Earlier this summer, Twitter had a hashtag game called #goreyesque, to which you contributed by writing, yes, Edward Goreyesque couplets. I forgot I'd saved mine on a Stickies note. Not to toot myself or anything, but I think I ruled. Did I?


Miss Gilda McCraw lost her dentures one day,
And then found them again in the turnip soufflé

Her toenails she'd nibble right down to the quick,
Which rendered her children decidedly sick

She slept in the coal bin, on a raffia mat,
Her only companion a corpulent rat

In the night she would rail, in a troublesome voice,
At the bawdy intent of a phantom called Joyce


Mr. Willoughby Horne was allergic to capers;
When served puttanesca he swooned with the vapors

Horace gave Mabel a potent libation,
Which stirred her young hips to unseemly gyration

Though he hid himself well, she neglected to seek;
By the time she remembered, he'd started to reek

Hepzibah Drake had an unctuous appearance
And an unflagging passion for self-interference

Quint had ten siblings and one book of matches;
When he burned them alive, he did them in batches

Jane wouldn't have ridden in Elmer's jalopy
If she'd known that her beau was a slave to the poppy

Golly gee, Livejournal, since I live in the country to which this holiday is UNIQUE, I guess I celebrate it like most other Americans.

"In your country"? Independence Day... not a big holiday in countries that are not America. I wonder how they celebrate Australia Day in France?

The theme music to Halloween gave me the twitches for about a year, after an extended period of awful that led to my last breakup. It was my ringtone at the time. I don't think I need say more.

1) Grossly. Over. Rated.

2) So. Very. Earnest.

3) Try. Some. Ballads.

4) Egg. Bed. Really?

5) Not. My. Mother.

Y'all, don't ever hurt yourselves, because the amount of well-meaning, patronizing stupidity that comes flying at you might do you in.

As I'm pretty sure I informed you, The Internet, last year my parents retired from public education, sold up in Maryland and relocated to a much larger house in St. Cloud, FL, less than a half-hour's drive from The Happiest Place On Earth™. Dad goes to one of the parks a minimum of once a week, usually just to do his walking and keep the cholesterol down. Everywhere else, the AARP generation has to walk in the local mall for their gentle cardio, so I guess the Magic Kingdom is a definite upward move. After my brisk walking I'd much rather cool off at the Haunted Mansion than Orange Julius. Wouldn't you?

As I may not have informed you, on my birthday last November, my mother answered the door to pick up a UPS delivery, stepped off the curb funny and broke her ankle. The UPS guy turned around and came back to help her, because he heard the snap. After months of therapy, immobility, and a blood clot that drifted up to her lung and gave her some trouble, she's back to normal. The only catch is that she can't walk as far as she used to yet, without losing strength in her leg. This can be a problem in The Happiest Place on Earth ™, or as it's known in our clan, The Park™. I rented a car and drove down this past weekend, when my aunt and a family friend came for a visit. Family Friend had never been to The Park™ in her life, so guess where we spent most of our time? I'm not complaining, I love The Park™ a lot, in fact. Anyway, after a day of walking around chez Mickey and friends, Mom had to take to the wheelchair for day two at Epcot, and Dad and I took turns pushing her about the place.

I wasn't expecting to see my mother, who can freeze an errant fifth-grader with her eyebeams and doom voice at fifty paces, treated like a special-needs child because she had wheels for a day. Don't you call my mother "princess" and try to high-five her, West African crossing guard. Don't call her "sweetie", chirpy ponytailed ride attendants. I don't care how smiley you are when you do it, it's ignorant and so are you. I knew about the horrors of infantilization in nursing homes, but seeing it done to a woman with a bum leg who's just turned 60 is some kind of fresh hell. My eyes are opened. Now I understand why you see old people in wheelchairs carrying canes, even though they can't ever walk. Them ain't canes, they's whackin' sticks for idjits treatin' you like you come in last place at the Special 'Lympics. So, I had to suck back some heavy temptation that might have landed me a term in Mickey Jail™.

The lesson here is, when UPS comes calling, do not open the door. You never know what will happen.

If it meant no rent to pay out, I would have no problem living with the wintry freshness of murdered ghost. No question. Sign me up. They can even stare at me while I sleep.

No, I think kids should learn about sex in a Tilt-a-Whirl car like I did.

What kind of bullshit "Focus on the Family" question is this, LJ?

In a country where I'd bet at least 70% of adults can't even say "vagina" and "penis" without a giggle or a gag reflex, kids had damn well better learn about sex in school. Unless you want all of our future caretakers to be modeled after minor characters in a Farrelly Brothers movie.

My favorite midnight snack? It's somewhere in this wonderful thing that you should all watch right now. Enjoy while I heat up the egg 'n ham slabs.

Dark, quiet, Indian food, some sex.

I would die, and then I would kill.