SEX TOYS? REALLY?

I don’t know about you, but I think sex toys are getting pretty scary.

I mean, at a bachelorette party I once had, someone gave me a piece of plastic that had more appendages than any deep sea dwelling creature you’d care to name.  This was something that you could (apparently) use in bed while simultaneously snaking out your toilet, cleaning your car’s exhaust system, unclogging your sink, and dialing 911.

“Have fun,” she said.  Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

“Oh, I will.” Say-no-more, say-no-more.

I gave it to my six-year-old nephew.  I think he uses it to attack his Star Wars action figures.  Darth  Vader doesn’t stand a chance!

My next experience with things of this nature occurred when a guy I had been dating for a while took me back to his apartment.  There was romantic music on the CD player, wine in the glasses, and lights turned down low.

He excused himself and came back with . . .ta da . . .a vibrating egg!

“Did you get that from a robotic chicken?” I asked, taken aback.

“No.”

“Oh, that’s one of those Japanese mechanical pets, then?”

“No.”

When he told me what he intended to do with it, I politely declined.  I have enough eggs inside me already, thank you SO much.

Then there are the inflatable dolls.  I tried one of these out once, and it worked pretty well until, after it was over, I gave him a lighted cigarette.

He should have told me he was a non-smoker.

Butt plugs are really freaky, but I’ve come to love them.  I make my husband wear his all the time.  He has had no gaseous explosions in years, but he’s getting REALLY big . . .

 

 

 

ADVENTURES IN GARDENING

          Now that it is, once again, safe to leave one’s brass monkey out all night, it’s time to begin serious consideration of the type of garden to put in this year.  Last year, I successfully planted Lobelia and Iris in my front garden, and so far, their relatives haven’t caught on.

I don’t know how many of you are aware of it, but there are even celebrities who make time to enjoy gardening.  Here are a few gardening tips from some of the rich and famous.

Politicians:  “We have flowers beyond compare, and the trick is to use the best fertilizer available.  We just stand in the middle of the flowerbed and read any one of our speeches. It never fails.”

Arnold Swartz…Scwarz…Schwar…The Big Guy with the Muscles Who Talks Funny:  “My flowers always grow tall and strong because I water them with Gatorade.”

Joan Rivers:  “I tell them that if they don’t grow, they’re going to look just like me.” 

Now doesn’t that make you want to rush out, join the local Garden Club and plant evil-smelling geraniums, marigolds, and chrysanthemums as far as the eye can see; then go back to one of the members’ houses for last year’s iced tea and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off?  They will call this “refreshment.”  You will call this “cruel and unusual punishment.”

Oh, the excitement of it all.

I do have to admit that the Darwin Club…I mean, the Garden Club, does wonderful, well-thought-out projects throughout my area.  For instance, the hillsides along the highway were so drab, littered with nothing but endangered wildflowers.  But the Garden Club swept to the rescue by mowing down every last Trillium and Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and replacing them with, you guessed it, Crown Vetch.  This is a small creeping flower that is the color of Pepto Bismol and has that je ne sais quoi fragrance that never fails to remind one of an outhouse on a hot August afternoon.  It’s the stuff of Wyeth scenes, l tell you!

And the malls!  Oh, my!  I can’t begin to describe the fabulous container gardens the club plants in those large round concrete planters that are such a funeral home-esque decorative statement.  At a mall nearby, they’ve put in Dusty Miller, White Pansies, and a dark gray something-or-other that I think eats things.  This club is the only one of its kind that can plant an entire living, growing garden that looks dead when they’ve finished with it.  No one knows whether to water it or give it last rites.

Have you also noticed that Garden Club members always plant things that grow low to the ground?  This is because they are low to the ground.  You can’t be a member of the Garden Club in my town if you are taller than 3’7”.  They really ought to call themselves the Garden Gnomes.  I only got in because I lied about my height.  However, I shant (I’ve always wanted to use that word) be a member much longer because of a gaffe (I’ve never wanted to use that word, and I’m sorry I did) I committed last week.

I couldn’t help it.

I ran amok and used club funds to purchase…gasp…trellises!  I trained Morning Glories, climbing roses, Wisteria, and grape vines all over them.

When the club members found out what I had done, they formed a mob and cornered me after a meeting.  It really got ugly – they bit my knees and threw bucket after bucket of water on me, shrieking, “She’s a bad witch!  Melt her!  Melt her!”  Well, as you may guess, all they succeeded in doing was causing me to get drenched and develop a grudge against little people who hide in the tall grass and giggle a lot.

Don’t worry, though.  I’ll have my revenge.  They’re all getting warts.

So drop what you’re doing and join the Garden Club in your town.  Run out now and buy a thick pair of gardening gloves and a huge, floppy-brimmed hat.

The gloves are to protect your hands.

The hat is to protect your identity.

PSYCHIC CITY!

           It seems that telephone psychics are on the rise yet again, at least where I live.  I must confess that I’m amazed by the growing number of these people littering the airwaves.  You've seen the ads, haven’t you?  People call in, the psychic gives them a reading over the phone, and then the callers pay for it . . . hoo boy, do they pay for it!

What I don’t understand is why anyone has to call them.  They’re psychics, aren’t they?  They should call you!

I think the ads should be more like this:

“Psychic City!  Learn about what’s going on in your life (in case you haven’t been paying attention).  We can tell you your child’s name!  We can tell you if you’re married or single!  We can tell you if you if you’ve recently become engaged!  PLUS, we can make dangerous, relationship-ruining guesses that your husband is cheating on you or that the child that’s on the way isn’t yours!  We can tell you that your girlfriend doesn’t love you, with no evidence whatsoever!  This way, you can stop at the hardware store on your way home and buy that marked-down machete and take care of the problems you didn’t know you had until you talked with US!  We can destroy your life and reduce you to a hollowed out husk of a human being, and the first three minutes are free!  Naturally, we’ll keep you on hold for those three minutes, but after that, the call only costs $11 per minute, with the average call lasting 25-30 minutes.  But isn’t that a small price to pay for someone to completely shatter your peace of mind and send you screaming into the streets?

Of course it is!

Wouldn’t you rather know that your husband is contemplating an affair with his cheap slut floozy secretary?  Though he may not ever follow through on it, he definitely won’t if you poison his oatmeal.  And isn’t that better than tripping through your life in blissful ignorance, with a false sense of happiness and well-being?

Of course it is!

Our psychics are waiting to talk with you now!  Just pick up the phone.  You don’t need to dial anything.  Just pick up the phone!

Psychic City is brought to you by the American Bar Association.

 

Ya Wanna Coke With That?

           This seems to be my week for getting trapped.

This time, it was a pay toilet at a McDonald’s.

Now, understand, I don’t actually eat there anymore.  I just stopped, on my way to eat somewhere better than McDonald’s, because the Montezuma’s Revenge from hell had finally caught up to me from the last time I had eaten there.  I had to either stop or plan on dying my upholstery brown.

I did not want to dye my upholstery brown.

So, in I dashed.

I deposited the requisite quarter in the slot, yanked the door open and, ahhhhhh, blessed relief.

This relief was short-lived, however.

When I concluded my communing with the porcelain god, and prepared to be on my way once again, the door would not budge!  And it was one of those stalls that had an eight-foot door that was flush (no pun intended) with the floor, so crawling out underneath was not an option.

I tried calling for help.  You know . . . at first, tentatively.

“Hello?  Is anybody there?”

Yeah, right.  As if anybody would sweep to the aid of an unknown, disembodied voice emanating from a toilet stall at a McDonald’s in Brooklyn, New York.  What in hell was I thinking?

At any rate, my pleas soon became more urgent.

“Hey!  Someone get me out of here!  I’m locked in!  Help!  Help!”

The only thing this accomplished was to clear out the restroom completely.

So, I did the only thing I could do.  I sat back down to wait for a sympathetic soul or a police officer . . . whoever came first.

 I am a writer by profession, and I have never yet been oppressed by the demon “writer’s block.”  I can find something to write about in almost any given situation.

This one was no exception.

At the time of my entrapment, I was in the middle of writing a novel and was mentally chewing over some pivotal plot details that didn’t seem to be working.  As I sat, my mind set of humming and, low and behold, the solution came to me.

But I had no paper – only a pen.  And the toilet paper was far too thin to use.

This will never stop a writer.

I pulled out my felt tip and proceeded to jot my next seven chapters on the wall of the restroom.  It was brilliant, and I was ultimately thankful for my unwilling incarceration.

By the time an employee (who wanted to use the stall I was in because all the others were occupied) finally bailed me out, all four walls were covered with my scribbling, and it was the finest work I’d ever done.  I strutted out of the stall, proud as could be, until I came face-to-face with THE MANAGER.

“Hey, lady, what the hell ya think ya doin’ writin’ all over the wall like dat?  Ya know how long it’s gonna take to clean it all off?” he demanded.

“I don’t want you to clean it off!  This is the final seven chapters of my novel!”

“I don’ care if it’s the final seven chapters udda Bible!  It’s gonna be washed off and youse gonna pay for it!”

Philistine!

I told him that I would be happy to wash it off after I’d transferred it to a pad.

“I ain’t gonna wait that long!  Customers’ll complain!”

“Well, if your customers are getting stuck in here on a regular basis, they might just be glad of something to read while they’re waiting!” I retorted.

“Read?  Read what?  Why would they wanna read?”

“Look at it this way – you could start a whole new trend.  Entire books on the walls of the stalls at McDonald’s!  Why, people would come from far and wide just to eat your food, then go rushing to the toilet, as they usually do, immediately afterward.  But you’d have something for them to focus on besides the gut-wrenching pain tearing through their digestive tracts!  You’d be a legend!  A pioneer!  Just think of the repeat business,” I cried.

Though unaccustomed to the agonies of coherent thought, this seemed to give him pause.

“Awright, it stays.  We’ll have an experiment,” he said, proud of the fact that he knew a word over three syllables and could pronounce it correctly.

“Great!” I cried.  “I’ll be back tomorrow to transcribe it.”

“Oh, no, lady,” he said.  “Dis is the property’a McDonald’s.  If youse write it down and publish it anywheres else, we’ll sue youse for copyright infringement!”

He wasn’t as dumb as he looked.  Then again, he couldn't be.

So, friends, the upshot of the whole deal was that I had to pay McDonald’s a ridiculous sum of money in order to use my own work in my own book!  And if you know of anyone who would like to own an authentic souvenir pay toilet from McDonald’s, please let me know.  I have all four walls!

 

What Your Pets Do Behind Your Back

         Do you ever wonder that your pets get up to when you’re away from home?

I have my suspicions.

My cat, Tango, is a secretive little creature, as are most cats.  However, mine is not only secretive but, I think, also possessed by demons.

Oh, she’s good at pretending to be a docile little house cat, but lately, upon returning home from work, I’ve noticed cigarette burns in the upholstery, and I don’t smoke in the living room.  There are also rolling papers and catnip scattered everywhere, and the water and food dishes are both empty.  Add to that the paw prints of varying sizes all over the handle on the refrigerator door, and it doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to put it all together.

She has parties with what appears to be (if detritus is any indication) about sixty other cats!

Observing my look of irritation upon my arrival in the den of iniquity that used to be my home, she puts on her most innocent expression and summons up a mournful little “mew.”  This translates to:  “A whole crowd of bandits broke in here and messed up the place and ate all my food and drank all my water, and I was so scared I went and hid, and where were you, anyway?”

“I am not fooled, Tango,” I said, bending down to wipe up the 47 barfed-up hairballs that dotted my oriental carpet.

 “Mew,” she replied.  This translates to:  “No, no!  Those hairballs are mine!  If you brushed me more than three times a day, I wouldn’t be having that problem!  It’s all your fault!”

I looked at her in disgust.  “You know, you can’t go on like this, Tango -- having wild parties all day, and eating catnip like it’s cat food!  You’re going to damage your health, not to mention the woodwork,” I said, indicating a newel post that had been clawed so much it was now a newel toothpick.

“Mew,” she shot back.  This translates to:  “Yeah, yeah, get off my back.  I’m four years old, and I can do what I want.  I don’t need your permission!  Pardon me for living!”

“And, Tango, there have been complaints from the neighbors about loud music during the day.”

“Mew.”  Translated:  “Geez, what CAN I do?!  Am I breathing too loudly for you and your sainted neighbors?  Do you have any idea how boring it is all day around here?  And those toys you give me?  What a joke!  Why don’t you bring home a live mouse once in a while, Ms. Big Shot Writer?”

“And just look at your litter box!  What a mess!  This litter was fresh this morning and now it has about 20 pounds of poop in it!”

“Mew.”  Translated:  “If you’d buy me some decent food, my furry little colon wouldn’t be acting like a Play-Doh Fun Factory, moron!”

Sighing, I stood and threw away the last hairball.  If you leave your cat alone during the day, I strongly advise you to lock up the milk!

 

MEN AND BLINDNESS

           Does anybody, besides me, get exasperated with husbands who can’t find a goddamned thing?  If I hear, “Honey, where’s the juice?” one more time, I just know I’ll wind up sitting at a table with my defense attorney and staring up at Judge Ito.

With subtle variations, my day starts off like this:  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, toothpicks holding my eyes open, slurping down my first cup of coffee, while watching the birds packing it in at our feeder just outside the window.  The Zen-like tranquility of this quiet, sunny morning is about to be broken.

“Honey, where are my boxer shorts?”

“In the drawer, where I’ve been putting them for the last ten years.”

“Which drawer, though?”

At this point, I heave a sigh audible on the 50-yard line of the nearest football stadium, stomp down the hall, open the drawer and hand him his shorts.

“What would I ever do without you?” he purrs.

“You’d be pretty chilly,” I reply.

I go back to my coffee.  I have just resumed my chair, when . . .

“Honey?  Where are my loafers?”

“In the closet.”

“Where in the closet?”

“On the floor!”

“I don’t see them.”

I pray for restraint and stomp down the hall, yet again, open the closet, bend down, pick up his shoes, and hand them to him.

“What would I ever do without you?” he asks again.

Without me?!  I’m starting to question the fact that he even lives here.

Then he comes out to breakfast, open the fridge and . . .

“Honey?”

“Yessssssssss?”

“Where’s the orange juice?”

“It’s behind the milk.”

“No, it’s not.”

Grinding my teeth to nubs, I stomp over to the refrigerator, move the milk aside with a dramatic sweep, and indicate the orange juice, much the way a German Shorthaired Pointer would indicate a duck.

The sarcasm is lost on him.

Now he has the orange juice container in his hand and looks me right in the face and asks, “Honey?  Where are the glasses?”

I hand him his spectacles.

The sarcasm is lost on him.

“No, I mean to put the juice in,” he whines.

That finally does it.  Still in my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, I put on my coat, get in the car, and drive away.

If you happen to be passing by, you might want to drop off a gallon of orange juice for my husband so he doesn’t get dehydrated.

Just don’t put it behind the milk!

KIDS, THE RINSE CYCLE, AND SAVING SOULS

             I couldn’t put it off any longer.  Last night, I went to the laundromat to get my laundry done.

“Well, of course you went to the laundromat to get your laundry done!  What else would you do at a laundromat?” you cry.

Ahhhhh.  Thereby hangs a tale.

Now, being one of those poor souls who owns neither washer nor dryer, a trip to one of these institutions of automatic cleanliness is necessary once a week or so.   And believe me, if there wasn’t a bar right around the corner, even once a week would be too often!

I stuffed my dirty laundry into a pillowcase, jumped into my Dodge Aries K muscle car, and off I went.

The drive was short . . .way too short.

I sauntered in with my pillowcase full of clothing that smelled like it just got its “come on down” notification from the Underworld, stuffed a washer, dumped in soap, and paid the extortionist on duty the requisite ransom to run the machine.  I then settled back in a plastic chair, ergonomically designed to create something resembling the pain from a shattered spinal column within 27.5 seconds, to pass the time reading.

I’m so silly sometimes.

I had read exactly two paragraphs when I was hit in the head by an extremely hard rubber ball that two shrieking urchins were bouncing on the floor.  It scared me to think that a little rubber ball could generate so much hilarity in the youth of today, because if they think that’s funny, they must think that Henry Kissinger is a stand-up comedian.

At any rate, when they saw the hatred in my eyes (well, “eye” would be more accurate, since the other one had already swollen shut and was turning a shade of purple only Liberace could love), they scattered.  And, get this, they were crying!

Their mother stomped over to me and asked me if I thought scaring her children was funny.

“No,” I replied.  “What I think is funny is badly behaved children boiling in oil – right next to their idiot permissive parents!”

Deciding that further confrontation could be hazardous to her health, she walked away, looking fearful.

OK, back to the book.  Two more paragraphs, and . . .

CRASH!

Two other excrescences, one riding in a clothes cart, and the other pushing it, slammed into my right leg, the trick knee of which immediately sent me a post card saying, “Wish you were here.”

After my screaming subsided slightly, the mother of these creatures approached me.

“Why are you screaming like that?” she shouted.

 “Because it’s the only way I know how to scream when my knee is dislocated by children who were obviously raised by wolves!” I replied politely.

She took her leave, as well.

I located my pocketknife and slit my jeans at the knee so the swelling could continue unencumbered, sighed, and picked up my book again.

You guessed it . . . two paragraphs, and . . .

“Hello, ma’am ( I hate to be called “ma’am”).  Would you like a pamphlet about the Lighthouse Church?”

I looked up from my book.

“Do you see that I am reading?” I asked.  "What is it about this activity that you interpret as someone pining for conversation?"

“Well, yes, but this is so much more worthwhile than . . .what’s that you’re reading?”

I showed him the cover.  My book was entitled, How to Identify Human Skeletal Remains in the Field.  I gave him a wide, evil-looking smile.

“Well, I’ll just leave you a pamphlet,” he said, tossing one in my lap.  He proceeded to make a hasty round of the rest of the patrons, then departed.

I stuck the pamphlet in the back of my book, and attempted, once again, to concentrate.

Ten minutes later . . .

“Ma’am?” (there it was again) “I’d like to give you a pamphlet . . .”

Now was my chance!  “No, no!  I’d like to give you my pamphlet!” I cried, stuffing the pamphlet I’d received earlier into his sweaty hand.  Then I went back to my reading.

As the previous saver of souls did, this fellow made the rounds of the patrons, too.  I was able to tune him out until the buzzer sounded on my machine, and I had to get up to empty it.

As I was doing so, this moron approached me again.  I guess I really looked like I needed saving.

“Ma’am?” (blood pressure rising) “Do you know the way to Heaven?” he asked, with a capital H.

“No, but I know the way to San Jose, if that helps,” I said, tossing a tee shirt in the dryer.

“Ma’am?” (one more time, and I was going to move this man a good deal closer to God than he was prepared to be at that moment) “You don’t understand.  I already know the way.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

“I want to know if you know the way.”

“What difference does it make?  I’m not going right now, maybe not ever.  It sounds boring and I don’t like harp music.”

He was either stupid or deaf.

 “But ma’am,” (right! that’s it) wouldn’t you like me to show you the way to Heaven?  I’d be glad to!”

 “Pal, if you don’t leave me alone, I’d be glad to show you the way to hell!” I replied.

“But you don’t understand.  I want to lead you to Heaven!” he cried.

“What are you saying, then?  That you're here to kill me?  Help!  Help, police!  Murder!  Somebody dial 911!”

As a result of the ensuing fracas and the many statements that had to be taken, my laundry was left in the dryer far too long and was reduced to ashes that were several sizes too small.

But you know what?

It was worth it.