what’s brown and sticky?
someone’s been walking their tree
oaken excremEnt
I once seriously considered starting a Tumblr of “Toys that look like turds.” I had small children and small geriatric dogs at the time, and scouring the carpeting before you stepped was a necessary habit. This beautiful work of nature is about 18″ long, so I have to conclude it’s Ent droppings. Guess they need to install one of those DogSpot bag dispensers in Fangorn.
It turns out I don’t want a purple hat,
Or a red dress that doesn’t go.
I just want to be completely done
With my monthly visit from Flo.
I am over producing progeny,
All my oats, I have sown.
Now for the special bonus round–
All systems shutting down!
I’m hot for no reason.
Today, I’m feeling stabby.
The Noxzema years are back,
And my hair is getting shabby.
Well, not all my hair,
That would be a silver lining.
The hair where I don’t want it
Is luxurious and shining.
You can tell me about dignity,
And post-40 freedom—that’s true.
But physically? This sucks a lot,
I hope it’s easier for you.
Doctors will mess with my ‘mones,
Heh… sort it out in a…flash,
But for right now I’m stuck–
Waxing my menostache.
Since poems about lady problems are super popular, I saved this one for the Sunday night dead zone. I’m also at a point in my own lady journey where I don’t much care who likes it. That said, here’s a *high five* for all the women. You ladies are tough.
I’m cleaning out the closets
As if a baby’s about to arrive.
NO, NO, NO, I’m long done with that.
My baby’s a world-weary five.
The cleaning and scrubbing binge
That I’m energetically on
Is for when school starts this fall
And both my babies are gone!
No, not to college, not even close,
Just elementary school for now.
I’ll be all alone in my quiet house
Managing to cope somehow.
My lovely empty closets,
And clean, tidy rooms,
Will stay that way for hours
Sans the chaotic fruit of my womb.
So as summer skids to a stop,
I’ll spend hours on organization
For that first peaceful cup of joe
Of my school-days-only vacation.
I am in a serious bout of nesting behavior right now, cleaning out closets and hanging drapes and calling a housepainter for the outside. When the school year hits, those of us who work opportunistically around kids can finally concentrate for more than 10 minutes without a request for pancakes, the iPad, or punishment for the other child. I am feverishly working toward a house that is clean, quiet, and free of distracting, disorganized junk and projects uncompleted. It won’t actually all happen, but some of it will, and that is better than none of it.
PS. The painter is also quoting that deck railing because I….ahem….haven’t quite gotten that ironed out by myself yet.
I’m not doing dishes,
The laundry can wait.
I’m taking a break
Before I self-immolate.
I was patient ’til two,
When fit pitching commenced.
Why do days have more hours?
It doesn’t make sense?
The Minion keyboard,
And the too soapy bath,
Your unbrushing of teeth,
They aroused some wrath.
I won’t take it out
On my brood suburban.
Instead I’ll hunt Mordor
And drink all the bourbon.
You go commando,
And eat with no forks.
Mom’s in the basement,
Slaughtering orcs.
I find video games to be very therapeutic in a sort of violently fun way. I’m about 65% of the way through the Game of the Year Edition of Shadow of Mordor. I might be able to finish it by the end of the summer, since I don’t play it in front of the kids. Then it’s on to Witcher III. My older kid is a Minecraft nerd. Raisin’ ’em right. Gonna have some little engineers around here.
Also…there might be some typos because that bourbon isn’t a prop. C’est la vie.
I don’t feel like poeming today.
Much obliged if you’ll just look away.
I’d rather write stories about crazy old bats,
So I’m spending today working on that.
Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be rhyming again.
I might have a haiku under my pen. *shrug*
Today–meh. Agnes has my attention,
So Bad Poem-a-Day is left in suspension.
My collection of psychological horror stories, Bitches and Dead People, is on its way to the editor very soon, and I decided at the last minute to ditch one of the stories and replace it with this story about Agnes, a foul-mouthed, paranoid octogenarian whom I find very bad and very funny. When I write about these people, I like to stay in their heads in an uninterrupted stream–meaning, I don’t like to skip back and forth between different projects while the story is in progress. You understand. I hope.
When nothing is planned
And summer gets long,
The kids come running
To sing their people’s song.
He kicked my face!
She stole my book!
He showed me his butt!
She shouldn’t have looked!
Screeching and thumping,
Then footsteps towards me,
With grievances ready
In hopes that I’ll be….
What? Do you want me to yell?
Do you want me to punish?
Are you looking for sympathy?
Do you hope to astonish?
My standard reaction
Disappoints the little Judas.
Go handle it yourself.
I don’t know why you do this.
Despite my disinterest,
They can’t seem to refrain.
There’s nothing too trifling
For them to complain.
For so many reasons, I am grateful we were able to have two children. This is not one of them.
I’m spending this summer’s TV time on Winchesters,
Because most of my friends are hardcore investors.
Season One left me, frankly, shaking my head.
How are these Duke clones not already dead?
I don’t like Impalas, and neither is my “type,”
The things that they hunt are all bogans and snipe.
I mostly wanted them to STOP WITH THE TALKING.
Get on with the hunting and beheading and stalking.
Season Two was slightly better, less earnestly bad.
Eventually they got over their issues with Dad.
By Season Five, I admit I was hooked.
This show’s better than it initially looked.
It turns out, they needed to poke fun at themselves
While salting and burning the goblins and elves.
Plus wondrous Heaven opened, and deposited Cass.
God’s agenda gave the show quite a kick in the ass.
Ambiguous angel, can we trust him or not?
I’m still not sure, with how far I’ve got.
Sam and Dean are a co-dependent mess,
But I like them both and hope for the best.
They can’t get out of their own way, painfully so.
But their charming flaws are the heart of the show.
I’ve been to Hell and back twice, at the halfway point,
I expect to go again, before we blow this joint.
It’s preposterous fun, all wrapped in the boys,
With a side of humanity under the noise.
When the writing is suspect or the plot gets thin,
I excuse it ’til the good stuff starts up again.
Am I Superfan Becky? Don’t be an idjit.
I ain’t seen every little thing they did yet.
I’m watching Supernatural for the first time, and it’s grown on me a lot. The lesson there, in some ways, is that fans will excuse a few less than good episodes if you get the big thing right–main characters you care about and want to see succeed. Bonus points if you read it out loud in your best Bobby Singer.
As for the children in the picture, there’s a month left before school starts and I’ll leave it to you to decide who the salt is protecting.
The tide goes in, the tide goes out,
The tide goes up and in your snout.
The air was there, but now it’s not,
The tide macramés strands of snot.
Again it’s in, then out the breach,
Behind it leaves a little beach.
You’re found aground, tide receded,
The nose now knows–you’re deceded.
This seabird appears to have slipped on a banana peel and DIED. Life is not a cartoon. Please pick up your fruit skins.
The first couplet is an homage to the old classic nursery rhyme, “The worms go in, the worms go out…” etc… That’s one that’ll stay with you for life.
I’ve heard that tidying up
Creates some sort of magical joy.
That memo got lost in transit
To my soft-hearted medium boy.
The pile of stuffed pups alone
Would give the famous tidier fits.
But Mrs. Dog is here to stay
And so are her 99 kids.
They all have names and jobs,
Some hounds are secretly super.
The dust they put out when handled
Would leave Superman in a stupor.
This pile of friends doesn’t light up my life
When I’m stacking them on the bed.
I think I should just hug medium boy.
My joy seems to live there instead.
Everyone is on the tidying train it seems. I did it to my sock drawer. My sock drawer is pretty fabulous, I admit. This magical tidying does not affect any of the other creatures that I live with, however. It must be a very short range spell.
YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY 