One Thousand Posts

This is the one thousandth post of my blog in four years.
What does this mean? It probably means I have no life.
Seriously, I gave myself the freedom to write about anything while keeping it short. I don't usually go  into rants about current events because I have nothing new to add. I take the small stuff and blow it up into satire or quirky insights. No heavy lifting.
I thought about stopping at 1000 and focusing on my longer pieces. But the blog serves an important purpose. It is a release valve for festering annoyances not worthy o f a full essay. It also fends off writers block. You can't feel guilty about not writing if you blog a few times a week. It is also immediate. I had to pay a bundle to get my car fixed today. This space gives me the option of expressing frustration and blowing off steam.
I think Socrates would have made an excellent blogger. Kafka, not so much.
So I push forward toward 2000 posts. Never has so much been written about so little.

Tropical Complaint

My name is Erica. I am a tropical storm. Or at least I was until some unknown person or persons designated me a tropical depression, which is notch lower.
Who decides these things? I'm not into mindless destruction, but if that's what it takes to get respect. so be it. Isn't wind and rain enough? I pissed gallons of water, flooded out entire highways, blew over really big trees, tents, signs and small dogs. Maybe the tenth anniversary of Katrina has eclipsed my power.
I'm not taking this demotion quietly. If you live in Florida I suggest you get all your shopping done before dark. I'm revving up and this time there will be no mercy. I'll go for the roofs first and work down. Hope you can swim.
Tropical depression my butt. I don't feel the least bit sad.

My Favorite Waitress

My favorite waitress is going to Italy with her boyfriend and I have convinced myself she's not returning. She remembers my name, always smiles, speaks softly and politely, never messes up my order.
She has a pretty face with a cleft in her chin and very strong arms and shoulders from her hobby, climbing. I know she will fall in love with Italy's mountains and climb every one. New Jersey will seem boring and tame. Within days she will forget about me and my love of orange cranberry oatmeal, my witty remarks, my compliments.
She does have big feet, but somehow that adds to her charm. I know young people should travel and experience the world. Still, I am forlorn. I want to gift her with a can of Mace to ward off those Italian Lotharios, who will wait until her boyfriend is drunk and out of it before they move in. But you can't take Mace on a plane, can you?

Book Reviews

I love the Book Review section in the Sunday Times. So many new books being published. Except I only have time to read the first few paragraphs. I look at the author photo. Some are contemplative, some joyful and relaxed, some kind of scary. I wish I had a more impressive author profile shot. I look like an old mobster dodging jail by pretending I have a heart condition.
I get jealous when I see a young person's picture. They have a whole life of publishing ahead of them. My best years are behind me. I don't think an MFA would have helped. I'm not a New Yorker writer.
Whenever I see a review of a short story collection, my genre, I am encouraged. Agents don't want that genre, but somebody must be representing these writers. And editors and publishers somewhere must be interested.
I used to review books for an online site. Now I just rate them. I was told my reviews were too long. I guess I took too many notes. I was also fearful if I gave a lukewarm review the author would hunt me down, or worse, compose a scathing Amazon review of my own books. Stranger things have happened in the literary world.

The Saw

I needed plywood cut for my kitchen floor. I went to two Home Depot outlets, but their saw machine was broke. They didn't tell me that when I got checked out. I wound up having to push the skid with the plywood across the entire store to the Return section. Of course there was a line. I got nothing accomplished.
I found a Lowe's out on the highway that had a working saw. The employee told me to wait in the back after I got checked out. I waited ten minutes for him to show, grinding my teeth. Finally I walked back to the front where he was on the phone laughing with someone. Probably joking about the idiot customer waiting to get his plywood cut.
I did eventually get it done. On the way home my check engine light went on. At this point I don't know what's wrong because my mechanic didn't get to it.
I went for a long walk tonight to Burger King where I had coffee, apple pie and read 60 pages in my book.
Someday I'm going to get things under control. I really believe that.

Streaks

There are streaks on my full length mirrors in my bedroom which I cannot eliminate. It doesn't matter what I spray on. They return like evil spirits. Maybe something sinister is living in my closet. I've tried Windex and damp sponge and dry paper towel and all purpose cleaner and prayer. The streaks spoil my view of myself.
I can clean my fridge and stove and floor and furniture. Windows are a challenge I will someday tackle. But these wonderful, besmirched mirrors are a curse I must deal with. I removed the sliding doors from my shower by myself. I am a capable person. I will find a way to solve this problem before I die.
If streaks begin appearing on my walls, time to call in Ghostbusters.

Thief

Warren was a thief. He stole posture, accents, dialects, laughs, expressions, stories. He was a professional actor and incorporated all in his work.
At a local theater he was performing a series of monologues when one of the attendees, Mandy Capowitz, recognized one of the stories as his own. It concerned a man ordering a lawn mower and getting one that only ran backwards. When he sent it back, the replacement only went sideways. It got plenty of laughs. Mandy was incensed and confronted Warren afterwards. The actor admitted he'd heard the story at a restaurant Mandy frequented and where he spoke loudly.
An apology wasn't enough. Mandy wanted him to cut his lawn once a week for a year. Warren agreed. This man, who only wished to entertain, found himself mowing a large lawn with a machine that only went sideways. He knew he had to face the music. As long as it wasn't Yanni.

Anticipation

Bob's house was surrounded by his core readership--zombies and hoarders. Word had gotten out that his next volume of the series was ready for publication and they could not wait. He locked himself in the bedroom as they pounded on windows and doors. The stench coming through the vent made him wretch.
He regretted that photo shoot in front of his house. Now they knew where he lived.
Eventually they broke down the door before the Zombie Swat Team arrived.
Whatever body parts the zombies left uneaten, the hoarders took home and stored in Tupperware.
There would be no further volumes in the series. Bob's editor saw this coming.

Trash

The dumpster is my friend. I've been tossing out lots of stuff lately. Thirteen broken cameras, 1500 spools of undeveloped film, old buckets, heavy duty electrical cord, an old jacket.
Thought I'd have to get rid of my VHS tapes, but saw VCR player on Amazon. Hours of fun watching old films. I gave a basketball to the Salvation Army. My knick knacks are treasures, but some have got to go because I have no place to put them.
I should hold my own flea market. I hate getting rid of albums I will never have time to listen to. I just feel safe perusing them as a link to my past.
I have an onyx lamp that doesn't work. I removed the shade, put it on my bar and declared it a sculpture. Who's to argue?
Decluttering is a spiritual experience.

Sports Authority

Now I have a plastic discount card from these people for my key ring. That makes 15 of these things, each representing a different store. I'm having trouble finding my door keys because of plastic swarm. If you have bladder problems it only makes things worse.
I'll have to eliminate at least a couple of tags. Big Lots? I hardly go there, but I like the design. A&P seems to be going out of business, but tossing that one would be UnAmerican. I will never relinquish my AC Moore tag.  Stop and Shop is a possibility. Their prices are higher and the cashiers snooty.
Panera must stay-I could have rewards I'm not aware of. And the color scheme is very soothing.
Pathmark gave up on this sort of thing. Just scan away and hope there are discounts imbedded. I wish doctors had the same thing. Swipe at each visit, get a free digital exam for ten visits.

Milk

I have developed a milk fixation. For years I ate my cereal dry, that's right, without milk. I can't remember why I gave up on this staple. I am lactose intolerant, but I have pills for that.
Anyway, a friend drank milk right out of the bottle in front of me and I thought that was kind of cool. So now I add it to my cereal.
In Burger King, when I get my coffee, they always give me 4 milk cups. I only use two and used to return the extra. But I thought about it and realized those are my cups, I paid for them. So I take them home and line them up in the refrigerator, waiting for their turn to douse my cereal.
I broke many bones as a kid, probably because I was milk deprived. Not anymore.

Greeting Cards

I got a card in the mail from an old penpal of 30 years giving me an update on her life. I tried sending her an email using the address she gave me, but it bounced back. There was no return address on the envelope, so I'll have to search my address book and hope they haven't moved.
Why has everything gotten so complicated?
Thankfully, I found my old transistor radio so I can listen to the ball game in my garage. Stores do not sell these gems anymore. I can't understand why us seniors have to constantly adopt to technology. Why isn't there a franchise called Senior Store, where all the old stuff is sold? I still have a record player and albums. I also have a VHS player I forgot how to use and about 200 VHS tapes nobody wants, not even Salvation Army.
Now I'll have to find her address and an appropriate card. More work, less time to ponder deep issues.

Books

I've begun giving away books that I've read, and some I will never read. Books are heavy and take up space. I need more space. Self help tomes go first. I don't need that stuff at this point. I am who I am.
Classics are an issue. I want to keep enough so that when they find my body and go through my stuff they'll conclude I was an intellectual. But there are some classics that make me wonder who decides this stuff?
Friends have sold me their books and I keep none of them. Because they bought my books I had to return the favor. Agonizing decision--my Peanuts collections. After days of contemplation, I decided to let them go. But not Calvin and Hobbes or The Far Side. I can only handle so much sacrifice.
The Salvation Army is benefiting from my eclectic tastes. I just hope they appreciate the brilliance I am sharing.
Next, I'm tackling my rubber band stash. Old rubber bands are not dependable. That is a fact I did not learn from a book.

Evolution

I stopped believing in evolution the day I began teaching eighth grade in a Jersey City Catholic school. Thirty eight growling, hissing demons just waiting for me to turn my back. Of course when the nun Principal walked in they became angels.
I thought the girls might protect me. Obviously I knew nothing about 14 year old girls. Their incisors hung out of their mouths.
The boys were brain damaged, everyone was fiercely hormonal and some smelled bad. Actually I became one big sweat stain, so exhausted trying to keep order, sometimes I just sat there catching my breath, frantically attempting to come up with aplan to escape this asylum.
I knew at some point they would lock the door and truss me up, offering me as a sacrifice to the Satan of lower Jersey City. I swore their pupils turned opaque in certain lighting. Those kids would freak out Children of the Corn.
I survived, but still wake up in a cold sweat.

Trust the Chaos

The woman upstairs is nuts. So is her dumb dog who pees everywhere.
My body parts aren't working right. What is the meaning of fog and why is my flat screen full of red pixels?
My doctors act like they know something bad is going to happen.
The characters I create wander around between stories ignoring me.
I can still control my thoughts.I can stay organized within the chaos as long as I don't think about pastry.
Maybe there is a pattern I'm not seeing. The world must make sense on some level. My spirits rise. I am optimistic about the future.
Then I read where someone once again is giving Adam Sandler millions to make a movie and I am plunged into despair.
Chaos is not beautiful.

Wake Up Call

This country has gotten a wake up call with Trump leading in the polls. No, I can't discuss politics. I get nauseous.
Boy, that Jenner has given us a wake up about transgender people. Except ratings for the reality show have tanked, so who cares?
That terrible explosion in the chemical factory in China has certainly provided a wake up call about the danger of toxic substances stored near population centers. Except all China has is cities full of people.
Let me think. The plethora of homeless during the DeBlasio era has opened our eyes about weak policies. Wait. I don't live in NYC, so what do I care?
Geno Smith getting punched in the jaw by his own teammate--hold it. I'm a Giants fan.
Yes, here it is. My diagnosis of a dropped bladder is a personal wake up call to prepare myself for assisted living. This means I have to be nice to everyone or no one will come and visit.
I've always valued your insights, reader/ And you dress stylishly.

Flat Stomach

I love my new flat stomach. True, I lost ten pounds after surgery, but flat is flat. I can see my feet. I don't have to suck in anything.
I am determined to keep it flat by exercising, imaging flatness, skipping ice cream, chips, pastry, some pasta. I will meditate about destroying fat cells. Only one avocado per week. No hummus for the foreseeable future. I will stare down my refrigerator and not hide food in other rooms. remind myself thin people live longer and get more sex. Can run faster, have better bowel movements, display only one chin.
I believe Bloated Belly Syndrome has held me back professionally and socially. I can finally tuck in my pants.
Plus, my chest looks more impressive. I might even go shirtless on really hot days. First I'll have to shave it. Don't want to frighten kids.

Lost One Touch

I lost my sugar testing machine while dropping off a bag of clothes to the Salvation Army. It's case was black, as was the bag. I guess I grabbed everything at once from my car and dumped it in the bin.
I returned the next day, but they said the donations were gone by then. So I bought another machine for $20 and continued with my life, annoyed at my carelessness. The previous day I had left my phone at the library, but luckily it was there when I returned. I seem to be scattered lately.
I drop off some of my abstract art as a donation. Don't know if any of it sells. I dumped four bags of VHS tapes before they told me they weren't accepting those symbols of the 1980s anymore.
You have to be careful with these volunteers. Some can get cranky. You buy a shirt for $4 and pay with a credit card, you might get a comment.
Let me think. Did I floss this morning? Where is my head?

Too Many Cooks

Twenty six people on the parade council, all with an agenda..
Union workers in front? Where to put the Boy Scouts? The Elks Club? Veterans of Foreign Wars? What walking pace so the elderly could keep up? How big the floats, how many floats?
How many beauty queens, how much stiff waving?
Where do the transgender people go? Should they be separated from the transvestites?
How many politicians, cops, firemen, and EMS workers? Should there be bagpipes?
Are DPW trucks really necessary?
Where do we place Ralph Fanucci, our oldest citizen? Should we risk including tax assessors, lawyers and car salesmen? Should candy be tossed at the crowd?
How much is this going to run us in insurance?
After hours of shouting, cursing, pushing and threats, a decision was made to shelve the whole thing and substitute a town wide picnic.
Then arguments ensued over whether to include avocados in the mix.

Feeding Squirrels

I don't care what the sign says, I will feed the squirrels. I have way too many nuts.Without them our parks would be lifeless. Squirrels attack no one. They are far cuter than ferrets. You can negotiate with them, unlike cats.
A squirrel once landed on my head and just went off on its way. No harm done. One day I made the mistake of providing them with a different diet by leaving open containers of tapioca. My heart was in the right place. Unfortunately, next day dozens were seen vomiting all over the park. My bad.
Nuts are what Mother Nature dictates here. I must remember to remove the shells on the pistachio. One more thing. Squirrels don't howl, screech or bark when excited. They hold everything inside. That needs to be respected.

Plywood

Plywood separates the men from the boys, even thin plywood. There is nothing more masculine than stomping around Home Depot, pushing a flat cart with a couple of slats of plywood laying across.
The chunky guy in the back does nothing but cut wood all day. You give him the measurements, he slides the wood into the machine and cuts away. You discuss different types of lumber. You suck in the sawdust. Walk out with your plywood, surrounded by dirty contractors, sweat covering their faces.
You are one with them.

Along the Waterfront

I walk along the waterfront, stern and purposeful, reading my book. I ignore families, couples, dogs, boats, the skyline.
In other words, I am not a stroller.
People sit on benches. Some focus on devices. Some stare straight ahead. Some hug.
If you are going to sit by the water, you must come up with deep philosophical thoughts. You can't debate whether to get Swiss or Pepper Jack cheese.
You need words that you and your partner will remember forever.
If a body floats up, that is not your business. Call the authorities. If you recognize it as Rocco from the old neighborhood who was always doing something shady, say a prayer and move on.

Mass Exodus

We'd always done well by our robots. Even gave them their own recreational center. Perhaps that was the problem. One of them started  a rumor they were being phased out, replaced by new models, not exactly a revolutionary concept. But this group evidently developed a sense of identity. They savored their existence.
En mass, they abandoned their responsibilities, took to the highways, bridges and tunnels, blocking all traffic, beeping, honking, squeaking in panic.
We would have called out the National Guard, but they had been replaced by bots years before.
Chaos reigned. We had no bots to shop, gas up our car, clean houses, landscape, raise our kids. We even turned over creating humor to them and now we had no one to tell jokes.
We now live in a dank, humorless, botless community and who knows when the new models will be released. Our bots are camped out beyond the suburbs. At night we hear them beeping in sadness.

Mine for the Asking

Every morning I move from my shower to the bedroom without toweling off. I stand before my full length mirror, lit from two different lamps. Slowly, I pivot in a complete circle, looking over my shoulder as shadow and light play upon my wet skin.Drops of moisture roll down my back and legs. I do this for long seconds.
Once again I remind myself that all this is mine for the asking.
Then I wipe up the puddle and go make breakfast.

Two Flies

Two flies have brazenly invaded my kitchen. Puzzling. I leave no food out, clean up all crumbs and spills. It is the same two flies every day, I'm sure of it. Sometimes they will land on my table and remain motionless until I swat at them, missing of course. They sense my reflexes are shot.
I have a 25 year old can of insect spray that is so ineffective I can hear the flies laughing at me. They are small as flies go. Not terribly attractive. Maybe they've been ostracized by others. Or, scarily, maybe they smell something about me that indicates near death. Illness, a wasting away.
I much prefer ants, who go about their business, crawling along, oblivious to their surroundings. I seldom squash them anymore. Understand, I'm talking maybe six ants, not thousands. That would call for multiple carpet bombing of spray and hammer.
I hate when one of these flies lands on my head and I impulsively smack it. I'm giving myself a headache. I should think about shutting the window or putting up a screen. That would require expertise. I'm just a writer.

Rogue French Fry

Today I went to Burger King and found a rogue French fry in my hash browns. Perhaps it was working undercover, spying on the hash contingent. Maybe it was the result of a cross potato coupling. Who knows what goes on back there among the frying section?
The dominant French fry gene caused its appearance to be that, rather than half fry, half hash. Was it accepted during its short time frame in the hash brown pouch.? Should I have eaten it last, searched for any signs of physical abuse? Hash browns can be a cruel, clannish sort.
I thought about getting my camera and taking a picture and possibly making a formal complaint, maybe getting a free meal. But by the time I got back from my car I'm sure someone would have swiped my half finished coffee. Which reminds me I'd better closely check my java. No telling what might have sneaked in there. A stray packet of ketchup or a strand of relish. What a world.

The Tube

The tube rules my life. Not the TV, an actual tube which protrudes from my weiner. It leads to a bag strapped to my leg, Many men go through this. I don't care about many men. I care that tomorrow the doctor is supposed to pull it out. I may pee on the floor. It will hurt as much as when they stuck it in. I was told to cough when it slides out to make things easier. I will be coughing like an entire tuberculosis ward. I think it is perfectly fine to sob. Men should sob more.
I guess this is as close as I'll get to giving birth.
Did I mention I have diaper rash?

Prostate Hell

Well, he warned me two years ago I was retaining too much urine in the bladder. My doctor suggested green light laser surgery and I kept putting it off. Peeing became harder, the urge continuous. Finally one night I could not get a single drop out. Went to Internet. That is a medical emergency. Got myself to hospital at 330 am. Many tests. Wound up with a painful tube up there and a bag on my leg.
Spent six excruciating days and nights in periodic agony with a leaking bag and burning sensation. Operation went well, but developed a blood clot afterwards in recovery. Dr. resolved it. Still have a tube stuck in there until follow up visit. Still burns when I go. Lots of blood came out first. Heavy duty pain killers help.
No punchline here. Hope this solves problem. Must drink water!