I’m Normally Not Such a Busybody!

I know I can be “behind the times” but this is kinda ridiculous. I wrote this post a mere five hours ago but it ended up buried in the Reader with yesterday’s posts, for some strange reason. I thank you for your patience in advance with this reblog and for having to click a few extra times to find out why I am now an avid “Busybody.”

Once Upon Your Prime

photo 1-3One day I got bored with eavesdropping on other people and decided to tune into myself for a change.  My body, to be exact.  It has a lot to say.  So, won’t you join me?

Body Language

Left Breast: She hates us. Have you read this?  It’s her “Breast-o Manifesto.” It’s only a matter of time before she tries to shrink us again with Reduction surgery. I say we Kill her first. Wage a Preemptive Strike.

Right Breast: I’m feeling a bit nippy right now.  I’ll read it later when my goosebumps are gone.

Left Breast: We must stay abreast of this woman’s body hatred before it’s too late. The Abdomen alleges that war was declared over this summer and the oblique muscles were nearly Crunched to death.  Doing 100 a day.   But we can’t be stupid about it, either. If we strike aggressively with Breast Cancer, everyone will…

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I’m Normally Not Such a Busybody!

photo 1-3Today I got bored  eavesdropping on other people and decided to tune into myself for a change.  My Body, to be exact.  It has a lot to say.  So, won’t you join me and we can listen in together?

Body Language

Left Breast: She hates us. Have you read this?  It’s her “Breast-O  Manifesto.” It’s only a matter of time before she tries to shrink us again with Reduction Surgery. I say we Kill her first. Wage a Preemptive Strike.

Right Breast: I’m cold and feeling a bit “nippy” right now.  I’ll read it later when my goosebumps are gone.

Left Breast: But we must stay abreast of this woman’s body hatred before it’s too late!  The Abdomen alleges that war was declared over bathing-suit season and the oblique muscles were nearly Crunched to death.  Doing 100 a day.   We can’t be stupid about it, either. If we strike aggressively with Breast Cancer, everyone will know it was us. Let’s think about using a couple of Hit Men. Literally – – A stealthy pair.  But not breasts. . . a pair of Hands.

Right Breast:  No, not the Hands, although God knows they have too much Time on them.  Let’s keep this a female thing.  I’ll speak with the Cervix and the Uterus to see what their entire region’s thoughts are about waging a “Woman problem” type of attack.  If it’s done discreetly, there won’t be any eyewitnesses who can finger the Vagina in a line-up.

Eyes:  Someone mention an EYEwitness?   Make no mistake, we see it all.  There’s no lashes aflutter here.  Our gaze is piercing.

Ears:  Piercing!  Seriously?   She shoulda listened to that mother of hers who said, “If God intended for you to wear earrings, you woulda been born with holes in your head.” Ouch!! But nobody hears anything anymore.  It’s all that rap music.  Hey Four Eyes, you got nothing to complain about.

Eyes:  Who you calling “Four Eyes?”  We look at the world thru a new lens now.  It’s a Contact sport these days, E.T.

Ears:  Oh yeah?  Well what’s with the “E.T?”  It’s Eustachian Tube to you.    Just don’t go around saying “Piercing” when you don’t know what it really means.  Stick to keeping your eyes peeled.

Eyes:  Well I never!  That’s some way to refer to the “Window of the Soul.”

Ears:  LOOK whose talking!  Some body organs can be so touchy.

Left Hand:  Did someone say “touchy?”  I didn’t want to let that one slip thru my fingers. My biggest complaint right now is that she keeps letting her 12 year old daughter do her manicures.  Do you have any idea how sick of blue sparkles I am?

Elbow:  Obviously the Left Hand doesn’t know what the Right Hand is doing.  Look!  It’s completely polish-free!

Right Hand: (sheepishly)  Peeled it off.  I go to a 12 step-program for that.  I’m a Peeler.   It’s a bad addiction.

Elbow:  Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself. You just need to apply a little elbow grease.  Besides, we all know who has the worst habits around here and makes your fingernails so raggedy and jaggedy.  Our Biggest Offender.  Just can’t stop biting and nibbling. No Siree.

Nose:  Please keep it down.  As you’re all aware, I have to reside just above our Biggest Offender and you took the words right outa my . . .  Well, let’s not even go there.  Saying her name will surely only make her ______ water even more.   And then there will be more food shoveled in.  And I’m not talking Food for Thought, either.  So don’t bother mentioning this to The Brain.   All the problems that chatty body part brings to the rest of us just sets my teeth on edge!  I’d really like to put a zipper on it when she shoots her ______ off like that.   And if another morsel goes in anytime soon, we’re all gonna pay through the nose.  It doesn’t make any scents, I tell you!  But I apologize for getting my nose outa joint over this whole issue.

Eyes:  That’s right, you don’t wanna cut yourself off just to spite your face!  And we shouldn’t be looking down our nose at anyone else either.  Just keep yourself to the grindstone, eh?

Abdomen: But it’s true – – The nose knows!  I’d rather have butterflies in me than some of the stuff that passes through those lips.  I simply cannot stomach it anymore.  I’m all tied up in knots.  And really, do you see our Biggest Offender ever paying the price for its own actions?  Doing any exercise at all?  It should put it’s money where it’s _____ is.  Because a moment on the lips is forever on the hips.  And I speak for the Hips because they’re exhausted from the Stair Climber she made them endure just this morning.

Thighs: Oh C’mon, Little Tummy.  You can’t speak for Hips.  You know Hips, Butt and us Thighs operate as a complete lower body team.  And quit standing up for the Nose.  You don’t have a leg to stand on where this issue is concerned.  Nobody pays thru the nose.  It’s the limbs who pay.  It costs us an arm and a leg when she goes on one of her fitness kicks. We thought we’d fully recovered once Suzanne Somers retired that crazy contraption from infomercials. But nooooo, then she had to go and take up jogging.  There’s no relaxing now.  Jeeze, we can’t even get our “foot in the door” at Massage Envy.

Nose:  Wow, you sure put your foot in your MOUTH with that little speech.  OMG.  I said it.  I just slipped.   I said that body part . . . I’m so sorry.

MOUTH:  That’s right, Nose.  Someone sure has a big MOUTH around here.  And I’ve heard everything now.

Elbows:  Well, shut my Mouth. As I live and breathe, you took a break from the chewing. And the spewing.

MOUTH:  What’d I ever do to you?  You’re perfectly slender.  There are no exercises for an elbow to do.   And it’s not like I’m spewing bad nicknames at you – – like Muffin Top or Thunder Thighs.   Why you’re practically her favorite body part.photo 2-9

Elbow:  Listen to this.  As if butter wouldn’t melt in your _____.  Quit foaming at the ______, Oh, forget this.  I’m gonna go rub Elbows with the Knees.

MOUTH: Alright, alright everyone.  Right now, it may look as though I’m the culprit.  But I’m no Motor Mouth.  I speak in turn. It’s true I might be a Smart Mouth, but at least I wasn’t born with a Silver Spoon.  I don’t talk out of both my sides.   But nothing leaves a bad taste in me more than being talked about behind my Back.

Back:  Don’t even start, you spineless wimp.  Just Back off.

MOUTH:  Alright, alright.  I know when my back is against the wall.  It’s true.  I DO wreak havoc on y’all.  Sometimes I say things I don’t mean.  I can’t take them back.  Then I eat to numb the pain.  But it’s not like when we were younger.  Nobody’s washing me out with soap anymore.  Nobody’s fixing my meals and monitoring my Sweets.  I’m on my own.  It’s a lot of Lip Service, I tell you.  Not to mention when tragedy befalls us all, I’m the one tries to keep a stiff upper lip. 

Feet:  That’s a whole lotta tongue-in-cheek.  You don’t have to just grin and bear it.   It’s not your fault, Mouth – –  so don’t get cold feet.

Back:  Think on your feet, Man.  We’re trying to get Mouth to wipe that smile off her face.  And own up to things.

Feet:  Look, Mouth is just a mouthpiece.  I don’t mean to be punny, but it’s our Sole Soul that’s got some issues that are more than just skin deep.  Yet for now, she manages to stand on her own two feet, keeps her feet planted firmly on the ground, and last I looked, she’s not six feet under and doesn’t have one foot in the grave either.  So just give her a break.   She’s just eating.  And speaking.   If the shoe were on the other foot, wouldn’t we all just want to put our best foot forward?   I’m just sayin’.

Brains:  Honestly I’ve racked myself for days now.  And I know Soul has done a lot of deep searching as well.  But until we join forces together for an entire Mind, Body, Soul connection, we’re never going to be anybody.

All Together:  We don’t want to be just Any Body.  We want to be Somebody.  Somebody special.

Neck: Then why don’t we stop focusing on ourselves and start Sticking our Neck out for others?

And that’s when I really began to listen more intently  – – because I knew that at last . . .  the right questions were finally getting asked.

Sorry, the rest of the conversation is kinda private – – After all, in the end – – we all must answer only to ourselves.

photo 3-4 But if you’re still only into “The Physical,” here you go – – have a listen below!

 

 

 

 

 

An Open (Mopin’, Copin’, Gropin’ & Hopin’) Letter to the Internet:

To My Dearest Internet . . .

To My Dearest Internet . . .

Dear Internet,

Some days you’re a treasure I’d never replace – –  just wanna send you a Cyber Hug.

Other days, you’re nothing but a huge disgrace  – – just wanna pull your darn plug.

Without you, I wouldn’t have found a website to meet the Man of My Dreams,

Or discovered that Organic Farm Raised salmon isn’t always what it seems.

Farm raised or Wild?  The Internet has the scoop on which is worse for you!  Oh and google, "blackened lemons" you'll be outraged at what that does to your health!

Farm-Raised or Wild? The Internet has the scoop on which is worse for you! Oh and google, “blackened lemons” you’ll be outraged at what that does to your health!

Thank goodness you give me the opportunity to cleverly Google. . .

“How to find free coupons” so I can actually claim to be frugal.

You’re adorable – –  everyday I can see another cute, little kitten,

Or check out WordPress for new great posts *that’ve recently been written.

But when I look up  *“that’ve”  on the online Webster Dictionary,

to make sure it’s a true contraction, I find out it’s purely *Fictionary!

Oh wait, there’s more! I search and find  *“Fictionary”  is also not a real word?

You’re wasting my time with all this obsessive checking, it’s totally absurd!

But thanks for letting me bank, shop, and rent movies with a click – – so convenient.

Until lotsa time gets wasted when your Password Prompts aren’t very lenient.

The name of my first pet? First boyfriend? First Pimp? Which town did I go to school in?

No, you didn’t really ask me the Pimp question, I confess I was sorta just foolin’!

And you SHOULD Remember them.  But how??  Who was my first boyfriend anyway?  The boy I passed notes to?  The boy I hit?  The boy I kissed?  The boy I . . . ?

And you SHOULD Remember them. But how?? Who was my first boyfriend anyway? The boy I passed notes to? The boy I hit? The boy I kissed? The boy I . . . ?

But then you eagerly insist I type some odd code to prove I’m a real person,

A string of nonsense so hard to decipher, my disdain for you starts to worsen.

Why do you need my information to be so secure, so precise and so exact?

I found out the other day, it’s because people like me tend to get hacked!

Go ahead – – mess up my accounts, my Facebook, blogs, & email – – there’s nothing left,

Before the invention of you, Dear Internet, there wasn’t this much Identity Theft!

Well if they become me, they’ll get my poor memory, my big hair, plus six kids galore,

Come to think of it, even I don’t really desire to be Me anymore!!

But one things for sure, you need to stop making everything be about sex,

In that way, Dear Internet –  –  you actually remind me an awful lot of my Ex.

We can filter our drinking water, our swimming pools, our coffee, and an aquarium.  But can we filter out S-E-X ??

We can filter our drinking water, our swimming pools, our coffee, and an aquarium. But can we filter out S-E-X  from the Internet??

My Ex loved computers and when we divorced, shortly after his move-out evacuation. . .

I inherited his Apple before I knew how to use it – – I call it “Premature iMaculation.”

“Hey! This is Little Miss Menopause’s Ex-husband chiming in, none of this is true,

It seems she writes whatever she wants about me, and her Followers have no clue!”

See Dear Internet?  Even a simple poem that I compose for you is subject to a hijacking.

If I were smarter, I would write on a typewriter – – and just like my Ex, send you packing!

Well it looks as though (at least for the foreseeable future) you’re staying a big part of my life,

But no more Info about Cleaning, Recipes for Dinner, and Sex – – I am sooo NOT your Wife!!

 

Disclaimer:  “Man of Dreams” and “Ex Husband” mentioned without their permission.  They comment here regularly.  Please visit their WordPress blogs as way of compensation for “good-natured” participation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But First . . . Lemme NOT Take a Selfie!

photo-405In Breaking News, the word “Selfie” has now made it into the official Scrabble Dictionary during this recent month of Aug, 2014.  And here to tell us more about the story, as well as some of the history of Selfies is our own Roving, Roaming (and Random) Reporter, Little Miss Menopause.

Thank you, News Room.  The first historical documentation of the word “Selfie” occurred in 1964 when some kid named Ralph turned around and pointed his Polaroid camera straight into his own face so he could see how bright the flash actually was.  Dressed in costume for their annual holiday family portrait, his parents framed the little overexposed, Red-Eyed Santa’s Helper, placing it on the Mantle for all to see. That night when company came for Christmas dinner, they bragged . . .

“There’s our Ralphie in a Selfie as an Elfie on the Shelfie.”

Shouldn't these be called "Woofies?"

Shouldn’t these be called “Woofies?”

But today, as cell phone camera popularity surges, the Selfie has become the sort of photography phenomenon that nobody can escape.  I myself, feel that taking portraits should be something intimate and beautiful that’s only shared between two loving and committed people, the Professional Shooter and the Subject – –  but if our society is okay with Technological Masturbation, who am I to argue?

However, many have not anticipated the newest strict laws sweeping the nation.  The Selfie format will quickly be replacing all prior cases where professional photography was previously used and in some cases, legally mandated.  Examples of this will soon be found in your local Department of Motor Vehicles, Passport Offices, County Jails, and even Playboy Magazine.  So how might these professional photographers (who are soon to become jobless) feel about these laws? Listen to my brief interviews.

First I talked with Dick Handle, Head Photographer at Playboy Magazine:

“I don’t know, Little Miss Menopause.  It’s really not gonna work.  First of all, one of the reasons men buy Playboy is because they know a male is posing these girls – – Guys instinctively know what other men wanna see.  If women take their own Selfie and that becomes the centerfold, it’s gonna be all fashion oriented with close-ups of their purses and shoes.  I don’t know any healthy red-blooded male who wants to see a pair of shoes over a pair of bongos like yours.  Know what I mean, heh heh?”

Um, Sorta.  Additionally, Mr. Handle has these suggestions to share, should the “Do It YourSelfie” laws take effect.

TIPS FOR PLAYBOY CENTERFOLD SELFIES

Bring your own high speed Fan and Favorite Cleavage Faker bra.  Look seductively into the lens, lick your lips, and choose one of the following phrases to shout flirtatiously at yourself, while wolf-whistling:

a)  Show me that sexy little pout!

b)  That’s it Baby, the camera loves you!

c)  C’mon Sweetheart, Arch your back – – close your eyes and say “Super Bowl Sunday.”

photo 1-7

Over at the California Crowded Community Criminal County Concourse Correctional Center where they Charge Creepers with Crimes, I spoke with Melvin Mugsly who asked me to say that last sentence three times in a row, quickly.  Just kidding, he actually asked me if he could comment on what would take place if all Alleged incoming Bad Guys took their own official Mug Shots.  And he doesn’t mean pictures to be printed on Starbucks coffee cups, either.

“So you’re tellin’ me some dude who just got brung in from holding up Bank of America is gonna strut into a booth, with a mirror so they can go all pretty boy and smile nice for their Selfie Booking Picture?  I don’t think that’s right, Man.  They be all slumpin’ down in front of the height wall so they look shorter and shit.  Oh, I get what’s happenin’ now!  This here’s one of them joke shows.  Looky here.  This is Candid Camera, right?  I always wanted to be on that thing.”

Not quite Mr. Mugsly.  However he does bring up a good point.  How will these Selfie 10 Most Wanted Posters hanging on walls in the post office, appear to customers?  Gone will be that fierce, “You don’t want to run into me in a dark alley” grimace and instead, many of them might very well look like our own husbands after they mow the lawn and are demanding sex, eh ladies? (But we all know he’ll settle for a cold beer!)

How do we know he's really not a midget wearing high heels?  Selfie Mug Shots will be very deceiving.

How do we know he’s really not a midget wearing high heels? Selfie Mug Shots will be very deceiving.

Next I chatted with Miss Daisy Driver (no relation to Driving Miss Daisy) at the Department of Motor Vehicles and asked her what will happen when people are allowed to snap their own photo for their official driver’s license picture?

“Well, I really don’t think it’s going to change anything at all.  People are already coming in here and writing the answers to “what should you do when you come to a four-way stop?” on their hands so they can pass the test.  Everybody has the eye chart completely memorized so they won’t have to wear glasses.  Women are constantly fudging their weight on the form.  I don’t see what difference it’s going to make if their Selfie picture actually looks half decent, instead of looking like a mutant squashed alien with limp hair and dreadful skin.”

Before I wrap up my feature story, let me just say that there’s also been talk of Selfies infiltrating into the Baby Photography industry.  Instead of professional grown-ups hiding behind expensive equipment with a black velvet cloth draped over it, exclaiming “Say Cheese!” there will be special toy cameras, perhaps a bit more sophisticated than the one pictured below.  Children will be encouraged to jingle a set of keys at themselves, while making goofy clucking sounds with their lips to coax themselves into their first real smiles.  Asian Child Photographer (and chef!)  Goo Goo Ga-Ga Gai Pan was unavailable for comment.

This has been a special featured story from your Roving, Raving (and Writhing!) Reporter, Little Miss Menopause.  And now. . . Back to you.

photo-403

You Can Go Straight to Heck!

Putting this on a travel brochure isn't exactly going to make Hell the new preferred Vacation Spot.

Putting this on a travel brochure isn’t exactly going to make Hell the new preferred Vacation Spot.

As a freelance writer, I sometimes get approached by companies to write unique brochures or think up clever advertising copy.  But I’ve never had a client’s conference call scare the hell outa me like this one did.   That’s because these fellows were hell bent on . . . (wait for it)  giving Hell a makeover.

The Phone Call From Hell

I answered the way I normally do when my Cell rings.

Me:  Hell–

Dante (Cutting me off) Listen to that boys, she was expecting us!

Me:  Uh, no.  HELL-O?  I was just saying Hello.

Mel:  Whatever.  This is Mel from Hell.  You know . . . Hell Enterprises.   We heard your writing is on fire.  Hot as hell.

Me:  (blushing)  Why you little devil, you.  Flattery will get you everywhere.

Harry:  Yeah, we need a new image.  We’re not profiting in the whole “AfterLife” trend.  We don’t know how to compete with Heaven.

Dante:  That’s right, we can’t hold a candle to Heaven’s slogans.  They’ve got “Heaven Sent.”  And “Thank Heaven.”  Oh, don’t forget “In Seventh Heaven” and “A Match made in Heaven.”

Me:  Kind of ironic you can have a “Helluva” good time in heaven, huh?   But haven’t you ever heard the saying, “Something stinks to high heaven?”  Their reputation’s not exactly 100% blemish free.

Mel:  See boys?  I knew Miss Menopause would go to Hell and back for us.   Got any other brilliant ideas?

Me:  Lemme see if I can work up a nice, new Public Relations campaign and I’ll get back to you.

Harry:  This better not cost too much, ya hear?

Dante:  That’s right!  Give ’em Hell, Harry!

Me: (unable to resist) As far as my rates go, if I do my best work, there could be Hell to Pay.

But Then . . . All Hell Broke Loose!

After the phone call, I froze with fear.  Indeed, if hell froze over, there wouldn’t be a snowball’s chance in hell that I could come up with something to give Hell a positive spin.  What was I thinking?  Maybe the Devil made me do it.

The first thing I noticed when I typed the word on my Smartphone, it would autocorrect “Hell” to “He’ll.”  That got me thinking that tweaking Hell’s name ever so slightly could be just the thing it needed.  Hmmm, “Who the Hill do you think you are?” might just catch on.  What a difference a vowel can make!

But then again, substituting “Hill” might remind people of a “Hill of beans” and “Finding their thrill on Blueberry Hill.”  From that kind of Hill, it would only be a Slippery Slope to marching, “Over Hill, Over Dale…”

Nah, back to the drawing board.

Hell’s Kitchen

I always feel more creative when I take my mind off the subject.  Hungry, I went into the kitchen and ate some deviled eggs.  Then I frosted a devil’s food cake for dinner.  Food wasn’t the answer.  Maybe housecleaning would help.  I ran my Dirt Devil vacuum over the carpet.  I know!  I needed entertainment.  First I danced to “Devil With the Blue Dress on,” then watched the movie, “The Devil Wears Prada.  Sheesh, could “The Devil in Miss Jones” be far behind?

But I knew I needed to keep busy – – after all, “idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”  And what in the Hell was I gonna tell Harry, Dante, & Mel?

SPEAKING OF THE DEVIL . . .

When the phone rang again, I thought I would answer it differently this time.

Me:  Hi Guys, I was just thinking of you. Were your ears Burning?

Dante:  Not funny.

Harry:  So what’s your new plan?

Me: (nervously)  Alright, open minds, right?  You wanna change public perception, yes?  So we need a new Mascot.  The Devil is too Red and Pointy. You want something Rounder, more circular, something kids like.

Some parents feel like they've been through hell after a trip to Disneyland.

Some parents feel like they’ve been through hell after a trip to Disneyland.

MelMickey Mouse ain’t exactly available.

Me:  I was thinking more like a jar of mayonnaise.  And it’s already got your name on it, too!   “Hellmann’s Mayo.”  Whadya think?

Dante:  Where did ya find this crazy broad, Mel?

Mel:  I don’t eat mayonnaise.  And what’s wrong with pointy?  We like those ears and that tail.

The Devil is in the details.

Me:  Okay, but you gotta abandon the Fiery and Forever association.  “Burning in Eternal Hell” doesn’t exactly sell like hotcakes.  Maybe it can be just a temporary thing.  Like it Fades after 10 Washes?”

Harry:  Nobody has to go straight to hell.  They can always take the Scenic Route.

Me: (encouraging)  That’s sweet.  I like it.  But let’s get back to the Sales.  What can be sold?

Dante:  You can always sell your soul.

Me:  Watch that Creep Factor,  Dante.  How about a fun board game with a pitchfork on the lid?  People love to play Devil’s Advocate.

Harry:  Not interested.

Me:  Postcards from hell?  Vacation from hell?   Ooh!  Husbands from hell!  Women seem very attracted to that.  Or a new car called, “Hell On Wheels?”  A brand of bottled H2O called, “Come Hell or High Water?”

Mel:  That all ya got, Kiddo?

Me:  (brightening)  Okay, brace yourself.  The other side uses, “A Stairway to Heaven.” Right?   So we’ll make you guys “An Escalator to Hell.”

After they slammed the phone down on me, I realized I couldn’t do this kind of thing without help.  That was it!    H-E-L-P!

HELP Is On The Way!

It wasn’t a vowel that needed replacing, it was a consonant.

I wrote an entire marketing plan, highlighting the virtues of changing “Hell” to “Help.”  Everybody needs a little Help now and then.  It’s more comfortable giving someone Help than it is to give someone Hell.   Nobody minds asking for Help.   There was a good movie out recently called, “The Help.”  The Beatles even had a hit song, “Help!”  It was a brilliant plan, but would they buy it?

I could get lucky.  This might just work.  I emailed the whole thing off to them.

Days went by and I didn’t hear anything back.  I was getting a bit angry at being ignored.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I really tried my best and had given it my all.

The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

I didn’t want to Battle these guys anymore.

War is Hell.

Hell’s Help’s Angels

When I answered the phone, Dante was singing another Beatles song, “I get by with a little HELL from my friends.”  No, no, no!  Please don’t let this thing backfire.  But his sidekicks sounded enthusiastic. . .

Mel:  You’re a Genius!  Changing “Hell” to “Help” was exactly the push into the public eye we needed!

Harry:  That’s right.  We’ve never felt more loved and wanted.

Me:  Wow, so you like it?

Dante:  Like it??  The entire country is talking about us.  But how did you get so many businesses to put our new slogan on a sign in their window so quickly?

Me:  What new slogan?

Mel:  “Help Wanted!”

Pavlov’s Blog (Confessions of a Compulsive Commenter)

diaryRecently I had the exciting opportunity to be a Guest Blogger on “One Cool Site”  I really cannot think of a more fitting and apropos title for a blog than that one. TimeThief is the very first author I ever perused here on WordPress – – and not a day goes by that I don’t pat myself on the back for having the good fortune (and good sense!) to have clicked that “Follow” button. She has taught me everything I needed to know about WordPress and blogging (plus many things I never realized I WOULD ever need to know!) And if you enter a word or blogging term on her Search Bar, you’ll catch your breath at the plethora of useful, well-written posts that will surface. If you haven’t been to her site yet, I wholeheartedly recommend that you visit now and immediately subscribe to her expertise!

And now for those of you who think that “Commenting on Blogs has literally gone to the Dogs,” please do read on . . .

photo-400Pavlov’s Blog (Confessions of a Compulsive Commenter)

By Guest Author, Little Miss Menopause who blogs at thequotegal.wordpress.com

The Comment Section on a Blog can really bring out the same personality traits you would exhibit at a cocktail party. 1,261 more words

Would You Date Casper the Ghost?

Casper the GhostWhen you’re a Ghost Writer, you often wish you hadn’t agreed to let someone else take credit for YOUR brilliant, original words.   Nothing worse than a regretful phantom.  But are people ever sorry they asked you to ghost write for them?  I think my obnoxious divorcee neighbor wishes she could take back that fateful day when she asked me to compose her online dating profile.  Listen:

Lydia: I just got my eyes and boobs done.

Me:  Done? I didn’t realize you were born with incomplete sets?

Lydia:  Very funny.  And the Doctor took some extra fat off my butt and injected it into my lips, so they’re nice and full.

Me:  Great!  Now all those men can continue to kiss your ass and never even know it.

At least you won't have to wonder where thin lips like these may have been before!

At least you won’t have to wonder where thin lips (like these) MAY have been before!

Lydia:  Never mind that.  How about using some of that clever humor of yours to help me find someone who will appreciate my anti-aging efforts?

She had a point.  I have never seen anyone so well-preserved – – except maybe a jar of strawberry jam.

That’s why I simply have no idea why Lydia rejected the witty title I composed for her Personal Ad. . .

Will you be my Charmed Princester Before I Become an Old Spinster?

Some people can be so picky.  But I changed it to something much better.

The adventure was on!  Lydia enthusiastically gave me her password to Match.com and soon I was thrust into the Online Single Dating world.  AS SOMEONE ELSE.

And lemme tell you – – with my very Dark Brunette style of writing, I was gonna make extra sure that Blondes do indeed, have more fun.

The intro line . . .

5ft 2″, Green-Eyed Monster Blonde Hears Voices, But Has Too Much SelFContRol to Act On Them!

And then because everyone knows that men need a good opening line to help them write interesting responses. . .

BE surE to ask me about the time I Stumbled and trippEd over my right breast.

Then the middle portion went like this . . .

EXcited to meet “The Man in the Mirror!”  I’ll certainly be your “Thriller.”  On our first date, we won’t “Stop Till You Get Enough.” I might be “Bad” in bed, but at least you won’t have to stay home alone and “Beat It.”

Yeah.  She may not be such a huge Michael Jackson fan anymore after she reads that. Maybe she’ll stop blasting “Billy Jean” at 2 am.

I’m an expert stripper and very good with my hands.  But my sanding and varnishing skills might need a little work.

Ho hum – –  my own humor was boring even to me, and the money she was shelling out ($0) for me to write this junk wasn’t worth it, so when I got sick and tired of thinking up little gems, I decided to peruse the male online profiles.  AS LYDIA.

And lo and behold, whom do I see but my ex-husband!   At first I didn’t think it was really him, because the headline didn’t proclaim, “God’s Gift To Women.”  But I’d know that stupid joke about the one-legged flamingo and roll of toilet paper anywhere.  It was definitely him. Perfect.  I quickly poked and prodded and pinched and winked until he finally sent me a real message. Aha!  I gleefully watched his status change from “Guest” to “Paying member.”  Good.  Because I was worth it.

I took this as my big opportunity to find out what he really tells people about the reason why we got divorced.

Hi Handsome! Before we get in too Deep, I’m a Firm believer in finding out why a man’s marriage failed.  Mind telling me your story?  Flirtaciously Yours,  Lydia.

I figured I had him with “Deep” and “Firm.”  His response came instantaneously.

Forget it.  You’re just as nosy as my Ex-Wife.

Hmmph – – How dare he respond so rudely to poor, innocent Lydia!

I turned my attentions back to her silly profile and decided what Lydia needed was some nice photos to attract just the right man for her.  I went onto Google Maps, entered her Home address, and found a lovely picture taken in her backyard from a helicopter.  Men just love candids.  And another taken of her smoking, so all the guys could appreciate how much determination it took for her to quit.

I'm Seeking a Non-Smoker ONLY.

I’m Seeking a Non-Smoker ONLY.

There's no grass back here for you to have to mow!

Dear Potential Mate:  There’s no grass back here for you to have to mow!

Next I decided to scope out Lydia’s competition and began methodically scanning all the women until I ran straight into one I recognized.  It was none other than my boyfriend’s sister-in-law.  The only problem was she was happily married.  To my boyfriend’s brother.  What to do?  What to do?  There was only one thing to do.  I called my boyfriend and broke the bad news to him.

Boyfriend:  Forget my sister-in-law.  You were  roaming around on a dating website because . . . ??

Me:  Oh.  That’s easy.  I was hired by my neighbor Lydia to write a profile for her.  Just call her and verify everything, Honey.

It could have been that Lydia no longer thought my humor was very funny.  Or it could have been the slightly unflattering photos of her that I put up.  But I seriously doubt it was my clever new title for her profile . . .

I’m Chlamydia Lydia – – Looking For My Penicillin Pete!

I guess I’ll never know the exact reason because Lydia refused to say.  But she vehemently denied ever asking me to write her dating profile, which left me in some awfully hot water with my boyfriend.  That’s okay though, because Lydia now has a hot message of her own, running through her profile like a Secret Coded Anagram.  Check out the Green Capital letters above.

And good luck, Lydia!  I’m gonna make like a ghost and disappear now, but your online dating life might haunt you for some time to come.

 

 

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