The Maharani

The living curse of a bitter mother

She crawls around in the background like a spider with greedy red eyes.

She looks like she eats lemons and only lemons.

She has the power to make your life hell, send you back and forth and still not deliver.

The devil of the details is what she works with, she'll make you cringe when she stares at you with a coldness that hell can't produce, only envy.

She thinks she's pretty, eating only lemons, so fashionably skinny.

Her ugliness escapes her when she looks in the mirror.

She can only see the make up and clothes she puts on herself.

She's a tattle tale extrordinaire. Do one thing wrong and she'll tell Santa.

She'll wreck your life for that rush she gets while she tells you to "have a blessed day".

She's the living curse of a bitter mother.

Dead People

In my heydey as a hairdresser, I worked in a busy barber shop on Sunday afternoons. I loved it, lived for it, and I was good at it. I was fast and furious with those scissors.
I worked with three other hairdressers on Sundays. Roddie, Shannon and Deanna. We wouldn’t play the radio on Sundays because it blared all week long and we wanted it quieter when we worked on Sunday.
We all took turns answering the phone and booking appointments. It was the end of the day one Sunday afternoon and we were finishing up our last customers. We all had one customer each and there was one more customer waiting at the front. He was reading a newspaper.
The phone rang and it was my turn to answer it, which I did. An intoxicated male voice on the other end of the line asked
"Do you do stiffs "?
"I beg your pardon"? I asked, incredulously
"Do you do stiffs "? he slurred, again.
"Do you mean DEAD PEOPLE "? I asked, without realizing that I now had the attention of the rest of the salon and they could only hear my side of the conversation.
He said "Well my friend died yesterday and he needs a haircut for the funeral".
"They have people at the mortuarys who do DEAD PEOPLE’s hair"I informed him. He already knew that, he said, and proceeded to tell me that his dead friend used to come to our salon all the time and it would be great if he could bring him in and get his hair cut for his funeral.
By this time my voice was uncharacteristically loud and getting very shrill.
"DO NOT BRING YOUR DEAD FRIEND HERE TO HAVE HIS HAIR CUT, WE DO NOT DO DEAD PEOPLE"!!!!!!!!
The intoxicated man on the other end of the line began to beg, saying it cost over hundred dollars to have his friends hair done at the mortuary and couldn’t we please please please let him bring him in. I then ended the conversation with one last statement:
WE DO NOT DO DEAD PEOPLE, WE WILL NEVER DO DEAD PEOPLE, DO NOT BRING A DEAD PERSON HERE
I hung up the phone with an angry flourish and looked up at the customer sitting in the waiting room. He had lowered his newspaper so that all I could see were his eyes (like Wilson on Home Improvement) and he said"I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t do dead people either"!and brought the newpaper back up to cover his entire face.
I went back to my station and my customer said :
"Its a good idea not to allow dead people to come here, because if you do, the parking lot could fill up with hearses and it will scare all the live people away".
Deanna, who worked at the station next to mine said:
"Well, on the other hand, dead people would never complain about the work we do " (she wasn’t a very good hairdresser, really lousy at haircuts).
Her customer said "And, if you did do dead people, all you’d have to do is the top and the sides".
Roddie added " I’d have done him for 50 dollars"!
To which Shannon replied "You’d do anyone for 50 dollars"!

Daisy Duke Hootchie Mama Shorts

It was Friday and she got home from work and school, her kid was at her ex’s house and she had the whole weekend to chill. She got out the beer, the herb, the candles and put on her favorite sheer diaphanous pink nighty and was in the process of going to her happy place when the sirens went off. She didn’t know what was wrong, didn’t care to even turn on the tv to see what was happening. Her attitude was, if she was going to wake up dead tomorrow, she sure as hell was going to relax tonight. So she continued to drink her beer, smoke the herb and dance down the street named oblivion. Unfortunately, the sirens continued to howl and, most upsetting, a cop with a bullhorn started going down each street booming "Evacuate your houses, This is an Evacuation". Well, it finally dawned on her that this could be serious. Then it hit her like a freight train because the herb kicked in and woke up her paranoia.
I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE started repeating itself over and over in her head. But what to take with her ? She picked up her cat, put him back down, figured he was on his own, grabbed her keys, her ciggerettes, her cellphone, her toothbrush and ran into her black patent leather pumps and out the door and into her car and drove over to her sister’s house who lived in the next county over.When she arrived at her sisters wearing her sheer diaphanous pink nighty, black patent leather pumps, with keys, ciggerettes, cellphone and toothbrush in hand, her sister was having a large outdoor BBQ party. There she was, a splendiferous sight in sheer, pink nighty, pumps, so ghetto faboulous that she walked into the party and said "Heyyyyyyyyy". Her sister grabbed her and dragged her into the house and ran her to the bedroom, opened the closet and started throwing an outfit together for her to change into. Her sister was 3 sizes smaller than her, and when she tried to talk her into putting on a pair of shorts that were, as she puts it, (and I love this phrase which is why I’m relating this story to you, gentle reader) " Daisy Duke Hootchie Mama Shorts" . Of course, she refused to change into them. She ran out of the bedroom and back to the party and continued down the road to happy oblivion in her pink nighty and black pumps despite the evacuation and the party.
Oh, it was a chemical spill in her area that caused the evacuation (she didn’t’ find out til the next day what it was) and the cat was perfectly fine when she got home.
So, should the sirens go off and the bullhorns start blaring, grab your beer, your toothbrush and other essentials you can’t live without and head for the partay, heyyyy!

The number 5

All my life, the number five has followed me around, popping up in odd places all around town and me. So I looked into numerology (the devils math, haha) and sure enough, 5 is my lifepath number.
Well, I looked up the description of that, oh dear. On the positive side, change, talent and lotz of idea's and a need for freedom, a need for self discipline and a need for adventure.
Yup, thats about what I need.
On the negative, self indulgence in pleasures (drugs, sex, rock and roll, anything I like) inability to focus or finish anything.
Yup, thats about what I like to do.
hahaha
Its also the number of discontent. I am hardly ever content with anything I do, but I don't think any artist should ever be content with their work or they become mediocre.
I see all my artwork as mediocre, I'm never happy with it, therefore I constantly strive.
Its kind of an icky feeling tho.

The journey to the stump

The poor tree, diseased and rotting inside, fell over.
It took out phone lines, cable and the Internet.
It had no idea that its death would distress a gaggle of humans.
The arguments ensued, who would clean up the rest of the tree, who would pay for it, who would put the services back on, when would what happen and who will pay.
Life goes on.
But the poor tree, diseased and rotting, died.

The keeper of all that is unsaid

The unsaid is a horrible monster. It lives in your stomach and your throat. It eats up each moment you do not say what you mean, how you feel, why you won't, why you will, and so on. It grows as it feeds and brings the tears to your eyes when you think about who you love and hate, its special creation is the anxiety attack you have atthe grocery store, or at work or in traffic. The birth of the monster began when you were two. When you were two, you discovered the word NO. You liked it so much you said it whenever you wanted too. At first, you were cute when you said no, they laughed and kissed you and pinched your cheek and poked your belly. But then you realized that everyone was getting angry at you when you said it too much. An you were saying it louder and louder and with great abandon. What was once your bueatiful shining self expression became something they beat you over. They slapped you and they glared at you and they stuck you in a corner, they wouldn't feed you if they were mad enough, they put you in your room alone and in the dark and then they started calling you hideous names.
You gave up the word NO with hardly even a fight.
You gave up your bueatiful NO and what replaced is was a bowed head.
You didn't say YES so much as you said nothing.
And that was the birth of the unsaid.