In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Out of Your Reach.” Was there a toy or thing you always wanted as a child, during the holidays or on your birthday, but never received? Tell us about it.
I wanted to be a boy. Only women over the age of 55 will understand that I wanted to dress comfortably in pants instead of dresses. I wanted to wrestle and get dirty; push and fight and yell. I wanted to get angry and show it. I wanted to go places and do things that “good girls” weren’t allowed.
I wanted to stay out late and not be practically water-boarded for an explanation. I wanted to whistle and spit and cuss. I wanted to slouch. I wanted to play contact sports and take shop class. I wanted a motorcycle and to join the Navy. I wanted to be a cowboy and ride with the Lone Ranger. I didn’t want to develop a woman’s
body and have disgusting things happen to me monthly. I wanted to be a sexual person. I wanted a leather bomber jacket and I wanted to wear high-top sneakers and jeans. I wanted to cut my hair. I wanted to choose my own career. I wanted to wait until I was old to get married. I wanted to travel in a convertible (remember Route 66?). But, I wanted to be beautiful and thin, too. All these were beyond my grasp as a child.
What I really wanted was freedom. I grew up and worked hard to make certain that my daughters could do and be all the things that were out of my reach as a child in the 1950s. And they are.
Daily Prompt
The Lone Ranger and Me on Route 66
My English Teachers Would be Proud
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “By the Dots.” We all have strange relationships with punctuation — do you overuse exclamation marks? Do you avoid semicolons like the plague? What type of punctuation could you never live without? Tell us all about your punctuation quirks!
Commas are my favorite punctuation mark. Comma … coma. Interchangeable in my English classes and often in my daily life.
My Nobel Award-Winning Idea – Instant Face Lift
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Brainwave.”What’s the best idea you’ve ever had? Regale us with every detail of the idea — the idea itself, where it came to you, and the problem it solved.
OK – tell me this isn’t the best idea ever.
Remember the old-fashioned way to open sardine cans?
So, let’s suppose you could have a miniature sardine can key implanted behind each ear and every birthday you could twist the key 1/4 turn to tighten your facial and neck skin. You could control the amount of tension to turn back the clock a year or ten. We could put the Hollywood plastic surgeons out of business in no time and save a ton of money on lotions, potions & gimmicks for aging skin.
Possibly a larger key could be implanted somewhere discrete to haul up sagging butts and boobs. I’m still working on that one.
The Patron Saint of Chaos
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A True Saint.” In 300 years, if you were to be named the patron saint of X, what would you like X to be? Places, activities, objects — all are fair game.
St. Jodi was canonized on the 300th anniversay of her first miracle. The miracle occurred on the day her husband left a trail of breadcrumbs to lead a wild Muscovy duck through the back sliding glass door of her home, marching through the dining and family rooms leaving a trail of guano (the duck, not her husband) and followed by three pre-teens shrieking in delight. The miracle occurred when St. Jodi was able to avoid having a stroke or murdering the duck, her husband and the hysterical children.
The second miracle took place on an overlook in the Blue Ridge Mountains when St. Jodi pulled the car she was driving onto an overlook and avoided hurling her son and husband from the peak. They had been telling jokes about yaks and making fun of her driving for 100 miles. At the moment that she lost control and contemplated murder she had a vision … a cold, frosty martini served by a repentent and adoring husband. A miraculous amount of self control and prayer enabled her to deliver her family safely to their destination.
Many miracles performed by St. Jodi have been reported by family and friends but could not be substantiated since friends and family members were reluctant to provide their real names. Reports of miracles signed by Popeye, Betty Boop and Captain America were not accepted by church officials although the stories told were about a woman of miraculous self-control, love and good humor.
Officials were able to substantiate the first two miraculous episodes through submission of video proof. Experienced audio technicians were used to eliminate the screaming and laughter on the video.
St. Jodi is honored during the week after Labor Day when children typically return to school. To request blessings from her, place a bottle of Chivas or a nice Cabernet on her doorstep. Go in peace.
This is My Life
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clean Slate.”
Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?

Loves necklaces of all kinds
The Secret Society of Stenos or How Gregg Shorthand Made Me a Star!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Going Obsolete.” Of all the technologies that have gone extinct in your lifetime, which one do you miss the most?
I loved the clean sheets of columnar pads for Bookkeeping class, number 2 Ticonderoga pencils with good erasers, red pencils for liabilities and losses; Typing class with the heavy black Royal manual typewriter and daily typing drills; Business English; but most of all I loved the Secret Society of Stenos.
In prehistory only girls took Steno or Shorthand class in high school. Do you know why there is a vertical line dividing each page? Gregg shorthand is written in short lines across and down each column. I adored my shorthand classes because I was learning something only a select few could understand, a secret language used by intelligent professional women, a widely admired and necessary skill for any woman who wanted a career in the business world. Think Della Street on Perry Mason.
It was a skill that I used to pass notes to my girlfriends in class about cute boys and boring teachers and later used to pass notes and jokes to other women in boring business meetings when the Chair or other speaker proved to be a pompous ass. When I graduated from high school I could take 90+ words/minute in shorthand and type over 100 words per minute. Back then, in the late 1960s, it mattered.
My first job out of high school was in a major Miami Beach bank. My position as Accounts Receivable Clerk was at the smallest, oldest, rustiest, ricketiest desk in the furthest corner of the least prestigious office space in the bank. Did I mention the flickering fluorescent lights? In those days, people sent their monthly installment loan payment to the bank and my job was to pull their loan account card and paper clip the check to the card for a more senior “girl” to actually post. I wasn’t old enough to be a teller or experienced enough to use the precious bank equipment. Of course I was still expected to dress professionally in a suit or dress, stockings, heels, etc. even if I worked as a mushroom in the back corner of a dark room. The executive secretaries to the Vice Presidents were the stars who entered the inner sanctums of the Board Room and closed door meetings wearing expensive heels and silk dresses . Very mysterious and glamourous and envious-making. Very Della Street-ish.
My Cinderella day arrived when one of the VPs ran into our office yelling for anyone who knew shorthand. His secretary was sick and the senior officers needed someone to take notes at their monthly meeting. I shyly raised my hand and was whisked into the boardroom, given a steno pad and pencil and told where to sit. The rest is history.
I stayed with the bank through the introduction of electric typewriters and the first computer (in a specially built room that took up half of the second floor of the bank). I knew every aspect of banking and when I left four years later at the age of 21, I had advanced from mushroom to Assistant Comptroller … because I learned shorthand in high school and jumped at the chance to use it when the opportunity arose.
Thank you Mr. Gregg for your brilliant shorthand system. It launched me on a business career that expanded and grew with my education and experience over a period of 50 years. I am sorry it is a lost art.
The Byrds Sing About Seasons
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Turn, Turn, Turn.” Seasons change so quickly! Which one do you most look forward to? Which is your least favorite?
From Ecclesiastes 3:1-15
“Turn! Turn! Turn!”
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late!
Why Women Return to Work When Their Husbands Retire – Reason #1
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ingredients.” What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?
My husband sits at the kitchen island with his computer while I prepare meals. Suddenly he has become the secret ingrediant to my success in the kitchen. After all these years I couldn’t possibly prepare a meal without him explaining to me:
- How to clean a chicken
- Which herbs and spices are appropriate for the dish I’m preparing
- How many herbs and spices I should use
- What temperature the oven should be set at
- How to fold the grocery bags
- How to line up the cans in the pantry (all labels facing forward)
- How to most efficiently load the dishwasher
- What foods should never be put in the garbage disposal
- Why fruit flies have appeared in our kitchen
- How to make a better cup of coffee
- How to clean the coffee maker
- Which dishes/cups can safely be used in the microwave
- Which bread/salad dressings/pickles and other condiments he prefers on his sandwiches
- Why he is the best popcorn maker in the family
- Why our grand-daughter prefers his pasta to mine
- The proper way to clean dishes (hand-wash)
- The proper way to fold a dish towel
- The best brand of dishwashing liquid
- How to clean a cast iron skillet (the way his dad did)
- How to empty the drip pan under the refrigerator
- When the garbage can needs to be emptied
- Which items can be recycled
- Etc.
It’s amazing that my family has survived the past 40 years of my meal preparation without his supervision. For those of you ladies who don’t have a man looking over your shoulder while you’re in the kitchen, feel free to borrow mine.
Please.
May the Bluebird of Happiness …
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.” You have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, plate, syrup, and ink. And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob.
I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for a response from a publisher with the verdict on the fate of my novel. Following my daily ritual I rinsed the syrup off my breakfast plate, sent out a silent plea to the universe and leashed Bob so he could do his doggie business on the way to the mailbox where I will either suffer my daily disappointment or, perhaps, the joy of acceptance.
We made our way down the drive with Bob sniffing every bush and flower and generally taking forever to decide where to cleanse his colon. Finally, arriving at the mailbox I retrieved my letters.
Halleleujah! An envelope from the publisher. I shouted in jubilation and tore the envelope open to read the verdict on my life’s work. My shout caused Bob to act like an idiot, prancing and barking which flushed a bluebird from a nearby tree. As it flew over my shoulder it crapped on my letter. A gooey gob of guano smeared the ink on the letter so I still don’t know whether my manuscript has been accepted or rejected.
Oh, shit!
Literally.
“Attack of the Green-Eyed Monster” – Coming to a Theatre Near You
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Green-Eyed Lady.” We all get jealous from time to time — what wakes the green-eyed monster for you?
When my children … underline my children … are introduced by their father and his wife as “our children”, I go crazy. My children are the closest I will get to perfection in this lifetime (my personal and objective opinion) and even hinting that another woman is their mom makes me see green.
Don’t get me wrong. I have tremendous respect and admiration for my ex-husband and his wife. They are honest, hard-working, respectable and admirable people and they adore my children and my grandchildren. But, I can’t stand the look of confusion when my kids introduce me as their mother and the response is, “Oh, I thought – – – – – – was your mother!”
Petty? Yes. For almost 30 years I have obligingly and, I feel graciously, shared my children with their step-mom because she is a good, kind and generous woman who loves them and they love her.
But, please don’t introduce her as their mother unless you want to watch “The Attack of the Green-Eyed Monster,” coming to a theatre near you.


























