Category Archives: essay

not new, not yet

I’ll make good on all this cynicism with exuberant glee come March 20, but for now I have to ask: “What about this dismal January 1st scene inspires hope?

“What about this, the view of my own backyard as I sit at my kitchen table on New Year’s morning, suggests new starts, fresh beginnings, aspirations for a better life?”

No, this scene, in my estimation, says: “Order a pizza, pile on another blanket, and binge watch a season of something on Netflix.”

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Filed under autobigraphy, essay, humor, irony, sarcasm, Uncategorized

Is this a story?

If it has a beginning, a middle and an end, it’s a story, right?  Well, by that definition, I offer you this, with bonus features:

Prologue: It was 9:30pm.  I had worked ridiculously late so that I could justify taking three days away from the office, one of which was Christmas Eve, the second Christmas, and the third, a Saturday.

Beginning:    I was tired, brain-dead and pissed off that I have to justify taking a day off for Christmas. And Saturday.

Middle:  I wanted a cookie.  I wanted ice cream.  I didn’t have any cookies or ice cream in the house, and being the aforementioned tired and brain-dead, I couldn’t rally myself to go out.  So I dug through the cabinets and the fridge and got creative.

End:  I invented sweet stuff on toast.  Grilled flaxseed bread with butter, apricot jam, whipped cream and roasted pistachios.

Epilogue:  I did this routine of work late, get pissed, and have no dessert in house for two nights in a row.  Grilled flaxseed bread with butter, sliced banana, whipped cream, chocolate chips and roasted peanuts.

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Filed under autobigraphy, chocolate, essay, food, humor, irony, memoir, sarcasm, Uncategorized, work

Christmas Carols: A Warning

Christmas. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. They tell you that, in a song. And if it’s in a song, it must be true. It is true and you had better just get on board and believe it, missy, because he knows who’s been naughty and he knows who’s been nice and if you’re not giddy with the joy of the season, you’re going to get something a lot worse than switches and ashes. What you’re gonna get will make you wish you’d gotten a lump of coal, little girl.

Now, the songs don’t tell you that explicitly. They are far more clever than that. They’ve been around for decades, remember? Hundreds of years, some of them. Their siren songs have crushed far stronger souls than yours.

Here’s how they work: they’re chipper, they’re cheerful. They have catchy simple tunes that are easy to remember and hard to forget as they wind their way through and lodge themselves in the undulant curves of your cerebral cortex. They push out important things you’ve been saving in there, SAT words like “undulant” and “cortex.”

Having so implanted themselves within your very being, they begin to take root. They’re like that cruel cactus in Arizona, the one that sheds its seeds in pods shaped like tiny needles. The pods fall to the ground and lie there, benign, until some snake or bird or rabbit – rabbits are best– comes along. The seed pod, which has an outer shell that is spiral-grooved like a drill bit, is covered with tiny, sticky hairs which get caught in the fur of the rabbit. The seed pod, opportunist as it is, twists itself through the dense fur until it hits rabbit flesh. Then it keeps going. It bores through skin, through muscle, past veins and arteries until it hits its mark – the moist center of a vital organ. Then the pod begins to expand. It swells until the seeds burst forth and take purchase in the heart of the unsuspecting animal.

If you look closely at the base of one of these horrid cacti, where its trunk meets the earth, you will invariably find the skeleton of a bunny. That marauding plant infiltrated the innocent creature, grew itself up and through its soul, and left him there to wither, to die, in the desert.

So it is with Christmas carols.

Hum carefully, my friends.

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Filed under aging, conflict, essay, humor, irony, sarcasm, Uncategorized

Hang Ups

It’s 1981, you’re 12 years old.

You wait for your parents to leave, you know they won’t approve of what you’re about to do. You watch until the taillights of the family Pinto disappear around the curve of your cul-de-sac, and then walk to the kitchen.

Leaning against the door of the pantry, you reach over and lift the receiver from the phone on the wall. You inhale deeply and exhale slowly as you dial his number, your index finger moving in seven separate, arduous arcs.

One ringy dingy. Two ringy dingy. Three. The butterflies in your stomach take flight and fill your throat with a sharp tickle of panicky giggles. Four rings. “Hello?” answers the voice of the cutest boy in school. You slam your hand on the hook, ending the call, and quickly hang up.

You can do this all night. He’ll never know it was you.

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Filed under autobigraphy, communication, dating, essay, fiction, flash fiction, humor, irony, memoir, relationships, sarcasm, the 80's, women

can’t move ‘er

My plan for tonight was to wow you with some insightful yet hilarious prose about waiters and cutoff shorts , but my cat has taken up residence on the upper quarter of my tablet and just typing these few sentences has incurred lacerations on both of my wrists and, somehow, the palm of my left hand.

Could you bear to disturb her 20150614_123603slumber? I cannot.

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Filed under autobigraphy, bodily harm, cat, essay, humor, irony, memoir