I sipped more ginger tea. I thought about the Tea Party demands; I thought about the progressive demands; I thought about my own budget (or lack thereof); I thought about religious demands; I thought about corporate demands, and I started to gasp for lack of oxygen.
Two cups of ginger tea later a spicy idea landed. Start my own party, the Ginger Tea Party.
You see I’ve had a thistle up my tush since the most beautiful and coolest wine/beverage chiller ever made (in China) went kaput nine months ago. It was three-months out of warranty. We installed it in our remodeled kitchen exactly 15 months earlier.
CAMBRIA, Ca—In a tranquil seaside village where the headlines announce chili-cookoff winners instead of “Bloody Scene At (fill in the blanks),” last night’s violent ravaging of a popular icon and the grizzly photos that recorded the incident remain hidden from the public eye. But t in the interest of verifying the demise of the icon, I am releasing the vile photos.
The surprise slaying occurred after my early evening Facebook post “I have to create dinner. I am uninspired.” It was a day of malady. I visited worry world and disappointment land. I dealt with this like any post-menopausal woman—I binged on a handful of leftover Easter pastel Reese pieces. That bounced me into deep lethargy. Cook your own damn dinner. Get me a big fat hamburger and a beer.
Spouse noticed the lack of spring in my step and my darkly rimmed eyes. “You know there’s a big low pressure ridge coming in. That’s what’s wrong with you.” Ten minutes later the weather report confirmed his analysis. I tend to slip down a rabbit hole when a low pressure system nears.
“Great,” I moaned. “Go get us evil food.”
Spouse had been on the road most of the day. His grimace said, “You may as well point me to a noose.” So I took that as a no.
We resolved dinner with some Trader Joe’s organic chicken sausage over a bowl of fresh greens soused with red wine vinaigrette.
“What about oranges and Cool Whip for dessert?” I suggested in an effort to compensate for my earlier binge.
But an emboldened terrorist hid in plain sight. Plus oranges and Cool Whip did not interest spouse. He knew only one thing would pull me out of my slump.
He surgically cruised near the subversive’s colorful compound. With a single swipe of the hand spouse took control of the thug, held it into the air and asked, “How ‘bout this instead?”
I conferred with my high command court (conscience) and decided that the time was now. “Yes, let’s do it!” I exclaimed.
It was a vicious and violent attack without recourse (except to the waistline). This morning the remains revealed the annihilation of a beloved icon. The proof is in the photos.
My first black friend was in high school. We teamed up because, like me, irreverence surfaced to her tongue and she hurled some pretty funny commentary about school and life. Our skin wasn’t an issue. More important was our shared teenage angst—you know, boys, make up, zits, bras, and cars. Last names and skin tones made no difference in my youth. I wasn’t raised that way. The person who influenced me most was my godfather, a tap dancer with deep Irish roots. […]
“I was perfectly sober. It’s just that, somehow, I’m unsure how, but, well, no one else would, and, grants are nearly a thing of the past, and the costs keep coming, and well, what could I do?”
Between the continuing events in Japan, the breakdown of our own democracy, and the passing of Robert this morning, I can’t seem to get the spirit of the Irish excited enough to don the green or even hunt for a four-leaf clover.
I know cocaine users and I don’t like them. When the opportunity arrives, I don’t mind reminding them how their habit or recreational use is one of the most socially horrific acts they can commit. It’s selfish and with consequences—
I peacefully slept the entire night, even though none of my favorite football teams played in Sunday’s Super Bowl, and then the team I picked from nothing more than the romance of past Super Bowl parties, lost. This morning’s sun was bright and warm, a cherished event on this portion of the coast. The coffee spouse brewed filled the air with that special aroma of deeply roasted coffee beans, so closely akin to the smell of a deep, rich chocolate. This, I […]
If I knew during Rahm’s skinny-cute-kid days that he’d have “people” I might have been nicer to him. I liked Rahm, but I had two lovely young teenage daughters that every overly hormonal boy in Santa Fe wanted to rub up against, making my incisors instinctively flash.
When our economy turned, my wealth transformed from monetary to experience. Experience shaved expenses to just pay the bills. Some of those sheared expenses included shopping for toys and clothes for the children who don’t even have a roof where Santa’s sleigh can land;