Archive for humor

Will Wonders Never Cease….

Posted in Fiction, Novel, Publications with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2010 by 1writegirl

Amazingly enough, a small press by the name of Gypsy Shadow Publishing has opted to publish my novel, Fortunes Told. It is now available for purchase as an ebook on their website for the incredibly low price of $4.99. Hopefully it will become available in print before too long.

This book took me about three months to write (minus re-writes and editing) and three years to find someone willing to put it out there, a story I’m sure many of you are familiar with. For that matter, it is not my first novel, but my third (hmmm….what’s up with the number three?) Falling into the genre of Chick-Lit, Fortunes Told is a story about love, best friends, relatives, luck, humor, and choices. Mostly, though, it’s about second chances, something I’m happy to say I personally know a good deal about.

Click here for details if you’re looking for a fun and sexy read. For those of you who purchase a copy, my many and sincere thanks in advance.

Happy reading!

The Seven Deadly Sins

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2010 by 1writegirl

I am guilty
I confess

Of occasional

And frequent

Now and then
Envy colors my view

And Pride shows its face
From time to time

Rarely do I experience

And Greed
For the most part
Feels like too much work

But Sloth is right up there
On my daily to-do list

And I can’t help but wonder
With all this sinning
I’m doing

How I manage to
Stay alive

At all

Haiku# 30: My dog, the teenager

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on February 24, 2010 by 1writegirl

At first, a Mohawk
Then clothes, showers, chewing gum
Now, the dog wants bling.

Dead landlords, parties and movie stars…

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 24, 2010 by 1writegirl

My landlord has disappeared. I haven’t seen him in days… The truth is, it’s going on weeks.

I wondered at first if he’d merely holed up to escape the deluge of rains we’ve been assaulted by lately. Then other scenarios presented themselves. Was he sick with H1N1? Engaged in an illicit affair with a former Hollywood starlet now down on her luck and just out of rehab looking for a ‘real man’, whom he met on Perhaps he was hard at work on some top secret government, high-tech assignment. Of course, he could just be on a vacation, the spontaneous, drop-everything kind.

Then finally the truth emerged, coming to me as I slept. I woke up knowing with certainty that my beloved landlord was dead. Poor Frank, I thought. He was such a likeable guy! And when it came to being a landlord, you really couldn’t ask for better. And yet…

Now that he’s dead, I couldn’t help but surmise, that rent check I put in his mailbox last week will never get cashed. For that matter, my rent won’t come due next month or the month after that. Furthermore, his now empty house, so much bigger and newer than my itty-bitty little cottage, is just begging to be occupied. I could simply take over his lease, I figured, and pay for it with the rent I’ll collect from the tenant behind me, and the new tenant who’ll take over the lease on my place.

It all seemed so simple, so obvious… I mean, times are lean. You’ve got to grab hold of opportunities when they present themselves, right? It was what Frank would have wanted, I was sure. I smiled through my tears of grief.

I wasted no time moving into Frank’s house. “You take that room,” I told my son. “And Mugsy can sleep there.” I pointed to a large empty corner near a window. “And if you want to play video games or listen to music, you can go into that room there and shut the door, so I won’t have to hear you.” In our itty-bitty cottage, there was no real privacy or solitude to be had. “Let’s have a party!” he suggested, and for once I agreed with him. Why not? I thought.

We each invited a few friends, but somehow the word got out that a party was going on and became exaggerated in the process; rumors spread fast that wild sex and an unlimited supply of booze and drugs were to be had. Before long the place was packed, and I was scrambling to keep snack bowls and drink glasses filled – thank goodness Frank had a liberally stocked liquor cabinet – when I looked up to see Charlie Sheen walk through the door. I watched in amazement as he made himself at home, chatting casually with people I’d never met before. Within the hour he had two beautiful women on each arm and the mirror in the guest bathroom had mysteriously disappeared. Music blasted from the stereo and my son was standing on top of the dining room table in his underwear singing Karaoke to a ‘Disturbed’ song. The alcohol had almost run out and I was just thinking that was probably a good thing when the sound of blaring sirens invaded the street and parked in front of our door.

An officer charged in. “Whose house is this?” he demanded. None of the strangers seemed to know, and thankfully no one who actually knew me spoke up either. The officer herded us all out though the front door with warnings to go home immediately or be charged with disrupting the peace, and locked the door behind us. My son and I skulked back to our itty-bitty little cottage and collapsed into our itty-bitty little beds, where I tossed and turned till dawn, then finally got up and made myself a cup of coffee and turned on my computer. Checking my email, I was aghast to see a message from my landlord. “Something came up and I had to leave town suddenly,” it said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, hope all is well there!”

Groaning, I quickly tossed a few cleaning supplies into a bucket, threw a bathrobe over my skimpy nightgown and headed into Frank’s back yard, where I propped a ladder against his bathroom window. Carefully, I pried off the screen, pushing open the window he’d left slightly ajar. As I descended head first toward the tile floor, I heard a rustling sound, followed by soft, rhythmical snores. I froze in my handstand, my feet still jutting out the window. Who could it be? I gently dropped onto my hands and knees and crawled slowly out of the bathroom in the direction of the sounds. As I rounded the corner to the back bedroom, I caught sight of a blanketed figure curled up on the floor in a fetal position. I moved closer until I could see a face. It was Charlie Sheen!

As I got to my feet he stirred, then stretched his arms over his head and yawned. His eyes opened and he met my gaze. He yawned again, accustomed it would seem to waking up in strange places in the presence of strange women. “Where am I?” he whispered.

I swallowed hard. “There was a party last night,” I began. “I guess you must have passed out.”

He nodded and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he seemed to take in my scantily clad appearance for the first time. He sat up. “Did we, you know, do it?” he asked.

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Twice,” I replied. “You said I was the best you ever had.”

He frowned slightly and scratched his head. Before he could say anything else, I plowed forward. “You also read my screenplay. You said it’s fantastic. Actually, I believe ‘stupendous’ was the word you used. You said you can’t wait to produce it.”

“I did?” he asked. I nodded in reply.

He studied me for a moment, then threw the blanket aside and got to his feet. Stark naked, he walked over to me. His bewildered expression softened as he pushed the thin fabric of my robe over my shoulders.

As it fell to the floor, I considered my options. Time was running out.

Charlie pulled me close, his mouth hovering over mine. I closed my eyes, quivering in anticipation of the moment. What the hell? I thought, throwing caution to the wind.

My voice sultry with desire, I whispered in his ear. “What a shame you’ve got that important meeting to go to this morning.”

His eyebrows knit together as he struggled to make sense of my words. “I do?” he said. “What kind of meeting?”

“You didn’t say,” I replied. “But I seem to recall the name Steven Spielberg.”

He nodded his head and sighed, as if it were all coming back to him. Was it possible he actually did have a meeting with Spielberg today? I scampered over to the pile of clothes on the floor, scooped them up and pressed them into his arms. “While you’re getting dressed,” I said, “I’ll just run and get that screenplay.”

I started for the door then turned back around. “Can I get you a cup of coffee for the road?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “I never touch the stuff.”


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on October 25, 2009 by 1writegirl

I started small
Just an inch or two

It felt good so I asked for more

Keep going, I said
Are you sure? He asked
I need it, I said

Please continue

So he did and
I felt myself
Growing lighter

My heart beating faster
My breath coming quicker
Gazing in wonder as
He worked his magic

So many years in the making

With every successive
Touch of his hand
I moaned louder still

Take it off! I begged
Off it came

Onto the floor

The whole thing was over
In a matter of minutes
Though the memory is
With me still

Every time I look
In the mirror

I can see his face
Smell his cologne
And hear the sound
He made

Snip …

As he expertly
Cut my hair

Haiku #26: Buzz

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on August 9, 2009 by 1writegirl

Whispering, groping,
Yearning, thrusting, encircling
Clasping, panting, hot…

Rocking, climbing high
Fall, sigh, surrender to me!
Oh the bliss of it…

For the love of God!
Would someone please hand me the
BLOODY flyswatter?

Haiku #25: Runaway Boobs

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on June 16, 2009 by 1writegirl

Oops, I’ve lost my boobs!
Have you seen them anywhere?
But no, of course not…

Sadly they’ve vanished
And it’s quite distressing, this
Strange catastrophe

I’d gladly lose thigh
And tummy and ass, but damn!
Not the sacred boobs…

Move over, Veronica Lake (ie, Is that seat taken? I’m exhausted!)

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 15, 2009 by 1writegirl

The other day I went to the property management company to pay my rent. I handed my check to one of their part-time employees. Albert is a struggling photographer with his own business but does odd jobs on the side to pay the bills. As I was preparing to leave, he called out my name. When I turned around, he surprised me by asking me if he could photograph me sometime. “I find you beautiful,” he said.

The last time a stranger said something like that to me, I was 18 years old and flying to France. He was from Syria and had a name I forget, but it sounded a lot like Sirhan Sirhan. I’m 44 now, and Albert is far from exotic, but he did seem sincere. So after scanning the room carefully for lurking 18 year olds and assuring myself there weren’t any, I narrowed my eyes and gave him “the look” (the one that says, “If you have lascivious thoughts in mind, faget about it!”)

“What do you think?” He asked.

I got right to the point. “With my clothes on, of course,” I said.

He confirmed it

That settled, I asked the next obvious question. “Would I get paid?”

“A bit,” he said. He explained that every time the photo is used, I’d get a percentage.

“Think about it,” he said. “You can let me know.”

I said I would. Then I went home and looked in the mirror. The closest I’ve ever come to being photographed by someone who actually makes money with their camera is having my picture taken every year in grade school by a guy with a squeaky toy. I figured I’d practice a bit, so I styled my hair, touched up my makeup, styled my hair some more, and pretended I was Veronica Lake. Two hours and 145 crap digital pictures later to get 2 that I considered acceptable, (ie, somewhat flattering), I was done.


Do I look 18???


Am I on my way to France? Is your name Sirhan Sirhan??

I’m not likely to threaten Ms. Lake’s legacy as one of the all-time most photogenic beauties America has ever produced.  It was kind of fun, however, to vamp it up a bit, even though my sole appreciative audience consisted of, well, me. But if today’s session was any indication, I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a photographer’s model. I mean, really, a little posing goes a long way. My hair is killing me…!


Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , on April 13, 2009 by 1writegirl

While in the process of reducing rubbish, I cleaned off the refrigerator the other day. I came across a collection of fortunes from cookies obtained at Chinese restaurants over a certain period of time. I collect these fortunes for what I’ll call their literary value, which probably doesn’t make a lot of sense but we’ll leave it at that. Anyway, I noticed that a disproportionately high number of these fortunes had to do with inheriting money; large sums of money, I might add, from “unexpected” or “surprising” sources.

Hmmm… This got me thinking about the possibility I might have a rich aunt somewhere that I’ve never met, who knows about me even though I don’t know about her. I found myself fantasizing that she’d die and a boatload of money would come my way. Of course that made me feel like a cold-hearted bitch, so I amended my fantasy to her being very old and sick and wanting to die, and THEN dying and leaving me a boatload of money. No, not there yet. How about if she were very, very old, like 150 years old, and healthy as a horse, with all her faculties intact, and still enjoying life, and, and… and then, of course, I would want to know this woman, and hear her stories, and I would grow to love her, and wouldn’t want her to die. Ever.

So there you have it. It doesn’t pay to fantasize. It might, however, pay to eat Chinese food. After all, a boatload of fortunes telling you you’re going to inherit a boatload of money has got to be worth something…don’t you think?

Let’s face it, my dog is probably (okay, IS) retarded

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 27, 2009 by 1writegirl

Alas, while I have known for some time that my spastic but adorable puppy Mugsy is not what you might call “gifted” in the matter of, well, grey matter, I am recently forced to consider the possibility that he may indeed actually be mentally retarded. Severely mentally retarded, or in today’s politically correct lingo, mentally challenged. I say this not because of the annoying but typical behaviors puppies might engage in, such as chewing, running off with your freshly laundered socks and hiding them underneath the couch to be retrieved at a later date (then forgetting them), or even misunderstanding the word “toy” to mean, not his ball or stuffed animal or bone which he is given outright, but rather, anything that belongs to you and you care about. No, I say this because of the following persistent, troublesome behavior regularly engaged in by Mugsy.

When he’s let outside to do his business and placed on his long yard-lead, he proceeds immediately to run with vigor and purpose off into the grass and straight for the wooden pole that at one time, this being an old farm, was probably some sort of wooden farm pole. He has no interest in the pole itself, he just wants to be in that general vicinity. He dodges left, then right, then left, and so on and so forth, so that in a matter of ten seconds or less (yes, I’ve timed him), he has wrapped himself around the pole so many times that he is on the verge of strangling. No amount of demonstrating on my part about how to back track, no visual cues, commands or attention grabbing words (you fucking idiot! still leaves him unfazed) have any effect on him. Nor has he learned to avoid the pole, or simply to walk in a straight line. Even allowing him a few minutes to figure it out for himself is a complete waste of everyone’s time, not to mention an assault on our ears, as he proceeds to howl from the moment he realizes what has happened until someone, typically me, heads over to him to relieve him of his predicament.

Now this is bad enough. But when he’s released from his pole bondage condition (I expect the sexually adventurous among you are wondering if he might actually seek out this pole bondage, however I assure you, this is not the case), he makes a beeline straight back into the house, where, because he didn’t do his business outside like he was supposed to, he finds himself obliged, with all due haste and ceremony, to pee right smack in the middle of the floor (never mind those pesky newspapers put down for the very purpose of catching just such accidents.)

Now there are other behaviors as well which call into question Mugsy’s mental acumen, but I’ll spare you the gory details. I’ll just say this. If there were a laboratory test whereby a family pet could be hooked up to electrodes that would flash and glow at the merest hint of brain activity, I fear Mugsy’s headgear would remain depressingly un-lit, no matter the angle, snugness of fit, or duration of its attachment.

Fortunately for Mugsy, he has something going for him which, coincidentally, seems to serve the human community equally well. No matter how unintelligent he is, how stubbornly disobedient or pathologically obtuse, he’s got that cuteness factor working in his favor. Sort of the ‘dumb blonde’ deal. I can only wonder if, like humans do, he’ll lose his looks with age. Then I’ll be left with a retarded dog who isn’t even cute.

Oi. I’d rather not think about that right now.