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Yep…I’ve been AWOL.  I have not been posting….please pardon my absence. I received my comeuppance by having to delete five million-jillion spam comments from my filter.



Ahem. Pardon my use of the word toilet. Sometimes I forget my genteel upbringing.

I have been writing. Nine chapters on a new book!  Woot woot! I’ve been bwahahaing with a writing buddy. That is code for penning a new murder mystery dinner. (Wink! Wink!)

And you can catch a post I wrote for the A to Z Challenge site at:

It’s about ‘Blog Block’. I know. Art imitates life. Go figure.

I will return to regular postings anon. Be warned. My inner hoochie mama writing self will run amuck.  Wear protective eye coverings. 

colleen moore 3


Gas Powered Again!


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This post was first published in May 2013. Enjoy!

Today’s post really is not about writing nor anything related to writing. It’s about….gas.  Not for your car. Not the gas in neon signs. It’s about the other kind. The embarrassing kind that whistles and zips when you least expect. The kind that can stop a conversation or a charging bull moose. No one wants to acknowledge that ‘passage’ has occurred. Most people suddenly begin to ramble about ‘Great Aunt Sue and her begonias’ when the trumpet sounds, but there are times when being flatulent is a good thing. So the tale begins with….

I went for a bone density  several weeks ago,  and the tech was totally obnoxious.

She kept giving me info in minute detail about the procedure, her training, bone loss in older woman, why  bone loss occurs, etc. It was overkill and not because I have a medical background. It was just too dang much. Plus she talked about the patient before me, sharing a few private details. HIPPA, baby.  Not good.

When I requested a thyroid shield, she argued with me about the need for it.  Peering over her bifocals, she said,  “Mrs. Jameson, I am exposed  to radiation every day. I wear this meter.  Believe me, you get more radiation on a hot summer day than with a bone density test. You have nothing to worry about.”  Blah. Blah. Blah.
 I explained that I always use a thyroid shield because I have a history of thyroid disease. It’s just a  little heavy plastic thingie with lead inside that you drape over your neck. It is no big deal to put on or take off.
She told me I didn’t need it.
I told her that I did.
She told me again that I didn’t need it.
I told her once more that I did.
 On and on.
Finally she gave in and reached around the corner and pulled a thyroid shield off a nearby shelf and handed it to me with quite a bit of attitude. I said thank you and draped it on my neck as I assumed the appropriate position for a bone density test. I was flat on my back with my legs bent at the knee and placed on a giant foam block. I also had to assure her that I had no metal zippers anywhere and that I had no calcium for breakfast.
The test itself is very short, but it appeared that I needed further instruction.
“Mrs. Jameson, your scan in 2010 showed osteoporosis in your lower spine. Were you aware of that?”
“Have you done what is needed to prevent further loss and fractures?”
“Do you take calcium and D3?”
Yes and yes.
“You know what will happen if you do not follow the doctor’s directions?” (This was said in a very aggressive/doomsday tone.)
At this point I wanted to yell, “Hell, yes, I do! I’ll turn into bone dust, and someone is going to have to sweep me out the door. Let’s check my fragile bones out right now. You want a piece of me, baby!” but instead I said very politely, “Yes, I am following my doctor’s recommendations.” (My mama raised a lady, and  I am not supposed to curse or use expressions  like ‘shut your pie hole’.)
“Well, good,” she said, and she pushed a button. A beep sounded and the scan was completed. Then the time came for me to get off the exam table and leave.
DISCLAIMER: This is when I talk about ‘gas’. If you have phartophobia, you might want to stop reading. BTW that is a real medical term from the Merck Manual used by health care professionals. It was an online source, and everything you read online is very reliable.  You can trust the internet. 
As I stood up to receive my final instructions concerning when my doctor would receive the results, I passed gas…loudly and badly. Not intentionally. It just happened. It was a tremendous  flutter-blast with a sky rocket whistle as a punctuation point.
Suddenly, the woman was speechless.
I said politely, “Pardon me. What were you saying?”
She pointed to the exit and told me to take a right.
I could not help but smile a little ornery grin as I walked away. It was  a case of legume justice.

Goodbye to Mr. Williams


I’m breaking my ‘I’m-not-a’gonna-post-anything-until-September’ pledge. I can’t help it. I was very sad when I heard of the death of Robin Williams. He is the reason I love rainbow suspenders. He made me laugh. He made me cry. At one point in time I even wanted to do stand-up comedy because of him.

In the early 80’s a friend of mine  pulled me to a TV set to watch a guy do a comedy routine about sperm and a diaphragm. I practically busted a gut laughing.  Yep, it was Robin Williams. He could take any subject/object and morph/whip it into a chuckle machine (just like his friend Jonathan Winters).

I have favorite movies…Popeye, Patch Adams, The Fisher King…Mrs. Doubtfire…The Big White…I could on and on.

But I really love this video by Bobby McFerrin with Mr. Williams in it. The song title is “Don’t worry. Be Happy”. Sometimes when a person is in the depths of despair and the blackness is eating away at the soul, it’s just not possible. So long, Mr. Comedy. Goodbye, Mork. Na-Nu Na-Nu!

Cinder-hella and the Bad Mop


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I’m taking a leave while I work on projects….shall return September 1.  I have selected some of my favorite posts to reblog which were my biggest chucklers. Enjoy again (or for the first time if you are a new subscriber).  Scribbles!  Helen

Once upon a time Cinder-hella decided to mop. She hated this task with all her heart, but it was a necessity due to:

  1. Grime build-up on the palace kitchen floor.
  2. Toddler drips and splats beneath the feeding throne.
  3. Approaching visitors from the North.

Reason #3 was foremost on Cinder-hella’s mind. It was  Labor Day weekend in the Kingdom. Relatives would soon knock at the door. A fine feast of roast beast was planned. Of course, Cinder-hella waited until the last minute to mop because she hated it so.

She gathered the bucket. She heated the tap water which she laced with a fine-smelling lemon carcinogenic cleaning solution and bleach.

She stripped off all her clothing because she did not wish bleach to hurt her fine ballgown. She always mopped au naturale. No one was present in the house. No husband. No children. Cinder-hella was alone with a bucket and her mop. (Do not dwell upon her nakedness. That would be unseemly.)

Here is MOP.
Well, not the real mop.
Its brand will remain unsaid.
Just note that it was an old sponge mop, well-versed in evil.
It searched for an opportunity to belittle and harm Cinder-hella
much like the evil Step-sisters in the original story.

Cinder-hella swept the kitchen floor in preparation for the cleaning. She did not use an old-fashioned broom but a fine Swiffer given to her by her handsome prince. This brand is named because it is true and good… unlike MOP.

The princess decided that she would approach the task with a positive attitude. She ordered the Royal Pandora Musicians to play Christmas songs. Carols filled the air. She commenced the mopping with gusto and a smile.

She was amazed at how fast the work was going. MOP was cooperating. Hopefully, the floor would be dry before the relatives arrived.

Little did Cinder-hella know that MOP had heard the opines of Cinder-hella which were spoken to the Prince days before the Royal Mopping.

“Oh, handsome man, I beseech thee. Purchase for your royal dame a Swiffer Wet Jet. I will throw nasty MOP away and live the life of a true and gentle princess.”

MOP plotted and planned to exact revenge on the red-haired princess. At first MOP  cleaned and shined the floor, but evil was lurking. MOP waited until just the right moment…and THEN ……

MOP snapped at its base, and Cinder-hella slipped and fell.


She lay on the wet floor, a puddle of naked flesh. Fear not! The fall was not hard only humbling. Cinder-hella was able to save herself from major hip or back injury by riccocheting off a wall. 

MOP lay by her, sneering.

“Ha ha ha! You fell on your royal a##!”

“I hate you, MOP!” Cinder-hella yelled. She also spouted some very un-royal words which shall not be penned to page.


The doorbell rang.

Yes, it did.

Crawling on her hands and knees to the nearby dry floor, Cinder-hella hot-footed it to her royal sleeping chambers and donned her ballgown. She did have an ouch or two where the corset pinched, but otherwise she was in good spirits and free of broken bones.

The guests were warned to stay off the wet floor, and evil MOP was banished to the trash can.

So ends the tale of a princess and a mop.

The Moral of  this story is:
To thine own mop be true or you shall be black and blue.

NOTE: The above tale is true. Cinder-hella does exist. I wear her glass slippers. This post is dedicated to a certain fellow writer whose children nicknamed me ‘Hella’.

Tremor me timbers!


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Yep, I said ‘tremor’ instead of ‘shiver’. Today I had an adventure at the local health food store. I love going to that store.  (Can you say organic ‘chocolate covered almonds’?)  But the clientele can be a bit odd. I’m not picking on anyone. Heck, I’m odd. No discrimination intended.  Here’s the deal:

I was perusing the B12 vitamins for my vegetarian daughter. (I’m a carnivore. She’s a vegetarian. Go figure. I probably traumatized her with a medium rare steak.) The area where I was reading labels was right by the cash register. A very nicely dressed woman of my age was placing cans and packages of flour onto the counter. Her conversation with the clerk was sprinkled with bits of this and that. And then she suddenly started talking about ‘sink holes’….in great detail…in her own view of what was causing these horrible house-eaters.

“Something is coming out of the sink holes. Something from deep below,” she said. She was very dramatic about this.

The clerk nodded and replied, “Maybe gas. Like a giant belch?”


“No,” the woman stated. “And it’s not because of fracking…I’m talking ‘things'”

I am not making fun of the woman. She is entitled to her views, but….

What the heck? 


I began to think of the movie Tremors. I almost interrupted the conversation by adding my two cents that it had to be Graboids, but I didn’t. I stood there shaking. Images of Kevin Bacon whooping up on a giant nematode were racing through my thoughts. I couldn’t help it. Needless to say I had to exit the store fast before some of my favorite lines from Tremors escaped my lips.

Valentine McKee: Roger that Burt, and congratulations. Be advised, however, that there are two more, repeat, two more motherhumpers.

Valentine McKee: This valley is just one long smorgasbord.

Burt Gummer: Broke into the wrong goddamn rec room, didn’t ya you bastard!

I ran to my car and immediately called my oldest daughter who loves Tremors also. I do believe I became healthier from all the laughter.

(NOTE: I will be sporadically posting until mid-August…a bit here…a bit there…unless the Graboids get me. Then you won’t hear a thing from me. Scribbles.)


WORD CRIMES by Weird Al is a writer’s anthem


I had to reblog a reblog because this made me laugh so hard I nearly snorted coffee out of my nose. It’s a fitting start to a Monday. Excuse me….I need to dance some ‘mo to dis. (Go Wierd Al!)

Originally posted on The Red Pen of Doom:

Back in the day, Weird Al Yankovic was proudly, loudly weird. Today, he’s the master of parody videos, which keep getting better and better.

This one is a dream for writers and editors everywhere. He speaks the truth. Sing it, Al, and let the rumors that you’re retiring be false.

# # #

The Red Pen of Doom’s Greatest Hits Collection: 10 Epic Posts

  1. Epic Black Car deserves good owner; are you worthy?
  2. The Mother of All Query Letters
  3. Why every man MUST read a romance – and every woman a thriller
  4. The Red Pen of Doom impales FIFTY SHADES OF GREY
  5. The Twitter, it is NOT for selling books
  7. 30 achy breaky Twitter mistakeys
  8. Writing secret: Light as air, strong as whiskey, cheap as dirt
  9. The Red Pen of Doom murders THE FOUNTAINHEAD by Ayn Rand
  10. Quirks and legs matter more than talent and perfection


This is Guy Bergstrom the writer, not the Guy Bergstrom in Stockholm or the guy in Minnesota who sells real estate or whatever. Separate guys. Kthxbai.

Guy Bergstrom. Photo by Suhyoon Cho.

Reformed journalist…

View original 34 more words

How a Haircut Improves Mood


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Dame Friday has never had a bad hair day.
Her hair is forever in place courtesy of the oil brushed
upon the canvas. 

Hair follicles have incredible power.  Bad hair days exist. I’ve had many. Recently I took matters into my own hands….well…actually to a very nice stylist’s hands…and she cut my hair eye-hurting short. I love it. I have micro-bangs. I do not look like Mamie Eisenhower.

mamieMamie had short bangs, well-rolled.
The look worked for her especially with the pearls.

I’m more Peter Pan with a splash of fairy dust.


I know…why am I telling you about my hair? As my locks fell to the floor, I thought, “Hmmm….this is an object lesson.”

I am no longer chained to the hair dryer and the giant roller brush that raked across my forehead as I struggled to straighten my give’em-two-minutes-and-they-will-curl bangs. I will use only one hair product called Taffy. Naah…it’s not edible, but it ‘sticks’ my strands into position.

As I edit words, I’m ‘trimming the bangs’ on my book! It’s refreshing. Uplifting. A bit scary….like looking down and seeing a ton of hair on the floor by the stylist’s chair. Sometimes a good trim has to happen.  I feel better after a hair trim. I feel great after re-wording a sentence. The feeling of ‘it just seemed so right” pours over the soul. Sigh. Friday scribbles to you! helen








Moe Monday


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Look who has been making an appearance in my life lately….Moe D’Vation. What a guy!

To those unfamiliar with Moe, he is my Italian word mafioso/muse who kicks my derriere when I get slack and sloppy in my work habits. Needless to say he gave me quite a caboose kicking a couple of weeks ago.

“Sister, what the heck have you been doing? Picking your nose instead of writing? You should know better than to pull a Danny Devito and throw mama from the train. Here read these books and show up at the laptop. Capesh?”

When Moe talks, Helen listens. I read the books…a lot of books…more than the Italian Stallion handed me.  Here’s a recommendation from moi, the redhead: “Writing It Right! How Successful Children’s Authors Revise and Sell Their Stories” by Sandy Asher.

writing it right

Writing It Right! is a great view of the writing process. The author presents examples of published works and contrasts them with the initial rough drafts and later edits. It’s amazing to see how the story seeds grow into lovely big trees.  It gave me some ‘a-ha’ moments.

I don’t know…call me naive, but when I first started writing, I thought first drafts were the pinnacle. You know. The deed was done…no more drafting needed. How could perfection be improved? Yeah…right. Here’s the deed to the Brooklyn Bridge, redhead of limited understanding.

I’m a visual person. Seeing the rough drafts of others and their completed work gave me a great perspective. Nobody really buys the Brooklyn Bridge. No one has ever published a first draft. (Let me know if you know of an example).

BTW no one paid me to read this book. No one has paid me to do anything in a long time. Sigh. But that’s another struggling writer/unpublished story.

Check out Writing It Right! It’s an eye-opener, sugar. Scribbles!

(If you desire more Moe D’Vation, refer back to April 1. Moe was the main topic for a solid month. I really got sick of his ugly mug!)

Dame Friday and the Beatles


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Dear Dame Friday is here with her thistle dress and her lovely hair. 

Friday is good. Friday is fun. If there were no Fridays, there would only be six days in a week, and the Beatles would have had to rename their song to ‘Seven Days a Week”. It wouldn’t have been the same.



Those are my Friday thoughts…filled with a bit a of silliness which is what we all need to end the week with…as the weekend rolls in at midnight.  Scribbles!


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