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All posts for the month November, 2012

Bunny Lake is Missing

Published November 30, 2012 by Sandee

I have to watch Bunny Lake is Missing again.  I’m not getting something.

You’re having an incestuous relationship with your brother with whom you live.  Your kid goes missing.  This brother never liked that she existed because she comes between the two of you.  Some guy got you pregnant and you never married him — in the 1960s (movie version).  Scandal!

Anyway, how did you not know that your brother was an insane psychopath all these years when you finally discover that he kidnapped your kid and hid her in the trunk of the car?  Did he have a nervous break-down after working as a journalist?  How does someone so insane hold down a job like this?  Oh wait.  That’s a stupid question isn’t it?

Back to square one

Published November 29, 2012 by Sandee

I’ve thought of different ways to make money.  Most of these methods aren’t viable — what do I know about being a madame?  I think of all those hairy gangsters threatening to – I mean offering me buyouts or making me give up ninety percent of my income for ‘protection,’ and it turns me off.

Pity.  I think I have a knack for being a madame, albeit kind of a crazy one.  I would offer my employees benefits and have daycare centers for the ones with families – you know – like Amsterdam.  I had planned to pimp – I meant — to employ men also.  But that idea now is just dust in the wind.

My next way to make loot – being a pirate.  I’d love wearing a black patch over my left eye.  People would think there was such mystery about me, and maybe that I was a bit of a degenerate too.  Oh – and I’d love to tell people to swab the deck and walk the plank.  Do pirates still do that?  I wouldn’t want to be an internet pirate.  Or one of those Somali pirates.  Wasn’t that weird?  Plus – how do pirates make money?  I think they take stuff from people and I don’t like that.  If I’m going to do that I might as well be a cat burglar for a living, and that’s out of the question.

So then I thought I might make cakes because I have passion for it so.  The people would taste the passion and I would get shit loads of customers.  My oven’s from 1980 though.  I’d need those appliances cooks on cable television have.  No way could I afford those!  Just think, the reason I’m considering being a madame, a pirate and a cake baker is because I need extra loot, so kicking out all that cash for state of the art appliances with no certainty of a client base might be fool hardy.  So back to square one, being a broke ass bitch.

Sucker!

Published November 28, 2012 by Sandee

Once in a blue moon I buy a lottery ticket, then I do what comes naturally — what ad agencies know about our mental make-up — I fantasize.  This is how the ad campaign “All you need is a dollar and a dream” came to be.

A friend mentioned the power ball to me, otherwise I wouldn’t have noticed.  I thought Gee whiz, I’ll be out of a job next week and I need dental work.  I might be chosen to win this time.  Plus, I’m humble – hehehe – if I win, I thought, I’d stay in this very same apartment, but I could pay to get my sofa fixed, that’s all — oh and of course I would give money away.  That’s why I deserve to win it.  So I bought a ticket.  I asked Sol, who owns the candy store, how it all works, when to check for numbers, etc.

George Orwell satirized the sad nature of excessive lottery ticket buying.  Thank goodness I don’t have this habit.  But whenever I do buy a ticket I feel like a big fat sucker, and I got suckered tonight.

Dolly want to kill kill

Published November 26, 2012 by Sandee

Late last night I shoveled a salad of barley, edamame, cashews, spinach and brussel sprouts down my throat.  I had been exercising.  I needed sustenance.

The barley concoction got stuck in the middle of my esophagus while I lay in bed trying to sleep.

I finally slept and – you guessed right – had a nightmare starring Creepy Dolly Kill Kill and The Man with the Sguiggly Hair.

After a gothic struggle with the doll in a room lit by a candelabra, I dragged her from underneath the bureau and ripped off her plasticine face, which rendered her mute.  No longer could she taunt through cherry red lips, “Dolly want to kill kill.”

You should have seen it yo!  I ripped Dolly’s face right off of her head and threw it into the hall!

That’s when I saw… him… the Sguiggly-Haired One, creeping toward me from around the corner, up to no damn good.

Horrified at the sight of him in my dream, I awakened upon hearing myself moan, cow-like, “mawrrrrrrrr,” a dull crying out against the monster, I suppose, that permeated the first dimension.  It’s like waking yourself up with your own snoring.  That clump of barley was stuck still in the center of my chest.

So this is what barley salad did to me.  I’m looking at the salad now and it’s so unassuming, so pretty.  Would I be a fool to eat it again?  My folly shall soon be revealed…

It’s my blog and I’ll say what I waaaant!

Published November 25, 2012 by Sandee

Ahhh…  Young people.  They’re energetic with wide eyes, velvet skin, and taste dee-licious.  They have the pabulum of hope, feeding them along a journey of dreams.

They are meant to breed then.  Their parts are unused, well-oiled, with the aroma of moss and dew.  They don’t stink.  They don’t have bad breath, seepage, fart issues – oh don’t even ask what seepage is.

Think of a new car – that new car smell with all the parts working, ready to go!  My parents married young.  My mama was seventeen.  I’ll bet my 21 year old daddy was quite the howling wolf chasing after mama.  They were healthy, creamy.

Old women having babies – more power to you.  To be fair there’s technology, but me, I’d have a heart attack running after a two year old.  I’d be dead by the time it was in junior high.

While it’s not wise for teens to breed, I believe it’s probably the time when you’ll get the most energetic and pleasant smelling mother.  I remember mama flipping around, rolling, and singing songs, everyday!  She had so much energy left over that she taught me how to read when I was just three.

We were kids together, mama, daddy, baby brother.  We all played ring around the rosies – ha!  Problem is that when my brother and I became adolescents we all had fist fights – nah just jivin’!

I think women are meant to breed at 16 – yeah I said it!  This is why they don’t smell and have so much energy.  They are rosebuds admired for their vibrant color and emollience.  And boys the same.  They are firm and smell like spearmint and fresh cut grass.  They are strong and can chase girls for 32 miles.  I know this to be true from my own experiences in the last century.  They are fiercely attracted to each other because of these qualities for the purpose of populating the planet.

I say all this to say, what?  I don’t even know.  But I’m not drunk!  My conclusion doesn’t have jack shit to do with breeding.  It’s just that — as an old woman – and this is just for, me, crazy Sandee – while I’m still horny, I don’t know if it’s meant for me to be fucking anymore.  I look fine for fifty — I’ve been hit on by a few youngsters.  But I’m in this weird stage in the past couple of days where I’m thinking sex is unnatural for me now.  Oh I’ve got stamina and I’m in shape.  But there are tingly things happening in my body and I have fibroids.  I think that nature maybe dries us out and makes us wrinkled because it’s saying your cootchie time’s up, unless you’re already married to another old person.

Please pay me no mind tonight — I’m sorry.  And in case you’re wondering – I don’t have bad breath and I don’t stink.  But I do have farting issues.

Hey there honey…

Published November 24, 2012 by Sandee

On Thanksgiving I saw my grandma at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale.  It was lunchtime.  She sat with her assigned table mates, Bobby and Matt.  Bobby calls everybody honey.  He uses the word like people use salt:  “Hey there honey!  Haven’t seen you in a while honey!  Happy Thanksgiving there honey,” he says.

Matt’s a small man who speaks softly.  He was asleep in his chair wearing his white disposable bib when I came.  When I sat down, he woke up.

“Ohhh!  Good to see you!  You look great!”  He said.

“Yeah, you look great there honey,” says Bobby.

Bobby told us that the cook there is Italian.  “Yeah, they make the spaghetti here downstairs honey.  They make it there.  The cook’s Italian.  They make it good there honey.”

Today the attendants served the seniors turkey dinner.  But Bobby always talks about  spaghetti.

I’ve chatted with Bobby and Matt before.  I found out that Bobby used to be an undertaker’s assistant.  He worked for his uncle and says he never got paid.  “No he didn’t pay me honey, no.”

Behind us at another table was the woman who takes her shoes off and puts her feet up on the table.  Today she had taken her shirt off, so she sat there topless, no bra.  Her feet were on the table as usual.

“Hey honey put some clothes on there honey!”  Bobby said.

“Oh that woman’s crazy,” grandma said, making a shooing motion.

“Leave her alone,” said Matt, looking back again.  Then Matt told me, “I wonder if I went over there and told her to stand on the table if she’d do a dance for me.”

“Ahahahaha!  You mean like a stripper?” I said.  Matt cracks me up with these bits.  Matt laughed too.  The old woman, she didn’t look bad.