Libby Couldn’t Help Herself

•July 30, 2015 • 24 Comments
 (This should be read with a Southern Belle accent of at all possible.) Goodness Gracious! Our delicate sensibilities are all kerfuffled by that word Miss Lorna used. Whatever can she be talking about?

(This should be read with a Southern Belle accent if at all possible.) Goodness Gracious! Our delicate sensibilities are all kerfuffled by the fact that Miss Lorna has been missin’ from our lives. It’s just not right.

Wow, a whole week has passed and not a word from me.

I have a very good excuse.

I’ve been busy.

You just never know how people surf the net these days...

No, not busy having fun in my underwear! I wish!

Generally, my time is kind of free. Usually I just walk around and try not tip over.

You try being dizzy all day...

You try being dizzy all day…

You’ll hear about my shenanigans in a little while when I’m ready to break the news, but for now, you’ll have to settle for another 100-word submission to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.

This week’s photo prompt comes to us from G.L. MacMillan. It’s pure fiction.

in-the-light

Libby Couldn’t Help Herself

Libby couldn’t help herself.

“Three-year-olds ain’t got the best judgement, Ma.” Libby’s mother repeated this same sentence countless times throughout the day.

“She ain’t gonna just hurt herself if she don’t stop climbing up that picnic table, she gonna break somethin’ we don’t got no money ta pay for.” Libby’s grandmother had the gift of foresight that comes from raising too many children and grandchildren.

“Jeez, Ma. Leave her be. She’s havin’ fun.”

Libby turned to her mother and smiled just as she was standing tip-toe on top of the picnic table, reaching for the pretty glass bottles. She wobbled.

(100 words)

*****

Should things slow down a bit for me, I’ll try to post something more dizzy blonde-ish in a few days.

I know that’s what you come here for.

Hey, the bag was heavy and, yes, I had a hard time letting go. Look! Someone threw away a perfectly nice lamp. I think I can reach it...

I’ll dig deep and come up with something to tickle your fanny, er, um, fancy.

 

A Pain in the Ash

•July 22, 2015 • 53 Comments
The Fab Four is back: Me, Myself, I, and that zany Dizzy Blonde Blogger. Tickets on sale now!

The Fab Four is back: Me, Myself, I, and that zany Dizzy Blonde Blogger. Tickets on sale now!

Hi-dee-ho, Friday Fictioneers and regular readers of my quirky blog!

It’s time for me to get back to pithy business and write a 100-word (or less…yeah, right) story in response to a photo prompt.

I know. I have other things I should be doing, but I can’t remember what they are.

And how long could it take to write a curt, clever, coherent conveyance that comprises a complete chronicle?

I always have; I always will.

I always have; I always will. No matter how long it takes me or how much it hurts…

Judging by how long it took me to write that last sentence, I could be here a while…

Anyway…

This week’s photo prompt comes to us from Dee Lovering. Nice work, Dee!

unnamed

My piece is realistic fiction and is 100 words long (or short, depending on your POV).

A Pain in the Ash

“It’s actually quite pretty,” Wife brushed the opalescent silky, debris from her arm. It stuck to every hair, giving her arm the spiky appearance of a battle-ready porcupine.

“This isn’t a good sign.” Husband stared mournfully at his greying, dusty hotdog. “This stuff’s only been falling for five minutes and look around.”

Wife looked around, smiling.

Food Vendor frowned as he quickly closed up shop. “Time ta skedaddle. Last time she blew, more ’n a foota ash fell.”

“Let’s be sure to visit Mount Saint Helens,” Wife said as she grabbed her hungry husband’s hapless hotdog and tossed it.

*****

Forgive me. I recently visited the great Mount Saint Helens and it was only 35 years ago that the volcano blew it’s top. The devastation to the landscape is still evident today. The force of the initial blast was enormous, but the ash cloud (or tephra plume) lasted for about eight hours and the plume top was about 10 miles high. Ash fallout caused major problems in communities up to nearly 400 miles from the mountain. Click here for more info and two amazing pictures.

See? I paid attention to the friendly and knowledgeable guides!

Mount St. Helens before May 18, 1980 and after.

Mount St. Helens before May 18, 1980 and after.

See you next time, pithy writers!

 

Is there a plastic surgeon in the house?

•July 20, 2015 • 24 Comments
Ummm. You guys are going to need more than those needle guns for this job.

Ummm. You guys are going to need more than those needle guns for this job.

Before you go all I-knew-her-grow-old-gracefully-act-was-shizzle-on-a-schtick with me, the plastic surgeon is NOT for me.

I am growing old gracefully. Not quietly or comfortably…but it’s easier for me to pull off the graceful thing because I’m alone so much of the day.

No one witnesses me plucking the man-hairs from my chin.

I'm not one of those lucky women who can pull the chin-hair look off.

I’m not one of those lucky women who can pull off the chin-hair look.

No one smells the silent farts I practice for when I’m actually around other humans and my bowels feel like a newly-released Polident tablet in water.

I could go on, but I forgot what point I was trying to make.

Anyway, this plastic surgeon thing is a total emergency.

And, trust me, a plastic surgeon is the only specialist qualified to deal with this atrocity.

I know.

You think I’m being overly melodramatic.

Well, see for yourself.

 

I took this picture in my neighborhood. You know, the one where all the screaming, running, jumping children play...

I took this picture in my neighborhood. You know, the one where all the screaming, running, jumping children play…

If ever there was a case when a plastic surgeon was needed, this is it…

Well, maybe this one, too…

So, maybe he had a rough night and woke up too early to a startling noise...still, the guy could use some cosmetic "adjustments," don't you think?

So, maybe he had a rough night and woke up too early to a startling noise…still, the guy could use some cosmetic “adjustments,” don’t you think?

Good Help Is Really Hard To Find…And Other Stinky News

•July 17, 2015 • 48 Comments
I seem to remember a snappy little blogger who made me smile. What was her name? Normal's Voice? No, that's not right. Laura's Choice? Hmmm. Maybe. I wish she hadn't vanished for so long.

I seem to remember a snappy little blogger who made me smile. What was her name? Normal’s Voice? No, that’s not right. Laura’s Choice? Hmmm. Maybe. I wish she hadn’t vanished for so long.

Remember me?

I’m the dizzy blonde with Seasonal Affect Disorder in reverse.

Don't look at me like that. Sensitivity to light is a thing.

Don’t look at me like that. Sensitivity to light is a thing.

All this sunshine and warm weather in the supposed gloomy Pacific Northwest is really getting to me.

While my family was here, I had to be outside in this glarifortified sizzlefest for hours on end.

I even got a tan (a.k.a. Tumor Accentuated Nose). ACK! (a.k.a. Absolutely Could Kroak!)

Okay

Okay, so I cheetahed on the spelling a bit there. It’s my blog. I make up the rules as I go. Deal with it.

Here are some pictures from my family vacation, just to prove to you I wasn’t just hiding from you for the past 2 weeks.

So I wanted to catch you up on some of the goings ons in Portlandia.

It’s a hotbed of hyperintrigueism around here. Probably because of the weather.

When it gets hot, so do people. And when people get hot, well, look out.

At least I read the newspaper every day now.

At least I read the newspaper every day now.

For example, a Portland woman wasn’t satisfied that her divorce ended her marriage. She took the “till death do us part” clause in her vows seriously…apparently. Only Ex-Hubby wasn’t fixing’ to die on his own. She needed to speed things up a bit.

Being a proper, albeit wicked, lady, she did what women do when faced with jobs for which they lack the proper training such as:

*changing a flat tire

*fixing a leaky pipe

*winning at strip poker

*killing an ex-husband

You know, the standard stuff most women seemed ill-prepared for in life. So she hired a professional. A male professional.

She seemed to think of everything. She:

*Paid him a whopping $600 bucks. (What’s the going rate for a hit man in this recession, anyway? Cost of living is cheaper out west, you know. So is the cost of dying…apparently.)

*Plus, she sweetened the pot. Once the deed was done, she offered to give Mr. Kill ‘Em Quick Ex-Hubby’s 2005 Dodge Stratus, his California residence, and his online cat and dog breeding business (how you breed cats and dogs online is totally beyond me, but, whatever).

What she didn’t think of was:

*The pot probably wasn’t sweet enough.

*Men kind of stick together when it comes to wives wanting to kill one of them…apparently.

Mr. Kill ‘Em Quick reported Wicked Wife to the FBI. She’s in jail and Ex-Hubby is breeding online dogs and cats to his heart’s content. As for Mr. Kill ‘Em Quick, the article was unclear. I’m thinking he promised to give up his not-so-lucrative hit man gig (being more of a starter and not so much of a finisher) and may have gone into the online pet breeding business.

Breeding online is all about merging picture files...I think. You just have to be sure that you merge a .dog with a .dog and a .cat with a .cat--at least that's what I read in this article in the dentist's office. But we need to get a computer and hook it up to the web. Not sure about all that.  You know anything about this web stuff?

Breeding online is all about merging picture files…I think. You just have to be sure that you merge a .dog file with a .dog file and a .cat file with a .cat file–at least that’s what I read in this article at the dentist’s office. But we need to get a computer and hook it up to the web. Not sure about all that. You know anything about this web stuff? Yeah, I’m talking’ to you, Mister, and keep those beers coming, too.

In other news…

The next time you get stuck in a traffic jam because of a truck-related accident, remember this incident and, hopefully you won’t resent your situation as much.

You know how when your dog rolls in dead animal juice? Yeah. About too many thousand cars did that day.

You know how when your dog rolls in dead animal juice? Yeah. About too many thousand cars did that day.

Earlier this week, a truck hauling a full load of full portable toilets crashed on Interstate 5, the major highway running along the west coast. Two south-bound lanes were blocked and traffic was constipated for about two hours while over 20 gallons of human toxic waste had to wiped up. And remember, it’s been inhumanely hot and intensely sunny around here.

Holy cooking crap, Batman!

Holy broiled crap, Batman!

Maybe when you’re feeling cranky about your job, you can think about the people on that clean-up crew…

That’s all for now, People.

Aren’t you glad I’m back?

Who is that masked princess of zany? Surely she can't be Normal's Voice! No, I remember her now, she's LORNA'S Voice and she's back, Baby!

Who is that masked princess of zany? Surely she can’t be Normal’s Voice! No, I remember her now, she’s LORNA’S Voice and she’s back, Baby!

 

The Couth Fairy

•June 28, 2015 • 48 Comments
Believe it or not, you don't have to work that hard to become one of these.

Believe it or not, you don’t have to work that hard to become one of these.

I don’t know about you, but I’m on a strict budget.

The money that comes in seems to be getting smaller compared to the money going out.

I’m no financial wizard, but I think this is called a recession, and it’s causing a depression in my bank account.

Yours, too, I bet.

Especially if you have children.

Little children.

Who need things.

Like food.

And expect things.

Like toys and money for their teeth when they fall out.

Oh

Oy vey! I was wondering when you would get to the point of this post. 

 

Nowadays, the greedy little brats, um, the darling little angels expect about $4.00 per tooth.

What? That's like $28.00 in dog money!

What? That’s like $28.00 per tooth in dog money!

I remember getting $0.10 for a regular tooth and $0.25 for a molar.

That means:

1. The Tooth Fairy only needed a normal coin belt for her nightly rounds, not a Brinks Security Truck.

2. I’m really old.

3. Something else, but I forgot because I’m really old.

Anyway, today’s parents and grandparents (let’s be realistic) simply can’t afford all these teeth falling out of all these toddlers hoping to spend their cash on the newest generation of something beginning with “i.”

Okay. When I was teething, my mom gave me a Milkbone. Yeah. a dog bone. I told you I was old.

Okay. When I was teething, my mom gave me a Milkbone. Yeah. a dog bone. I’m sure the parents of this babe will upgrade by the time these new teeth are ready to fall out.

Oh, who am I kidding, the parents/grandparents are going to buy those high-ticket items.

I say it’s time for the Tooth Fairy to retire.

Another fairy needs to take over nocturnal visits to your gap-toothed children. One who is a lot easier on the old wallet.

The time is ripe for the Couth Fairy to make her appearance. And I know where to find her.

She’s been sitting around for a long time and she’s just aching to get out and speak her fairy mind.

She's not your ordinary fairy.

She’s not your ordinary fairy. This pixie is posh.

Let’s give her a chance.

This is how she rolls:

1. She finds money barbaric. Instead, she leaves a note with a sweet suggestion on practicing gratitude or politeness folded on a clean surface beside the bed. If no such surface exists, she will place the note in the kitchen with an additional note about cleanliness.

2. She would never touch a bacteria-infested specimen from anyone’s mouth or risk touching hair. The mere thought gives her the vapors. Folded on your countertop will be recommendations for safe and environmentally clean ways to dispose of the enamel-encrusted biohazardous material.

3. As she flits about your home, she will leave notes on any decor or fashions she finds garish or crass. She can’t help herself.

4. All of her notes are on delicate parchment and written in perfectly legible cursive. No post-its. No printing. Heavens, no electronically communiques! Unimaginably uncivilized for a Couth Fairy.

What do you think?

Sure, at first your children/grandchildren might throw hissy-fits when they find suggestions about gratitude rather than the cool cash that their friends who have the uncouth, rich, afraid parents brag about getting for their fallen-out choppers.

But kids tend to have short attention spans.

And there are always medications.

For you, I mean. You have options.

Don't judge me. It's medicinal.

Don’t judge me. It’s medicinal.

Plus you have ideas for giving your home and wardrobe some culture.

For free!

What’s not to love about that?

Just give me the word and I’ll release the Couth Fairy on your casas (that’s “houses” in Spanish, but it rhymes with, well, you know…).

Get it?

Get it?

Oh, one more thing!

I’ll be persona non visabla around here for a while.

My mom, older sister and her husband are coming to visit. Coming from the soggy Northeast, they are looking forward to the hot and sunny Pacific Northwest.

Once again, I’m going to be a happy tourist, showing them the sites and won’t have time for blogging.

So, see you when I get back and recover from all the fun and sun.

Time will fly. It always does!

Time will fly. It always does!

Happy Independence Day (or whatever you happen to celebrate)!
Just celebrate something!

 

 

 

 
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