When he formed his “Broadband,” he wanted them all girly: ruffles and boutique lace, and he wanted their hair curly. But I fear that what he named them is a bit passé, for no one ever calls a girl a “broad” today.
Still, he liked the name and said he would not cave and make use of modern lingo, so the name he gave remained in use as east and west they traveled on their tours. Those shiny broads continued their bills and coos and purrs,
bravely enduring catcalls and pickets from their sisters who proclaimed real women did not cave in to misters who use insulting language like battle-ax, broad and bitch, bimbo, bird and arm-candy, sheila, chick and witch.
An “all-girl” band’s acceptable, at least was in the past, but women’s lib participants hope this band will not last. Their music’s great and expressed according to their nature. Too bad a guy decided on their clothes and nomenclature.
Zoe is a naughty imp, impetuous and furtive. It does me not one bit of good to try to be assertive. When I employ tactics in trying to curb her, I admit it does nothing at all to disturb her.
Her larger brothers turn wild as well to cope with this little sister from Hell. When I try to train them with whistle or bribe, it does nothing at all to curb my wild tribe.
In the end I give up and retreat to my room leaving the floor mat, my plants and the broom to be rendered asunder by one tiny pup who’s developed a creed that she’ll never give up
until every tactic she knows is deployed to insure every thing in her path is destroyed. Then she’ll turn on her brothers ten times her size and pester them ruthlessly with no reprise.
My head I shake slowly. My hands? I throw up, hoping that one day she’ll surely grow up. Then I’ll recount fondly when she was a pup!
He deserves a place of residence less lofty than the president’s. I vote we lodge this evil clown in a place of less renown. Some hole with bars would suit him well. No waver to escape this hell, for there’s no cure medicinal that his craziness can quell.
To improve those ancient feelings regarding love that’s past— all of those sad endings for love that didn’t last— relate the facts as comedy. Banter about life’s failings. Laughter serves you better than retroactive wailings!
Actually, the past love I’m fighting sad feelings about today is the 22 year old Royal Poinciana tree that they are cutting down today. It had root rot and was in danger of falling so it had to be done. So, unbeknownst to me, I gave myself good advice in writing this poem which started out to be about love of another variety. Here is the tree in all its former glory:
My love is ambidextrous, dispensed by either hand, dished out in two varieties: dried kibble or in canned. Bestowed in pats and scratchings on tummies or on ears, never controversial and never in arrears.
I am love’s first ambassador, affection’s main dispenser. No love is deeper, wider, or more heartfelt or denser.
Whether sleeping, eating, playing or in any other guise,
I admire thee from wagging tail to thy chalcedony eyes.
I promise to protect thee from draft or snow or rain, to deliver thee from hunger, thirst, distress and pain. I’ll be grateful acceptor of your leaps and licks and chewings, of all your puppy excesses and your destructive doings.
All that I ask you in return is that you love me, too, and express that love by going outside to pee and poo!!!!
Forgottenman said I have to write a birthday poem, so here it is:
Expired
I will not curb my inhibitions, and so I will not sail off on new adventures out beyond the pale. That powerful compunction to be off on an adventure, ever after, I declare to have my sincere censure.
Apathy is my new creed. I simply do not care to meet with any challenges or answer any dare. I’ll gaze upon my garden and watch its petals fall and when faced with challenges? Reject them one and all.
I’ve officially retired. I’m taking up TV. I’ll sit here eating popcorn, a cat upon my knee. I’ll make up for a lifetime of my lack of viewing and rail against what all the youngsters of today are doing.
I’m done with being active and current and involved. I’ve lost my former need for being current and evolved. Forget that I exist and let me moulder in my den. I’m both used up and giving up on all that I have been.
Three-quarters of a century’s enough for being me. Now I will investigate what else there is to be. I’ll expire before the date that I am due for expiration, and simply coast along for the rest of my duration.
The housewife and her classmates have staged a small reunion to munch and drink but mainly talk—an annual communion wherein they build a campfire and the drunker that they get the more that they tell stories they’re afraid that they’ll forget if they don’t repeat them yearly, so they tell them to their spouses, who, I must admit, wish they’d remained home in their houses. Yet, most don’t blame their loved ones for their memories of the past, although they know they’ll hear them for as long as memories last. They are ambassadors of patience as they hear each tale again, about the wild and zany things their spouse did way back when.
I’ll be going back to my class reunion/ town reunion in less than two weeks, but alas, with no spouse in tow. Stretching the truth a bit above. They only occur every 5 years and actually not that much drinking goes on. Poetic license, you know. The photos are, however, from my town and class reunions of the past.
Unearthly nutrition is on its last legs. How often have you been served deviled eggs? Ambrosia they say was the food of the gods,
but to be served it now? Just what are the odds? And only when faith causes us to unleaven are we ever gifted with mana from heaven. Heavenly hash and devil’s food cake are dishes that only a cougar would make to lure her young lover into her lair. Wherein she’d seduce him with her angel hair pasta to help him to bolster his energy— her clever plot to improve their synergy! But, if you’d like to start a new trend, by reprising old recipes, then read on, friend. A *karma cocktail or a **devil’s brew? Now and then it won’t hurt you to have one or two.
*A karma cocktail is made with Captain Morgan Spiced Rum, Triple Sec, Orange Juice, and Lemon Lime Soda!
To make a**devil’s brew : In a shaking glass, add vodka, triple sec, melon liqueur, peach schnapps and lime juice. Shake well. 3. Gently add ice to serving glass and strain mix over before layering ever clear on top and lighting.
“Halo everybody, Halo. Halo is the shampoo that glorifies your hair, so Halo everybody, Halo!” The remnants that dangle on the edge of memory when I awaken from a barely-accessible dream are not ones that my conscious mind sees fit to shove to the front of the crowd of past retorts, compliments, taunts, scraps of poetry, lines from old movies and musical ditties that upon occasion drift across it, but when the word “halo” is also repeated as a prompt in the first blog I look up to gather my prompts for the day’s poem, it seems too much of a coincidence to be coincidence.
This terrific Internet roadway that has led me to a worldwide circle of friends, combined with the scrap of memory from my dream, has led me backwards in time to an early morning seventy years before. My dad is long gone, out to feed the cattle or survey the wheat crop, my older sisters have vanished across the street to their classrooms at the first pealing of the school bell, my mother sits in my dad’s deserted rocker with coffee, toast and the morning paper, and I lie on my stomach in front of the Victrola, switching on the radio.
It is that time of the morning when Mother and I are content to let the morning languish away for awhile. It is a terrific time of freedom for my mother, who often insists she is lazy at heart but who in fact makes sure there is always a meal on the table, skirts hemmed, sheets ironed, Christmas presents piled under the tree in time for them to be admired for a week or more before Christmas, Easter eggs hidden just carefully enough in nests that peek out a tiny bit from beside the sofa or the bottom edge of the curtain.
And for me, it is a time when I have total control over what station the radio in our console record player/radio will be tuned to. Every morning, the Halo Shampoo song issues cheerily out into the morning air and already, in the dawn of media commercials, I have been influenced by what I hear. I have persuaded my mother to invest in our first bottle of Halo shampoo, and although I am five now and old enough to know the difference between metaphor and truth, still some part of me imagines the halo that will waft lightly over my head next Sunday as I flip my hair at the corner before setting out to cross the one street between our house and the Methodist Church. God will know the difference, I am sure, and at lunch after Church, when Mother serves Devil’s Food Cake, I have convinced myself that the former will surely cancel out the latter.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 