Tag Archives: Wordplay

The Week in My World 5-10-11

I feel at odds with myself and the world, like an alien creature sent to live among humans to collect information but unable to send anything back but corrupt data. I despair at the state of the planet and of my personal life. And, I’m out of coffee filters.


We’ve been streaming episodes of the TV show Lost. First season, well who doesn’t like a plane crash? Second season broached turbulence when we began to realize how unlikable the characters are. Last night we were midway through the third season when we were cast adrift. The characters bicker dully and can’t answer a simple question without some snotty witless remark. Who’d I rather? None of them. And nobody’s fracking, what’s up with that? I don’t care about any of them, and aren’t you supposed to care? The episodes crawl tediously, without a hint of insight why these weird things are happening, it’s just one mystery piled on top of another with no relief. One of the most annoying motifs throughout the show is that though each survivor experiences nightmares, hallucinations, and visions, whenever they relate their incident to another character, it’s met with “oh it was just a dream” or “you’re under a lot of stress” or “get some sleep.” Wouldn’t ya think they’d want to share these dangerous and scary visions, like maybe they’re related? We read the rest of the plot outlines and saw no need to suffer this wreckage to the end. The island is beautiful but the plot and dialogue are stagnant.


Sorry, can’t resist another boyfriend story…

When Don Lenz first zoomed in on me and flashed me his smile, we really clicked. He said I was a cute little pixel but he must have been looking at me through a diffuser. I shutter to think how overexposed I was, and had to F-stop him quite a bit at first.

But as time went on, the contrast between us sharpened. All he wanted to do was download me with his inkjet. I wasn’t the first either, his memory stick had a long history. Well he can stuff it up his aperture for all I care. Next time I see that self-focused bastard I’m going to point and shoot.


An acquaintance said to me the other day, Debra, all you do is rant. I said that’s a boldfaced lie, can’t you at least put it in italic? He said, well you’re still weird. I said, me weird? You oughta try blogging.


Some recent pics…

I think my favorite tree here is the ruggedly beautiful alligator juniper. Such character, such spirit.

Alligator juniper berries

Alligator juniper roots

Bottom half of ancient palo verde (“green stick”) tree, another exotic beauty and state tree of Arizona.

Various woodpeckers, flickers, and owls make their nests in saguaros (pronounced suh-wahr’-oh) They don’t grow up here at 5,000 feet, this was taken on a recent trip to Tucson, where they flourish.

Spring and fall are the busiest times for the border patrol. Our house is situated on a corridor, which I did not know when we moved here. USBP trucks, ATVs, horses, and helicopters are a daily event in my backyard. I snapped this picture the other day in front of my house. 

Here an agent is giving one of the men IV fluids. There are so many coming through.

My Alleged Life and Loves

My father owned a hotdog stand—but he had a footlong chip on his shoulder. At Christmas we would garnish the house with mustard greens, something us kids didn’t relish. Sometimes he would lock me out of the house—he was a deadbolt dad. One day he hurt his back coming out of a record shop, turned out he had a slipped disk—every time he moved Bad to the Bone by George Thorogood would play. It didn’t help that he also had digestive problems and ended up with a semicolon.

Only my parents could make a spectator sport out of a card game, they played contact bridge. Whenever my father won a hand, my mother would deck him.

I needed work so I took a position as an artist’s model, but the arrangement was very tiring. I tried to tell the artist I was just a prototype. I cleaned the large homes of wealthy people, even the toilets were commodious. I worked in a butcher shop for a while but had a visceral reaction. Trying to stay employed was frutal, even the car I drove was a lemon but at least it smelled good.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. When I finally fall asleep the dream team of Ayatollah Khomeini and Satan are nightly visitors. Another dream I have involves a three-eyed monster who demands a pair of trifocals. I try to exorcise but realized I was on a treadmill to hell. Why go through the hassle of body-building when you can just stay home and masticate? I’m a terrible cook though, my deviled eggs are evil, which may explain a lot. I stay powered by transgressed fats and Miracle Whip.

I like to get dolled up now and then but never should have let that hairdresser talk me into the salmon mousse, now every cat in the neighborhood is after me. She lent me a book on skincare and pockmarked the page she wanted me to read. My boyfriend has male pattern baldness, I think it’s argyle.

I had a string of boyfriends in my younger days but could never get the knots out. One eggbeater who was part of the illiterati once decomposed a sonnet for me which I had to throw out. He got mad and left. I scoured the earth for him and went through a lot of sponges which I think he should reimburse me for. He still harbored a grudge, but mooring me with the OED was uncalled for. I said thanks for dredging up the same old shit. He said muck you, I said my sediments exactly. Later he sent me a bouquet of listeria from which I’ve never fully recovered.

An accountant I dated made a killing by filing fraudulent IRS returns for wealthy clients. He was sentenced to life in prison where he gave taxonomy lessons to other classless crooks. I was an accessory, they suspected my velvet choker. When the cops came to arrest him at his office, he tried to pretend he was on the phone, but they insisted on just the fax. We tried to keep the whole thing quiet, but everyone had just returned from a liquid lunch so there were a lot of media leaks. Everything went wrong—figures I’d end up a fugitive from Murphy’s Law.

I dated a black guy back in the ’70s. I loved his hair, it was a real afrodisiac.

In high school I went out with this dyslexic guy. One day he reached for his gnu and got expelled, I think it was through a third floor window.

Another chump who was religious asked me if I was an atheist, I said I’m really more of a diagnostic. He also liked guns—it wasn’t easy to come to grips with the fact that he was a smoothbore skinflint.

I’m done with men, though I still enjoy boys…and raw recruits, when properly prepared, are pretty tasty.

Husband No. 3.5, a Typographical Terror

I wasn’t big on the institution of marriage, especially since I had just been released from some crackpot’s idea of an asylum. I wasn’t ready for the holy state of acrimony, but he was sick of being my insignificant other. He really wanted to integrate—on my nerves. He talked me into it when he installed a built-in closet with me in it. When he finally let me off the hook, we sealed it with a hiss and became officially engaged—in a brawl. He had a nice smile though and I was quite enameled with him, and a cute pencil mustache which I would sharpen every night.

His name was Bob Kaic and he was an old-fashioned guy. His email address was rkaic@ slomail.com. At my wedding I wore a queasy-colored dress infestooned with carbuncles and everybody got nauseous. It was a blustery day and it was hard for guests to hold down their food so I was glad we had opted for the bag lunch. For our honeymoon we went paraphrasing at Lacuna Beach, where he told me to jettison any big ideas I had. We tried swimming but I was so polluted I dissolved into brackish tears. Then we hiked through a petrified forest but I was more scared than the wood. I forgot to pack my camera and he sniped at me for being unfocused. Afterward we threw pennies in the soda fountain and watched them corrode, then ambled down the boardwalk but found it tedious. The hotel offered us the bridal suite but I bucked at that, just because I have saddle bags and was wearing a halter top is no reason to be mean. I should have paid more attention to my reservations, but it was spur of the moment.

Bob wouldn’t shut up though and gave me a communicative disease. His philosophy of life confused me, not surprising since he was born in Farrago, North Dakota. He lived up near the Indians in Mishmash for a while, then traveled overseas to Gallimaufry and Pastiche. His family came from all walks of life—his father limped, his mother waddled, and his brother had two left feet. His dad was a Doctor of Scatology down at the free clinic, where he was head of Janitorial Services. Bob had an Italian uncle who would never let him do anything—his name was Veto. He once smacked poor Bob with a waffle iron, it left quite an impression—he had hot cross buns for a month. His sister, Compass Rose, was a Girl Scout leader, and his grandfather, Mort, sat in front of the TV impersonating the living. Not his fault though, he had brain surgery by a doctor who was operating under the influence and accidentally installed a dinner plate in his head.

Bob claimed he was an upstanding guy but I usually saw him horizontal. He was a musician, he liked to play the strumpet and was a patron of the tarts. He was short and fat so I called him a jumbo shrimp and he yelled “don’t call me that you oxymoron!” I said come on, we’re all adulterous here. Sometimes I would get engrossed just looking at him.

When we were packing to move into a bigger apartment it turned into a boxing match. One night he came after me with an axiom but it was so illogical I laughed. He chased me outside in the rain where I lost a shoe in the mud. I was hopping mad. When I tried to get back inside he pierced me with his eyes but it was just an entry wound. Once we argued over who ate the last apple—but the core of the problem went deeper, I was a fruit loop. We had no money and lived on Ramen noodle soup, a low-viscosity solution. I told him I couldn’t live in a vacuum but when he showed me how roomy it was inside I said I’d try to pick up the pieces.

But he turned into a bitter man and the smell of vinegar was overpowering. We finally came to a fork in the road but realized we needed it for our potato salad. We labored under the delusion that things would improve, but it was a thankless job with no benefits. The union finally got busted and I’m back to being self-deployed. That seven-month itch really burns.