Get Lost

Posted: February 5, 2017 in Uncategorized

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I lost my phone.

And that’s a problem because I can’t ask people to call my phone to help me find it because I can’t call them to ask them to call me because I can’t find my phone.

And the fact that it’s almost always on vibrate because I don’t actually want to interact with other human beings on a regular basis makes it worse because if I were to ask someone to call me, I’d have to go around the house listening for a muted buzzing, like when you leave your vibrator on the bed and accidentally turn it on and then you’re all confused (at least, that’s what a friend told me).

And they sell those “never lose anything ever again” things, but I’d forget to attach them, and then I’d lose them, too.





I’m hiding at Starbucks

Posted: January 30, 2017 in Uncategorized

Okay, got freaked out this morning. Admittedly, I do watch way too many horror movies, and so I automatically go to horror movie happenings


Super scary looking doll, but it’s not mine. 😦

when weird shit happens.


I think I’m totally justified in this freak out.

I was up in the craft room, prepping for my show this weekend (come see me at Country Side Park and give me money for goods and services).

I’d left the alarm on because I’d just showered, and I always put the alarm on when I’m showering.

When I heard a bang downstairs, I figured it was the cats. They always knock shit down, and since George was already being evil and pooping out what smelled like a paper rendering plant in the laundry room, I assumed it was him being more of an asshole.

Then I heard voices.

What. The. Fuck.

Doing the one thing that you should never do in a horror movie, I went downstairs to check it out.

The radio on the kitchen was on. Really strange because I know I hadn’t turned it on. Unless maybe I had because, you know, I admit that I’m not always fully aware of what I’m doing when I wander through the house (exhibit A: the time I put a bag of pretzels in the fridge). But still, I’m pretty sure I did not turn that on this morning.

So I knew where the voices were coming from at least. I turned it back off and went to check the alarm.

The alarm was still red, so it was on, and there were no warnings about bits being off.


Since I was downstairs anyway, I went to grab a bag of silver bead spacers I’d forgotten in my office.

Then I saw it.

The top shelf of my cabinet of curiosities was open.

I swear I hadn’t opened it. Not for days and days. Maybe even over a week now.

It was open.

It’s the shelf with all my creepy toys in it.


Now I’m hiding at Starbucks doing work until I have to go back home and face the weird.

spiderduck-frontspiderduck-backOkay, so lots of weird stuff.

First off, the devil ducky is not a devil ducky.

I know. I’m sad, too.

While I was giving it a good scrub to get off all the road dirt, I realized there was a spider on the back of its head. After almost freaking out, I realized it wasn’t a real spider – it was a spider printed onto it. And then, as I kept scrubbing, I saw that it had a costume on.

It’s a Spiderman ducky!

That’s not quite as cool as a devil ducky, but it’s still kinda awesome, and so I went ahead and left it on my desk.

Then, last night, Patrick was off in California, and I fell asleep to Pysch. (Don’t you judge me. It’s one of the best ever shows. You’re just jealous.)

Around 3:15, I woke up because there was a weird sound out front. The alarm was on, so I knew it wasn’t that someone had broken in. But it was a loud almost knock. I thought maybe it was just in my dream, but then I heard it again.

I grabbed my phone for light, and I wandered out into the living room.

Moronic, I know. But it was the middle of the night, and I was trying to be an adult. Mostly because, you know, I kind of am an adult.

I saw something on the floor by the front door, and I thought, “OMG THAT SPIDER IS HUGE!” and was going to go run for a huge book to toss, but then I realized it wasn’t the right shape for a spider.



Non-Dramatic Reenactment

I flashed the phone light onto it, and it was the ducky. Just sitting there. On the floor. Looking all Spiderman-like and a bit creepy because the eyes were reflecting the light.

I still have no idea what the sound was, but I’m assuming the ducky got there thanks to the love of one of the kitties. Probably George because he is evil like that. Or maybe Molly knocked it off the desk and Sammy batted it into the hall. No idea. But I couldn’t get back to sleep for a while.

Just to make sure I don’t get another middle of the night freak-out, the ducky has found his place in the cabinet instead of on my desk.

Long live Spider-ducky!



duck-for-take-1No, not from “16 Candles.” (That was the movie, right?)

Anyway, no, it was this little red devil ducky I saw by the side of the road.  It made me all sad – the poor little ducky had been abandoned! It also totally intrigued me. Who abandoned it? Why was it there?

I saw it there a bunch of times. It was in the gutter by the turn onto the feeder road for 45, right by the car dealership. It never moved. But it did get dirtier each time.

I went and got it yesterday.

I know, it’s gross and disgusting, right? But I thought it would be cool for my cabinet of curiosities. It looks weird as hell, completely worn out from all the weather it saw. And its eyes did that soul-piercing thing. Okay, maybe not soul-piercing, but still. I felt bad for it.

Did someone toss it out of their car? Was someone on a bike and it fell out of their pocket as they took that dangerous as hell corner? Was someone foolishly on foot, got hit by a car, and it went flying from their backpack? No idea.

But now I have it, and I’m going to clean it up and add it to my cabinet with all my creepy toys. Go cabinet!

Image by Chase Urich –, CC BY 2.0,

Me (carrying four rolls of toilet paper to the bathroom)

DH: Don’t use them all at once!

Me: Don’t you judge my bathroom habits!

Which reminded me.

Years ago, I worked at a local teaching hospital, in one of the graduate programs.

I guess this other employee got bored one day, so she was complaining to me about the amount of toilet paper her husband used. Apparently she wanted him to ration it out, only using a certain number of squares each time he used the bathroom. I forgot the number now, but she felt very strongly about it, and talked to me about how she made sure to not use any more than that each time. It was a pretty low – and unreasonable – number. I want to say it was four, but it may have been five.

That complaint has stuck with me for a few reasons.

First – that she would count. I mean, it was the days before cell phones, so maybe she got really bored in the bathroom. She was older, so maybe number two was a struggle for her. Counting sheets could keep her busy when she was done reading magazines.

Second – that *this* was her marital complaint. She was almost ready to divorce over it. No problems with him cheating, him spending money, him lying. Nope. Not that he did those things, mind you. He just used too many damn squares of toilet paper. And I would totally not blame him for doing any of those things, especially because that would probably mean he got to use enough toilet paper to actually wipe his ass.

Greeters of Wal-Mart

Posted: August 23, 2016 in Uncategorized


I normally avoid wearing tank tops without anything covering it up. It’s not because I’m super vain and worry about my jiggly arm fat. Nope. It’s because I’m too lazy to shave my armpits, and I don’t want to expose anyone to that.

The positive (or negative, depending on point of view) is that a bunch of my tattoos show.

As I’m walking out of Wal-Mart, the greeter stops me. It’s a little old guy, white hair, wrinkles, stubble. He says, “I hope you don’t think I’m being rude…” So I immediately assumed that he was about to be rude. Instead, he said, “Where did you get that tattoo?”

Okay. We got into a conversation about tattoos, and he told me that his wife was 60, but she just got her first tattoo because a friend of hers died, and she got a pink ribbon on her arm, and now she wants more. He told me that she said they’re addictive.

I agreed. Yup.

I was about ready to get out of there, so I tried to leave politely, telling him that I hoped his wife got more tattoos, and that I suggested he get some, too.

And then…

He told me he didn’t need any tattoos because he already had enough scars.

He pointed to his head, where I noticed that there was a dent. “This one cost one billion dollars!”


“And then I got another one going from here on up from when I had a tumor. And I have one from here to here when I had a quadruple bypass.”


“Let me show you.”

And he lifted his shirt.

Pointed to his stomach, his hairy chest, his throat.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s really interesting. Have a good day!”

And I was gone.

Next time, it’s Target.



I’m not a fan of spiders. Really not a fan at all.

To be fair, I’m not a fan of lots of different bugs. Like wasps.

Wasps are assholes. A wasp once made me crash my car into a light pole. The pole was okay; I was okay; the car was totaled.

After I did that, though, I learned my lesson. Instead of trying to kill a bug while the car is moving, now I pull over.

Imagine the scene: I was up in Madison, New Jersey. Late at night. A cold winter night. Before the dawn of cell phones. I had just left Drew University where I had been visiting my boyfriend at the time (now my husband), and about three blocks down the way, I spotted it.

A spider on my windshield.

On the INSIDE of my windshield.

Instead of running off the road, I waited, stretching my arms out as far as they could go so that I was as far from the windshield as possible. As soon as I could pull over in the snow, I did. I hopped out of the car, took off a shoe and stood on one foot in the snow bank, trying to kill the spider in the windshield.

I did it!

It was dead!

But then I was afraid to get back into the car because, and I know this is totally rational, once you kill a spider, all the other spiders know. They gang up on you. They get you. It’s like a gang fight in West Side Story.

Anyway, that spider was dead.

Since then, I’ve been lucky. Anytime I had a spider in the car, I also had a passenger who could remove it one way or the other.

Until the other day.

There was a spider.

In the car.

On the inside of the window.

Right next to me.

It was somewhere between the size of a pinhead and a VW Beetle. I can’t quite remember in the blur of fear.

But there it was.

And there I was.

Then, like magic, I got it out of the car! I refuse to say how, in case other spiders are reading this, but this image shows what may (or may not) have been its final view.