my,” he repeated.


I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Hasta Luego, mi Amigos!

As you read this,
we're leaving for Mexico,
heading to sunny
Puerto Vallarta
with some friends.

I considered having
guest bloggers.
I also considered
simply post-dating my posts.

Then I thought:
Hey! I can do both!

I'm going to completely
step out of the closet
and 'out' my alter-ego.

So next week,
while I'm sipping
umbrella-laden fruit drinks,
I have post-dated
several posts
from my writing blog.

I know that Blogger
sometimes has issues with the
post-dated feature.
Hopefully this works.
If not,
I'll see ya'll when I get back...

We will resume our regular
blogging schedule
November 30.

Hasta luego!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Great News!

There is a radio show
called Life Rattle
heard on Sundays
from 9 - 9:30 p.m.
on CKLN-FM 88.1,
where local writers read
a couple of their stories on air.
It's quite entertaining...
there is some wonderful talent in this city!
If you live in the Toronto area,
you should listen in.

My friend,
who writes under the pen name,
Vikki Summerfield,
is one of the hosts of this show.

Every year,
Life Rattle presents
The Totally Unknown Writers Festival.
Local unknown writers read their stories
before a live audience.

Last night,
BJ and I went to the Festival
at the Rivoli.

While I was there,
Vikki introduced me to
the other hosts of the show.
I knew she had taken
a couple of stories from my
Monica Manning blog
and had presented them to her co-hosts.

They asked me to record two of my stories
for radio play.

I'm going to rework the stories
and record them when I'm back from Mexico.

I'll let you know when they air.

I'm so excited about this,
I can barely type!

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

One More Sleep!

I'm driving everyone I know nuts with this.
My Facebook status updates are all about
how many more sleeps before my vacation.
about the fact that
even though we leave Friday
I really only have one more sleep
(being tonight)
because, let's face it,
I'm not going to sleep tomorrow.
We're getting picked up at 3 a.m.
to drive to the airport anyway.
Why bother?

I have posts set up already
for the entire time I'm away.
I may not blog tomorrow,
so if I don't,
I hope you enjoy what I've
post-dated for the time I'm away,
and I'll see ya'll when I get back
on November 30.

Hasta luego!

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

'Tis Already the Season

I can't believe it's here.
We're still eating
Halloween candy
and the stores are already
hauling out
Christmas crap
and playing carols.

It's no wonder everyone is
stressed out this time of year.
How many times can you listen
to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
before you go postal on someone?

To make matters worse, someone
who shall remain nameless
*cough* Cousin Alex *cough*
already sent out their Christmas cards!

Slow down woman!
You're making the rest of us look bad!!

Despite my ranting and raving, though
I got a great kick out of this video.
I stole it from Nasira,
who posted it on Facebook.

I especially love
"Seven Eleven Workers" and
"Eleven-Syllable Names".

Very clever!

Monday, November 16, 2009

Manic Mondays

Over at The One Minute Writer C. Beth's prompt is "Monday".
Specifically, she asks:
What is the best thing about Mondays?

Isn't that an oxymoron?

I'm not a morning person.
Never have been.
Never will be.

Sadly, I married a morning person.
You cannot imagine how annoying this is.

I think of Mondays as a perpetual morning.
So I'm sure you've already figured out
how I feel about Mondays.

The only saving grace this week
is that it's only a three-day week for me.
I'm off Thursday to pack and primp
before my vacation.
We leave Friday for Mexico.

So I will drag my sorry self
through this gawd-awful day
and know that I have
sunny days ahead of me.

And next Monday,
will definitely be much better.
I mean, how bad can a Monday be,
when you have a swim-up bar??

Friday, November 13, 2009

Flu Shmu

Thanks to Lady Fairchilde for this ...

I'm not really worried about the swine flu,
but I do have a concern ...

Three years ago:
Chinese calendar year of the cow = Mad Cow disease

Two years ago:
Chinese calendar year of the bird = Avian flu

This year:
Chinese calendar year of the pig = Swine flu

Next year is the year of the cock.

Anybody else worried?

And what's the vaccination for it going to be?!

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Countdown's On

Next Friday,
we're leaving for Mexico.
I can't wait.
Other than my staycation
while TH was in Europe,
I haven't had a vacation since
this time last year,
when we went to Mexico.

Can you tell I love Mexico?

Last night,
I did what every woman
absolutely detests.
I went bathing suit shopping.

I don't know where
Bikini Village
found their mirrors,
but they were all warped.
The person reflected back at me
had way too many
dimples, lumps and bumps.

I don't just have a muffin top,
I have an entire bakery section.

The skinny bitch nice sales girl
asked me what kind of suit I was looking for.
"Something that covers all the sins?"
I suggested.

TH immediately pipes up
with a sarcastic
"Why don't you just take her
out back and show her the
berka section."

I appreciate the fact that
TH has a Shallow Hal complex.
He looks at me and sees
a hot skinny girl.
God bless him!

But I'm wondering if the berkas
come in a nice floral print.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

A Pittance of Time

My heartfelt thanks
to those who gave all
that I,
a total stranger,
may live free

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A Thrilling Night

I left work on time last night.
Well, sort of.
But at least I didn't stay late.

This is akin to a miracle for me.

I'm on the GO Train.
And this guys sits down beside me.
His iPod is screaming loud.
And he's playing Thriller.

I text The Husband
to let him know I'm on my way home.

on 5:10. beside some idiot who's playing thriller so loud i can make out the lyrics!

TH responds:

raking leaves. jackson rules. shamon.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Death from Below

Marc, over at Daily Writing Practice,
had a link to this piece.
I can't tell you how many times
I've watched this.
And I laugh harder every time.

Also worth watching are The Poem About Kicking Your Ass and Living on a Prayer.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Think before you speak

Thanks to CourTini for sending me this.

CourTini is leaving for Italy tonight.
All together now ...
"We hate you, CourTini!"

Oh, not really.
Have a great time, Court!

Have you ever spoken
and wished that you could
immediately take the words back?

Here are the Testimonials of
a few people who did:


I walked into a hair salon with my husband
and three kids in tow
and asked loudly:
"How much do you charge for a shampoo
and a blow job?"

I turned around and walked back out
and never went back.
My husband didn't say a word...
He knew better.


I was at the golf store comparing
different kinds of golf balls.
I was unhappy with the women's type
I had been using.
After browsing for several minutes,
I was approached by one of the
good-looking gentlemen who works at the store.
He asked if he could help me.

Without thinking, I looked at him and said,
"I think I like playing with men's balls."


My sister and I were at the mall
and passed by a store that sold
a variety of candy and nuts.
As we were looking at the display case,
the boy behind the counter asked
if we needed any help.

I replied,
"No, I'm just looking at your nuts."

My sister started to laugh hysterically.
The boy grinned,
and I turned beet-red
and walked away.
To this day,
my sister has never let me forget.


While in line at the bank one afternoon,
my toddler decided to release
some pent-up energy and ran amok.
I was finally able to grab hold of
her after receiving looks of disgust
and annoyance from other patrons.
I told her that if she did not start behaving
right now she would be punished.
To my horror, she looked me in the eye and
said in a voice just as threatening,
"If you don't let me go right now,
I will tell Grandma that I saw you
kissing Daddy's pee-pee last night!"

The silence was deafening after
this enlightening exchange.
Even the tellers
stopped what they were doing.
I mustered up the last
of my dignity and
walked out of the bank with
my daughter in tow.
The last thing I heard as
the door closed behind me,
were screams of laughter.


Have you ever asked your child
a question too many times?
My three-year-old son had
a lot of problems with potty training
and I was on him constantly.

One day we stopped at Taco Bell
for a quick lunch,
in between errands.
It was very busy,
with a full dining room.
While enjoying my taco,
I smelled something funny.
So of course, I checked
my seven-month-old daughter,
and she was clean.
Then I realized that Danny
had not asked to go potty
in a while.
I asked him if he needed to go,
and he said "No".
I kept thinking
"Oh Lord, that child
has had an accident, and I don't
have any clean clothes with me."
Then I said,
"Danny, are you SURE
you didn't have an accident?"
"No," he replied.
I just KNEW that he must have had an accident,
because the smell was getting worse.
So, I asked one more time,
"Danny, did you have an accident?"
This time he jumped up,
yanked down his pants,
bent over,
spread his cheeks
and yelled

While 30 people nearly
choked to death on their tacos laughing,
he calmly pulled up his pants
and sat down.

An older couple made me feel better,
thanking me for the best laugh they'd ever had!


This one had most of the
State of Michigan laughing
for two days and
a very embarrassed female news anchor
who will, in the future,
likely think before she speaks.

What happens when you predict snow,
but don't get any?

We had a female news anchor who,
the day after it was supposed
to have snowed and didn't,
turned to the weatherman and asked:
"So Bob, where's that eight inches
you promised me last night?"

Not only did HE have to leave the set,
but half the crew did too,
they were laughing so hard!

(Quite frankly, I can't believe
none of these experiences are mine)

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Yeah ... what he said

Thanks to Devi for sending this one.

Devi is possibly the most
Christian Hindu I know.
She pointed out to me yesterday
that her friend
calls her Chrindu.
Good one!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Face to Face

Barna Boo sent me this gem yesterday (thanks Boo!):

UCLA Study

A study conducted by UCLA's Department of Psychiatry has revealed that the kind of face a woman finds attractive on a man can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle.

For example:

If she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged and masculine features.

However, if she is menstruating, or menopausal, she tends to be more attracted to a man with duct tape over his mouth and a spear lodged in his chest while he is on fire.

No further studies are expected.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Those songs in my head

The Husband has this
uncontrollable desire
to drive me insane.
I'm not sure why.
Perhaps it is his purpose in life.
Many of us wonder why we're here
on this earth.
TH knows.
It's to make me nuts.

His favourite way of doing this
is to plant an annoying
song in my head.

Today was no exception.

The news this morning
was all about
Prince Charles and Camilla
who are here in Canada
visiting for the first time
as a married couple.

The news reader said that
they will be attending
the opening ceremony for the
Royal Winter Fair.

"Gee," I mused to TH,
"When's the last time royalty
opened the Winter Fair?"

"Oh, I don't know," he countered.
"I'm sure there's always someone
who attends, even if it's just..."

and he pauses
for just a fraction of a second
and I know that he's up to something

"...the Duke of Earl."

And I can see it in his face.
He's trying not to smile.
He has this evil smirk on his face.

And then I hear the chanting
in my head

Duke, Duke, Duke,
Duke of Earl,
Duke, Duke, Duke ...

Well ...
I supposed it's better than
Kungfu Fighting,
which is what he usually
tortures me with.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Halloween 2009

Puppy is not excited about Halloween.

Someone's knocking at the door
every two minutes.

There are little people
(strangers, no less!)
dressed in scary costumes.

He's not a happy camper.

So I was a little surprised
at his reaction to the first

a curly blonde
two-year old

"OOOOoooo," I exclaimed.
"The dog LOVES bunnies."

Mom knew exactly what I was
talking about and we laughed.
Puppy wasn't too sure though,
and backed away.

"We have a big dog too," says Mom.
"She loves him."

And to prove the point,
the cute little Bunny holds out her hand.

I don't know what Puppy was thinking ...
maybe he thought she had a treat.
But he ran full tilt at her
and licked her face
from her chin
right up to her forehead.

One giant slurp.

I was a little worried about their reaction,
but Mom laughed and
the little bunny squealed in delight.
She gave Puppy a big hug
and they were instant best friends.

I don't think I'm ever
going to figure this dog out.