Grizzly Photos Of A Ravaged Icon

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.

The Soul Doesn’t Have A Color

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. []

Paths

I’m not surprised that I still build winding paths through every garden I’ve planted. It’s exactly how I ramble through life. Mystery, surprises, adventure and exploration define my continuing lifestyle.

Dying on Facebook

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.

From Tra-la to Troll

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 []