BATH AND BODY AND STRESS, OH MY!

   Why do sales have to be so complicated? I love Bath & Bodyworks’ products. I really do. I’m not even being paid to say that. I swear. There’s just something about their lotions and body sprays that put a smile on my face. But I have to admit they’re not cheap. That’s why most people like to shop there (stock up) during their sales. But be warned. Their big annual sale will boggle your mind for hours long after you’ve left the store.

   This is what happens. You go into the store because you’ve been informed through a very cheery, colorful e-mail announcement that there is a big sale going on at the store for a limited time. 50% to 75% off. You can’t ignore deals like that. You smile, you grin, you hurry to the store because they’ve brought back that favorite scent of yours from two summers ago that they never should’ve discontinued in the first place which ticked you off so much that you don’t even want to talk about it. Where were we? Oh yes, you’re hurrying to the store. You get there. There are all kinds of goodies inside big, colorful cardboard boxes or giant glass vases. 50% and 75% off signs are taped to these displays. You roll up your sleeves, ready to fill up the large tote bag that some kind, smiling store helper offered to you. You’re ready for the hunt because it is a hunt to try to find your favorite scents that always seem to sell out before you get there. (Do people camp out in front of the store? Sheesh!. How do the great scents get taken so fast?)

   Anyway, after a half hour of rummaging through every nook and cranny of the store, you somehow end up at the cash register with your not so full, but you tried tote bag. The cashier says, “That’ll be $55.94.”

   $55.94! What? How? That doesn’t sound like a sale total. That sounds like a regular day, there was no sale, what the heck is going on total. What happened? You only got a few minis (aka travel sized items), a small gift basket and a few regular size lotions that you decided you could tolerate. And you got some Sweet Pea products because they’re never discontinued and are a reliably good scent.

   The cashier explains how your purchases resulted in the not so fun $55.94 total. Apparently, the minis were on sale, but there were different sales. There was 75% off mini shower gels, 50% off mini body lotions and sprays. $3 large size body lotions and sprays for lotions and sprays that you don’t like and that were basically rejects the store can’t seem to get rid of. There was Buy 3, get one free sales and Buy 3 for $10 minis. Hey, wait. Weren’t minis 50% to 75% off? No, only certain minis were on sale, and the rest (or best options) were 3 for $10 and $5 each if purchased separately. Then there were the select gift sets  for 20% off. Wait. What’s that “select” business about? Select means some are on sale, and some are not. See a store helper to find out which ones aren’t on sale. There were new fragrances that all seemed to smell like air freshener or fruit salad in mini sizes for $1 each. Fragrances and items leftover from Christmas somehow managed to sneak into the display boxes and vases. Yet they were only 50% off. Shouldn’t they be 75% off to encourage customers to finally buy that crap...uh, special, seasonal items that somehow didn’t get sold in December? It’s summer. Who wants Santa socks in July?

   When the cashier is finishes explaining all of this to you, you’re head begins to hurt. Sales are supposed to be fun. They’re supposed to give you a thrill to know that you got quality stuff for less than retail prices. You were going to go around all week telling people what a great bargain shopper you are. But that didn’t happen. You end up picking out all of the minis you wanted which comes to five items. You say “I’ll just take these.” The cashier looks at you with a pleasant smile, secretly thinking you’re cheap, puts your baby-sized items in a cutsie paper shopping bag and says, “Have a nice day.”

   You walk out of the store in a daze. You’re head still hurts, but you feel a little special since you’re now one of the many people walking around the city carrying a Bath & Bodyworks’ shopping bag. It’s like you’re a part of a special club. But that sale was so disappointing. Why so many sales within sales being offered at once? Why did it have to be so confusing? Maybe you just won’t go to another one of their sales if they’re going to be like that. Why did you hurry to the store just to end up with five tiny bottles of stuff that you...” Wait. Hold on. You examine the contents of your bag and discover that there’s a coupon next to your receipt. Oh yeah! You smile to yourself, realizing that you’re gonna be back in five days when the annual sale is over, and your coupon coincidently begins to be valid. 

    

LOST MY MIND IN 95 DEGREE HEAT

   It was hot. How hot? It was air doesn’t feel like it’s moving, clothes sticking to your body in an intrusive way, don’t bother to comb your hair because it’s just going to frizz up, walked two steps and already perspiring like a pig type hot.

   It was almost a hundred degrees outside. Some girl walked by me wearing butt cheek exposing shorts. Yes, it’s hot. Is it okay to expose your butt cheeks in public hot? I’m going to say no to that. Don’t want to see your butt cheeks, lady. I went into the nearest subway station. Maybe I’d see a homeless person urinating in a corner. Butt cheeks and public urination...ah, the sights of the city are so varied, so entertaining. So gross, but I didn’t care anymore. It was too hot to care. I saw my train just waiting in the station as if waiting just for me. I was too hot to utter yay, but there were all kinds of yay feelings going on inside me. I wouldn’t have to wait in stifling heat on the subway platform for my train to come because it was there already. Yay! Right there in front of me. Yay!

   I noticed instantly that the train car I was about to step into was mostly empty. I did a quick study of how the few people on the train looked. I knew if they looked bothered and fanned themselves with their hands, newspapers, anything available, then that meant that there was no air-conditioning on the train. If they were all bunched up in one area, heads down or heads shaking in disgust, that meant that a homeless person was or had been on the train and filled the whole thing up with his or her body odor.

   It was too hot to continue my observances. I had to get on the train before it took off. I got on and was instantly greeted with a coolness that could only be described as pure heaven. I breathed in clean, non-B O tainted air. The few people around me were sitting quietly, enjoying the coolness, enjoying the non-smelliness, enjoying seats to themselves because everyone could sit separately without having a stranger’s sweaty body nudged up against theirs. I sat and smiled to myself. I settled into my seat and took out a book to read. It was amazing to be able to think coherently without feeling like my brain was sweating.

   The perspiration that had beaded along my skin dried instantly so that my blouse no longer clung to me. I read, smiled, mentally zoned out a couple of times as I was lulled into the comfortable bliss by one properly air-conditioned train ride.

   Several minutes later, the train stopped. I looked out the window and saw an 8th Street sign. 8th Street? I had been on 23rd Street with the intention of heading uptown. If I was on 8th Street, then that meant...what? What? I was going downtown? Seriously? I was on the wrong train? NOOOO! Say it wasn’t so, subway fates. Please say I did not get onto the wrong train that felt so right. But I did. Somehow in my overheated state of delusion, I did just that. I’d have to get off.

   But I didn’t want to get off. I couldn’t take the air-conditioning with me if I got off. It was hot beyond the train car doors. Too hot. How hot? It was dog tongues hanging out, ice cream melts in a cone in five seconds, everybody and their grandmother is at the pool,  want to slap everyone who goes around exposing their butt cheeks in public type hot. I didn’t want to see anymore butt cheeks!

   It was a mad world out there with temperatures that made a sane person downright snippy. Oh yes, I was in full snip mode. I didn’t want to see butt cheeks! I was on the wrong train! CRAP!!!

   But it was such a nice wrong train. I settled back in my seat. Who did I know in Brooklyn?

BEAR IN BED

Don't you hate it when Mother Nature calls just when you're all tucked in?

THE LADY AND THE BOY

THE LADY AND THE BOY

(comic & art)

by

Patricia G.

 

BOY: I can run fast like the wind.

LADY: I can vote.

                                                       BOY: I don't have to pay taxes.
                                                       LADY: I don't have to do homework.

                                       BOY: Because of my kid metabolism, I can eat anything I want and stay in shape without hardly any effort at all.

LADY: That was low.

                                                 

AM I THE ONLY ONE? Random Thoughts

1- (For all of you who know who T.I. is)

   Whenever I see T.I, I think chocolate Elvis, chocolate Elvis. Am I the only one? Come on. Think back to young, young Elvis Presley. “Viva Las Vegas” Elvis. Now visualize that baby face Elvis with a really good tan. What do you get when you do that? T.I.! Yes, you do. I can’t be the only one who thinks this.

 2- Every time I want to say Law and Order: SVU, I always have to think Special Victims Unit so that I don’t say SUV instead. Law and Order: SUV? Uh, yeah, that’s a special show about the terrible things that happen to SUVs on the mean streets of New York. Sure. :) 

3- How many of you have gone into a TD Bank just to get one of their free pens? Is that wrong? You have to admit the ink quality in them is quite good.

THREE SHEETS, WIND AND SODA?

“Three sheets to the wind- means drunk. Three sheets to (or in) the wind is a nautical expression. If three sheets, which are the ropes holding the sails rather than the sails themselves, are loose and blowing about then the boat will lurch about like a drunken sailor. Dickens uses it in  Dombey and Son.”

   First, I got the above information online a long time ago, but I don’t remember the name of the site that offered the info. Second, I’ve never read the above mentioned Dombey and Son by Dickens. So please don’t ask me about Dombey and Son. You can ask me about Sanford and Son though. That was a funny show? I wonder if Dombey liked his son more than Sanford like his. Anyway, I digress.

   With that said, I can also now admit that I’ve never been three sheets to any wind. I’ve never even been two pillow cases to the moon. I’ve never even been slightly buzzed. I’m an enigma really. I’m a well over twenty-one year old ginger ale gal. Next to ginger ale, the strongest thing I’ve ever drunk has been Pepsi. Ice cold Pepsi can burn the lining of your throat and offer you one of those mini brain freezes if you’re not careful. Other than those kind of side effects, I’ve never experienced the hangover delight after so-called drunken enjoyment that most people have experienced.

   Oh, my friends have tried to tempt me. I attend their parties and find myself being wary of cherry flavored squares of gellatin because I’m forewarned that they are jello shots. Who ever heard of spiking jello? Is nothing sacred?

   Actually, I have great friends who are more than understanding of their always sober friend. If they’re serving cocktails, there are always virgin alternatives for me and always without fail a nice liter of ginger ale on ice in my honor.

   They allow me to be the designated spectator of interesting games like Beer Pong. Beer Pong is a game in which people play against each other by throwing little plastic balls into cups half filled with beer that are positioned on opposite sides of a long table. (Yes, this is a real game. I did not make this up.) If you get your ball into one of your opponent’s cups, your opponent must, according to the laws of the intoxicated, drink the beer from that cup. This is truly a game of skill. Not everyone has good throwing ability you understand. The little, plastic balls often miss their targets and end up on the floor, in bushes or doggie bowls. It’s all right. It’s all part of the game.

  What’s a little doogie bowl contact amongst friends, right? You can always rinse off the balls in a bowl of water that is usually kept nearby. However, once you’re fully into the game, you may forget to change the bowl water, but who cares about germs or a little dirt in the beer, right? Right. Because it’s Miller time, baby, and you have to just go with the flow.

   So why don’t I ever roll with that flow? What’s my problem with alcohol? Nothing really. Okay, maybe the whole loss of inhibitions doesn’t really appeal to me. I have to admit I like being in control of my actions, thoughts and bodily functions. And to be totally honest, I don’t really need a stimulant to loosen up and enjoy myself. I’m often surprised by how many people do seem to need such stimulants.

   Why do they need them? Well, it just seems easier to unwind, act a fool if necessary or work up the nerve to socialize if you know that in the end, you can blame anything you do on alcohol. Think about it. If you ever wanted to cut loose and dance on someone’s coffee table in your underwear while sober, you would be called an idiot. Try that after a few drinks, and you become the funny, life of the party.

   As long as you don’t go overboard, it’s all good fun. But us non-sheets to the winders have our own incentive, too. It’s a little known fact, but there is a sense of interesting power that can be attained from sobriety.

   Only the sober will recall the tributes to the 80s or 90s Gumby dance that tries to come back into fashion after a couple of margaritas have been sampled. Only the non-inebriated will remember the Demi Moore striptease attempts from a former wall flower after some shots of jagermeister.

   Therefore, let’s cheer for the dear soda gals. Hurray, for a soda gal, for she will always drive you home no matter how much you puke in her car. And she will also hold your hair back without a word as you pay homage to the grand toilet bowl god once you get to said home just as long as you keep the ginger ale chilled and quit spiking her jello!   

Letters? Really?

   It’s 2012. People can text, Twitter, share their lives on Facebook and You Tube, and I have a pen pal. Pen pal. Yes, really. I have a person who I write letters to. Letters, you know those long notes written on paper that start off with salutations like Dear so-and-so and end with Sincerely, Me so-and-so. It must seem like an ancient practice to write letters instead of typing on a computer and then hitting the Send button. I write with an actual pen on paper, stick the paper into an envelope, put a stamp on the envelope and mail the sucker out into a blue thingy called a mailbox.

   Maybe it’s the writer in me, but everything just seems more interesting in a letter. You have the reader’s complete attention. There are no pesky scrolling advertisements or Chatroom reminders popping up to serve as distractions. In a letter, I can express with reckless abandon just how it felt to walk to the laundromat, pass by trees along the way, step on a crack without breaking my mother’s back, put my clothes into a washing machine and walk away from the machine instead of stare at the swirling action inside it for 30 minutes until the clothes are clean.

   (Why do people stare at washing machines? Whenever I go to the laundromat, I always see people staring blankly at washing machines. It’s not TV. It’s not a stimulating display activated to serve as entertainment. The swirling action won’t ever change its direction. It’s going to swirl in a clockwise motion until it’s done. I swear. If you look away, it’s not going to suddenly spin all counter-clockwise on you. Trust me. So kindly stop staring at washing machines! I’m serious. I hate it when I see people doing that. It creeps me out. It looks like they’re obsessed or something. They’re in some sort of trance and while they’re in this weird state, something odd happens that causes socks all around to come out as singles instead of in pairs the way they originally went in.)

   But I digress. Back to letter writing. I write letters to fill pages with sincere hellos, this is what I did, this is the real me in print (or script or cursive, however you like to say it) for you to read about and no one else. (Unless you decide to show the letter to someone else which I’m sure is in direct violation of pen pal etiquette. Or not. I don’t know.) I do know that when I tried to upgrade the form of correspondence with my pen pal to texting, it came out like this............

“Hi. How r u? I’m ok. ttyl”

  Somehow that didn’t feel as eloquent as the four page letter it replaced.

POLITICIAN VS NORMAL PERSON

 

  Why can’t politicians speak plain English? It’s as if they’ve all been trained in the fine art of speaking in a special, nonsensical politician code so that they never have to answer a question directly.

   Having a conversation with a politician is like this...

NORMAL PERSON: Is it raining outside?

POLITICIAN: You know, precipitation comes in many forms. It can come frozen like snow. Snow is cold. When it accumulates, you can make a snowman? Should you take snowman making classes before you attempt to make one or should you just dive into the process? There are many factors involved with precipitation.

NORMAL PERSON: Uh, okay, but do I need an umbrella?

POLITICIAN: Umbrellas keep you dry when it rains. They protect you. They provide a service by protecting you from the rain just like public officials provide a service to the people. I work for the people as a representative of the people. So in a sense, I’m kind of like a political umbrella for the people.

NORMAL PERSON: Do I need a political umbrella because it’s raining?

POLITICIAN: Hey, we all could argue the point of whether or not a political umbrella is needed at some point in all of our lives.

NORMAL PERSON: Listen! I just want to know if water is coming out of the sky! Can you tell me that? Is water coming out of the sky?  

POLITICIAN: You know, water is made up of more than one component. You have your

hydrogen and you have oxygen. They both have to unite and work as a team to give you H20. Working together. That’s the basis of teamwork. Teamwork is what we should all strive for.

NORMAL PERSON: IS IT RAINING OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW? YES OR NO? JUST YES OR NO!

POLITICIAN: Yes or no equals the affirmative and the negative. The affirmative is the opposite of negative. Thusly, they conflict with one another. If they conflict, they don’t agree. And if they don’t agree, they can’t be united. If they can’t be united, they can’t work as a team. The teamwork would not exist amongst them.

NORMAL PERSON: All right. My head hurts now. I’m just gonna go outside. I don’t care if it’s hailing out there.

POLITICIAN: Hey, wait! Can I count on your vote in the next election?

NORMAL PERSON: You know, a vote is like rain. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it doesn’t. If it rains, and you have a lawn, then that’s good for your grass. If you don’t have a lawn, then you just get wet.

POLITICIAN: That means no doesn’t it?

NORMAL PERSON: You’re a very wise political umbrella.      

Random Thought

I don't have a smartphone. Nowadays, it seems as if everyone has a smartphone, but I don't have a smartphone. My cell phone allows me to call people, and people can call me. So I guess it's not a complete moron.

ME, MY BOOK AND THE ROBBER by Patricia G

   If a robber came to my home, and I caught him trying to steal my stuff, I’d say,

ME: Hey, you don’t live here!

ROBBER: I know that. I’m taking your stuff.

ME: You can’t have my stuff!

ROBBER: Why not?

ME: Because it’s not your stuff. You just admitted that it’s my stuff. Wait. Are you taking my vase that was on my table?

ROBBER: Yeah.

ME: That vase was next to a copy of my book. How come you didn’t take my book?

ROBBER: Vases are more valuable than dumb old books.

ME: Hey, that’s not just any book. That’s my book. I wrote it.

ROBBER: You’re a writer?

ME: Yes, and I wrote that book. It’s called Funny?: A Potentially Humorous Collection of Writing and Art, and it’s more valuable than some old vase.

ROBBER: Oh yeah?

ME: Yeah, because it has sentimental value. Sentimental value outranks retail value any day.

ROBBER: Really?

ME: Darn right. How dare you insult me by not trying to steal my book?

ROBBER: Oh, uh...I’m sorry?

ME: Are you asking me if you’re sorry?

ROBBER: I’m not sure. I’m kinda confused now. See, I just came here to rob you blind. I wasn’t tryin’ to insult you.

ME: Well, you did.

ROBBER: Oh. Sorry then.

ME: Your apology means nothing to me. You’re still holding that vase instead of my book.

ROBBER: (puts vase back and picks up book to read its cover) Funny?: A Potentially Humorous Collection of Writing and Art by Patricia G. Are you Patricia G?

ME: Of course, I am. I just told you I wrote that book.

ROBBER: Why is there a question mark after the word funny?

ME: Because I wasn’t sure if people would think my book was funny or not. So I’m sort of asking the reader if he or she thinks it’s funny.

ROBBER: Oh, that’s clever.

ME: Really?

ROBBER: Yeah. This cartoon on the cover is cute. Did you draw it?

ME: Yes, I did. Thank you. Glad you like it.

ROBBER: I never met a real writer before. So you wouldn’t mind if I took this book?

ME: Not as long as you post a book review of it on Amazon.com. Oh, wait. Maybe that won’t be possible.

ROBBER: Why not?

POLICE OFFICER: (pounds on the front door): Open up! It’s the police!

ME: (To Robber) I called 911 earlier when I heard you fumbling around in my living room. You really ought to get some quieter shoes.

ROBBER: Oh shoot.

ME: But hey, if they have Internet access in jail, can I count on a book review?

ROBBER: Guess so. Amazon.com?

ME: Yep. Thanks a lot. 

     

Something I didn't put in Funny?

    For those of you who will or already have read my book, Funny?: A Potentially Humorous Collection of Writing and Art, there is a character in it named Little Jackie. She’s the little girl on the cover of the book who likes to speak her mind when given the chance. Below is an extra bit of Little Jackie that I didn’t end up using in Funny?.

LITTLE JACKIE (extra)

My name is Little Jackie.

I am five years old. Yay!

When I dream about cookies,

I always seem to have a good day.

One night I dreamt about chocolate chip cookies.

Tasty and chewy

I love them.

Yes, I do.

When I woke up, I got hugs and kisses from my mommy,

and my daddy took us to the zoo.

Another night, I dreamt of sugar cookies.

Sweet and yummy

I could eat them all day.

When I woke up, I didn’t have to hear my baby brother’s constant crying.

I got to go to my grandma’s house to play.

Last night I dreamt of a turtle.

He was slow and quiet.

He took forever to walk from one tree to another tree.

When I woke up, I went to Pre K, told my class that my grandma was once a stripper

and then ended up being sent to children’s therapy.    

LITTLE JACKIE MOTHER’S DAY

Mommies are nice.

They give kisses and hugs.

Mommies give love

even when you accidentally spill juice on their rugs.

Mommies are lovable.

They like to hear thank you and please.

Mommies are my favorite

coming in third after dads who give out allowances and chocolate chip cookies 

Spending Time With the Author Patricia G

WHAT IS YOUR BOOK ABOUT?

Funny?: A Potentially Humorous Collection of Writing and Art  is a book that promotes stress-free, happy reading. It consists of many stories, poems, essays and art about such things as:

-a woman’s questionable solution to getting a man

-stupid conversations about bears and Darth Vader

-innocent customers who refuse to be screwed over by cupcakes

-subways that take sinners straight to hell

-colds that lead to priceless rap song duets

-a five-year-old named Little Jackie who says anything that pops into her precocious little   

   mind

-an 80s’ obsession that leads to cereal hoarding and cap gun holdups

-a great appreciation for grape jelly

Above all, it asks the reader, “Do you think any of this is funny?”

WHY DID YOU WRITE A HUMOR BOOK?

  They say laughter is the best medicine. After years of trying to get my writing career jumpstarted the way I wanted without great success, my career definitely needed some type of remedy. I wasn’t enjoying writing anymore because I felt like I was just writing for myself. I thought no one else was going to read what I created. So why bother, right?

   Creating Funny? actually became therapeutic for me. I was able to take some of my old stuff that had never been published and combine it with new stuff that I was suddenly inspired to write. As a result, something light and playful started to develop that I truly hoped people would have fun reading especially during this age when humor seems necessary. Reality is becoming alarmingly gloomy. I know I can’t turn on the news or pick up a newspaper without getting depressed by all of the negativity, sudden disasters and heartbreaking tragedies that the world has to offer nowadays. Who wants to wake up every morning to deal with that without some sort of relief?

   With Funny?, I had a chance to have fun. My silly stories and offbeat characters, etc made me smile and put me in a good mood. I wondered if anyone else would also have that reaction if they were exposed to my collection of nonsense. So I put together a humor book as just a little nugget of joy to pass onto anyone looking for a bit of laughter.

    If someone comes up to me to tell me that my poem about jelly was so ridiculously funny that it made them laugh-out-loud, I’ll feel great, knowing that I did my small part to spread a few smiles. Also, if someone gives me a winning lottery ticket worth a million dollars, that would be nice, too. I’m just saying...both of those things would be nice. One is a little nicer than the other, but they’re both good.

WHY DO YOU WRITE?

I have no choice. Ideas for stories pop into my head, and I just feel compelled to write them down on paper. If I don’t, they’ll just get clogged up in my brain, and that sounds painful. I’m not a fan of pain.

WHEN AND WHERE DO YOU WRITE?

   When I get an idea, I can jot down the overall idea on anything handy at that moment. If I’m outside, I love flyers that are blank on the back because I write on the backs since I rarely carry an official writing notepad with me.

   When I’m creating a manuscript, I like to write during the afternoon into the early evening. (I’m not telling you what type of pajamas I wear when I’m writing because that’s none of your beeswax)

HOW DO YOU WRITE?

   I have to do it all in longhand first, and then I can transfer everything that I’ve written onto my laptop. I just can’t sit at a computer and create a story because the blank screen is annoying. A blank computer screen is demanding and arrogant. It practically screams at you, “Type something on me already! If you spell something wrong, I’ll alert you by putting red lines under whatever incorrect thing you do even if the word is actually spelled correctly because I don’t recognize all proper nouns. It’s not your fault that I don’t recognize all proper nouns. I’m just a pain in the butt that way. I’m...”

   Oh, sorry. I digress. I do longhand first. Type on computer later.

ANY ADVICE FOR ASPIRING WRITERS?

   If you want to be a writer, be a writer. It’s a special thing to be. Don’t give up. Only give up if you want to earn enough money to feed, clothe and support yourself. If you’re going to be all high maintenance like that and insist on taking care of yourself financially on a consistent basis, then perhaps being a writer isn’t the greatest choice. Maybe you should become a lawyer or a doctor. They seem to do all right for themselves. Or you could write stories about vampires and wizards. Is JK Rowling a billionaire yet?

WHAT MADE YOU LAUGH RECENTLY?

   I was in a big, popular bookstore recently. I saw a pen and pencil set on sale. They had cute floral designs on them. The retail value for the set was...$30! $30? The pen wasn’t made of gold. The pencil wasn’t made of gold. The pen wasn’t even pure silver. The pencil wasn’t even pure silver. The box that they came in was some sort of plastic. The box wasn’t gold, pure silver or genuine leather. It wasn’t even some nice, shiny tin.

   There weren’t any labels on the set declaring that the pen and pencils would write forever and ever so that I could pass them down to my grandchildren that I’ll never have because I don’t intend on having any children, and you can’t get grandchildren if you don’t have children first. (This is a shame since the idea of having grandchildren is more appealing than having your own kids because you can spoil grandchildren, and then go home. You don’t have to clean up after them or give birth to them. Wait. What was I originally talking about? Oh, $30 pen and pencil set. Right.)

   Well, I laughed when I saw the price of the pen and pencil set. It was insane. Aren’t we in a recession? With $30, I could go to a 99 cents store and get thirty packs of pens and pencils. I’m not saying they would all work properly because they’d be cheap pieces of crap, but if you want me to spend $30 on just one pen and one pencil in a plastic box, you better include some grandchildren in the deal. Wait, no. Make that puppies. Puppies are better than grandchildren. Yeah, because puppies can be taught to fetch slippers which is always charming. I don’t think it’s legal to make grandchildren fetch things.  

SOMETHING ABOUT MY NEW BOOK CALLED FUNNY?

   I’m preparing for the debut release of my upcoming humor book titled Funny?. Do you like the title? I agonized over the title for a while. If you don’t like it, please don’t tell me. Just nod, smile and say, “It’s a great title. I love it more than if it didn’t have the question mark.”

ME: Really? You love my title? Thank you. You’re too kind.

YOU: But what is the deal with the question mark?

ME: Well, I didn’t want to be presumptuous and expect everyone to think that everything in my book is funny. I thought I’d leave it up to the readers to decide what they think is funny. So it’s like I’m asking if you the reader think my book is funny. Isn’t it nice of me to leave that decision up to you readers?

YOU: Yes. You’re very kind. And talented, too. Yes, you’re very talented.

ME: Why, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say. Do you think you’ll be interested in ordering a copy of my book?

YOU: Sure.

ME: Thank you. Let me be the first to tell you how smart you are for ordering my book. Very smart indeed.

YOU: Thank you. I do like to be smart.

ME: And you are smart. You’re downright genius to order my book.

YOU: Of course. Everyone should be so smart to buy your book. Why wouldn’t someone buy your book? It’s supposed to make them laugh. Laughter is the best.

ME: Exactly. I love to laugh.

YOU: Me, too.

ME: Why would someone buy a book that makes them cry?

YOU: I don’t know. I wouldn’t. I want to laugh.

ME: Exactly.

YOU: Reality is depressing. I want to enjoy something funny.

ME: Well, my book is called Funny?. You should get it.

YOU: I am remember?

ME: Oh yeah. Yeah. You’re smart.

YOU: I know.

ME: So what are you going to do with my book after you read it?

YOU: I’m going to frame it.

ME: How can you frame a book?

YOU: After I buy your book, I’m gonna get one of those thick, box type frames for it and then stick that sucker right on in there.

ME: Oh, okay. You wouldn’t try to return it or sell it on ebay would you?

YOU: You dare insult me? I have morals and values you know.

ME: I’m sorry.

YOU: It’s okay.

ME: You wouldn’t put a cup on my book and use it as a coaster would you?

YOU: No.

ME: You wouldn’t take it out with your dog and play fetch with it would you?

YOU: Of course, not. That would be stupid. I’m smart remember?

ME: Right. Very smart. But uh...let’s go back to that ebay thing. Seriously, you wouldn’t resell it on ebay would you?

YOU: Oh, look at the time. I really must go.

ME: Hey, wait. You didn’t answer my question.

YOU: Sorry, I really must get going now, but don’t you worry. I’m going to order Funny as soon as possible.

ME: Wait, it’s called Funny?. Don’t forget the question mark!

YOU: Right. I won’t forget. Very clever of you to think that up.

ME: Thank you. Thank you very much, you smart, will order my book and read it and then frame it but won’t use it for fetch or as a coaster or to resell it on ebay person you.

YOU: You’re welcome!

TO VIEW A FREE EXCERPT OF Funny? by Patricia G, go to Amazon.com

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH?

   Apparently, April is Poetry Month. Who knew? According to Wikipedia (The Free Encyclopedia), "National Poetry Month is a celebration of poetry first introduced in 1996 by The Academy of Poetry as a way to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry in the United States."

   Okay, here is a confession of mine that just stays between us. It doesn’t go beyond this site. Agreed? Good. Here it is. I only understand my own poetry. There, I admit it! I can’t help it. How many of you are like me? Come on, show of hands here. How many of you are like me on this? (For all of you who are raising your hands right now, thank you. But you do realize I can’t see you, right? So maybe you should just put your hands down very slowly. Just pretend you were stretching if there are other people around who are wondering why you just raised your hand for no reason.)

   You see, I know what I mean when I write something because the idea and symbolism came out of my head, but I don’t always understand what other people mean when they write about something, and they’re not blunt about it.

   For example, the first two lines in the poem “Design” by Robert Frost are:

       "I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,

       On a white heal-all, holding up a moth"

   First of all, I’ve never seen a white spider before. I’ve only seen the little black ones, and have never ever felt the need to get close enough to notice if they had dimples. A dimple on a spider? What? How? Don’t want to know. I just squash them and don’t ask questions.

   Secondly, when I see heal-all, I think of something medicinal like aspirin. A spider sitting on an aspirin? Apparently not. A heal-all in this poem refers to a flower. I’ve heard of roses, tulips, and daffodils. I’ve never heard of a flower called heal-all, but whatever. If I didn’t cheat and look up the meaning of the entire poem, I wouldn’t know what Mr. Frost was writing about.

   And don’t even get me started on Shakespeare’s sonnets. I had to look up practically every other word when I read them in school. Trust me, I earned my A and my constant headaches in that Shakespeare class.

    So basically, most poems that I don’t write myself confuse me. Am I alone here?

    Well, since I mentioned poetry, I thought I’d add one to this post. Let me know what you think.

FIND ME

by

Patricia G.

Find me

Chasing dreams,

Reaching out to past goals.

See you, Dream Killer

Saying I can’t,

You so-and-so.

Catch me

Venturing out,

Blogging and Facebooking,

What’s a tweet?

Is it cheap?

Opportunity as an app?

Spotted you

Laughing still,

Aspirations ready to kill.

Thinking I won’t,

You so-and-so.

Notice me

Site creating

Risk debating

Taking leaps

Chasing dreams

Cause there’s nowhere else to go.

The other way to express this poem is...

Trying to be a dream killer?

That’s not right.

The End.

What? You expected more? I think that last part was Haiku or something. Yes, see creativity can come in many forms, I tell you. Many, many forms. Some of them are good, and some of them not so much.   

Happy Poetry Month!