Alice’s Brownies

It was my 40th birthday. I had to work all day at some apartments I owned. I push mowed the entire acre grounds and then painted number four’s nicotine-stained living room walls. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that being a landlord is glamorous. Not even if that someone is Suze Orman.

But I digress. Like I said it was my birthday and I was working and I was sweaty and stinky and cranky. When I got home there was a cake pan on my porch swing with a note that read simply, “Enjoy!” I looked in the pan and saw something yummy and chocolately. One of my neighbors had made me brownies for my birthday! How sweet! Things were definitely looking up.

I gulped down a brownie because I hadn’t eaten all day and I was ravenous. Then I took a shower and changed clothes. After all that, I sat in the kitchen and waited for my girlfriend to come home from where ever she was so we could go to the local watering hole and meet a few friends. I’m not big on drinking, but I was thinking I might tip a few tonight. After all, you only turn 40 once, right?

I ate three more brownies while waiting for my girlfriend. (who shall remain nameless because I don’t like her now.) By the time GF arrived I was sitting in the dark, giggling at… well, I don’t know what. GF saw the cake pan of brownies and asked, “Where’d you get the half pan of brownies?”

“It’s not a half-pan. I mean, it is now, but it wasn’t to begin with,” I said.

“You ate all that by yourself?” she asked. “It’s half empty!”

“I prefer to think of it as half full,” I said.

She looked at me weird and cut herself a brownie. She took a bite. “Wow,” she said. “These taste really potent.”

“What do you mean potent?”

“I mean, they’re Alice’s brownies,” she said.

“Who’s Alice?”

“As in Alice B. Toklas,” she said. “Gertrude’s Alice. She was always making pot brownies.”

“They have pot in them?” I gasped.

An hour later we were at Granny’s, the local bar, surrounded by friends. I watched everyone as they drank and talked and laughed. They were very scary-looking. Their faces seemed to be made of elastic. When they smiled they had too many teeth. It reminded me of silly putty after you moosh it on a cartoon then stretch it out. Their necks were as tiny as toothpicks. How did they mange to keep their giant stretchy heads balanced on their tiny toothpick necks? They were sucking up all the oxygen in the room. I couldn’t breathe.

I stood. Everyone in the entire bar turned their wibbly wobbly heads and stared at me. They whispered behind their hands. I had to leave. I had to leave before they sucked up all the air.

I weaved my way to the ladies room and closed myself in the first stall that was unoccupied. The air in the bathroom tasted horrible. I suddenly bent over the toilet and heaved. I spewed chocolate into the bowl.

I vomited for a long long long long time. And when I stopped vomiting, I cried.

There was a rappity-rap-rap on the stall door. “Who’s there?” I called out in a fake cheery voice.

“It’s Linda. Are you okay?”

“I think I shit my pants,” I whispered through the crack in the door.

“For real?” she asked.

“Yes. I didn’t have to poop when I got here. At least I didn’t think I did. But with the force of the heaving and vomiting, I think it just kinda happened on its own free will.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Listen, Linda. You don’t have to be in here with me. You didn’t sign up to be babysitting a 40 year-old woman who shit her drawers,” I said. “You can leave. I won’t be mad.”

“Okay,” she said. I heard the door open and shut.

“Linda? You still there?”

No answer. She was gone. Talk about fair-weather friends.

I waited a few minutes and left the bathroom. I weaved and tripped and stumbled and eventually found myself in front of microphone. I looked around. I was standing on a stage. Four men sat at a table in front of me. They were wearing kilts.

“Sing Proud Mary!” one of the men bellowed in a thick Scottish accent.

“Yeah!” Everybody in the whole bar shouted. “Proud Mary!” Some people stomped their feet. Others pounded their fists on the table.

I leaned in to the mike – it squawked! – I backed up a tiny bit and said, “I ate half a pan of Alice brownies and threw up and crapped my pants. I’m also forty years old today.”

One of the kilted men stood and toasted with his mug, “Happy birthday to Miss Poopy Pants!” The bar went wild, toasting and drinking and singing Happy Birthday.

After the song, I said into the mike, “Thank you, my strange elastic friends with big heads. I am now going to walk home while I am still ambulatory.”

And that’s all I remember.

I woke up the next day in my front yard still wearing the same clothes as the night before. I let myself into my house and went to the bathroom. I was relieved to find out that I had not pooped my pants after all.

The moral of this story is: As you age (and you will), sometimes the best thing that happens to you is that you didn’t shit your pants.

Coming September 9th!

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Killer Bathroom

I talked to my mother this morning at 9 a.m. This was unusual for two reasons. First, because she knows I write all morning and therefore doesn’t call me until the afternoon and secondly, because I write all morning and don’t pick up the phone even if she does call.

But today I did pick it up.  And our conversation went like this:

Me: Hi, Mom.

Mom: Hi, Daughter.

Me: What’s up?

Mom:  Well, I was wondering what you were doing?

Me: Writing.

(Long pause.)

Me: What’re you doing?

Mom: Well, what are your plans for the day?

Me: Well, after I write, I’m dropping Saxon off at the chiropractor.

Mom: Oh.

Me: Do you need me to do something for you?

Mom: Well, I was wondering if you could drive me to the emergency room.

Me: What?! Did you just say the emergency room?!

Mom: Yeah, I’m kinda spurting blood.  I cut myself shaving in the shower and my leg is spurting blood.

Me: O MY GOD.

Mom: Yeah.  I have a pressure bandage on it, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to drive myself to the hospital.

(I dropped the phone and ran out of the house.)

Mom: Layce?  Are you there?  Layce?  Layce?

Thank God my mother only lives six blocks from me. I picked her up and drove her to the hospital.  They glued her leg back together.  That’s what they do now.  No stitches.  They use superglue.

I got back home and finished my writing for the day.  Then I took a shower.  I didn’t shave my legs because it kinda scared me.  While I was showering I thought about getting an electric razor.  I wondered how much they cost.  Maybe I should get one for my Mom.  Maybe I’ll get one for Emma and one for Saxon while I’m at it.

I got out of the shower and put on deodorant.  It was the gel kind. The kind that squeezes up through the tiny holes and you wipe it in your armpit.  I don’t like this type of deodorant, but it’s marginally better than the white kind that leaves streaks on your clothing and bra.

Anyway, the deodorant broke.  And by broke, I mean the top of it came off while I was swiping it under my arm and a big glob of gel stuck in my pit.  I stood staring in disbelief at the empty container I was holding while the glob slid down my ribs.

It was ooey and gooey and all together unpleasant.

It slid down my side and all the way down my leg and plopped onto the floor.  I looked at my side. It looked like I had been attacked by a giant slug that left its trail marks down my entire body.

Thoroughly grossed out, I turned on the shower.  I stepped over the tub with one foot.  I straddled the tub, aiming the left side of my body under the spray of water.  Once I was sure that the goo was gone, I turned off the water, stepped out of the tub and headed for the towel rack.

I didn’t make it.  The glob of goo was still on the floor and I slipped on it. As I was sliding, I reached for my hanging towel.  I pulled on the towel and fell at the same time.  The last thing I saw was the towel rod being pulled out of the wall and coming straight for me.

I hit the floor with the back of my head.  That hurt.  But it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the towel rod hitting me in the chin.

I was dazed and confused for a few moments.  After the bluebirds and stars stopped circling around my head, I touched my chin.  Blood.  My chin was bleeding.  And by bleeding, I mean it was BLEEDING A LOT.

I started to call out for Saxon, then remembered she was at the chiropractor.  I crawled across the bathroom floor and retrieved my phone off the back of the toilet.  I dialed.

Mom: Hi, Daughter.

Me: Hi, Mom.

Mom: What’s up?

Me: What’re you doing?

Mom: Oh, nothing much.

Me: What did you have planned for the rest of the day?

Mom: Why, did you need something?

Me: Yeah, I was wondering if you could drive me to the emergency room.

Mom: What?!

Me: Yeah, I busted my chin putting on deodorant and I’m kinda gushing blood and I think I need to be glued together again.

Mom: O MY GOD!

(There was a clunking sound – like her phone being dropped.)

Me: Mom? Are you there?  Mom? Where are you?

WARNING: Statistics show that the bathroom is the most dangerous room in the house.  70% of all home accidents occur in the bathroom. In America alone, there are nearly 200,000 fatal accidents in the bathroom each year.

That is why I now sponge bathe and shave my legs in the kitchen sink.

Coming September 9th!

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The Best Things In Life Are Free

Confession time.  I have this weird thing where I don’t like to pay admission prices. I mean, I’ll pay to see a movie, but I balk at paying to go into a historic monument or a national park or look at a giant ball of twine or whatever.

Saxon makes fun of me.  I think she secretly agrees with me on the whole thing, but likes to blame the cheapness on me.  I am not cheap.  I am frugal. There’s a difference.

There’s an old civil war fort near here.  It’s in the town of Ft. Gibson.  And, yes, the name of the fort is Fort Gibson.  When Saxon first moved here I took her to see the fort.  We walked up to the gate and there was sign that said for us to deposit five dollars per person into the box before we went inside.  FIVE DOLLARS!  Five dollars to walk around and look at a bunch of giant sized Lincoln logs glued together? Frickin’ ridiculous.

I wouldn’t let Saxon go inside.  I walked around the outside of the fort and found a little peeky hole in the logs where you could look inside.  “There,” I said, “You can see perfectly well what an old civil war fort looks like through this peeky hole and it’s free.”

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The same thing happened once when we went on an adventure to Arkansas.  There was a store that advertised the world’s biggest rock or some such stuff.  We stopped to go look at it, but when I found out the store owner wanted us to pay five bucks to see a rock, I snapped.  “Five bucks!  Isn’t that a little excessive?”

The store owner shook his head.  “It’s the world’s biggest rock,” he said.

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I walked outside, picked up a pebble, came back in and held out my palm.  “See that rock?” I asked.

“Yep,” the owner said.

“That’s the world’s smallest rock.  You owe me five bucks for looking at it.”

He spit tobacco into a dixie cup and squinted one eye at me.   “Nope,” he said.

“We’re not going to pay,” I said. I grabbed Emma and Saxon by the shirt collars and pulled them out of the store.

Saxon and Emma pouted all the way home, but I had my limits.  And paying to see stuff that we should be able to see for free was one of those limits. After all, the best things in life are free.

….By the way, you owe me five bucks for reading this blog.

Start your week with a laugh! And you can borrow it for FREE!

(prime and unlimited members)

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Revenge of the Mustache

Mustaches are all the rage right now.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  I mean, why is it cool to have fake mustaches plastered everywhere – pencil toppers, bumper stickers, notebooks, T-shirts – but it’s not cool to have a real one under your nose?

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I have a mustache.  A real one.  Under my nose.  I’ve had it since I hit puberty.  In reality it was blondish and peach fuzzy. In my mind, it was Hitler-esque.  And there was no way to hide it.  I tried growing out my bangs, but I looked like Cousin It.  So I kept my head lowered for the entire time I spent in eighth grade.

One day, I was on the bus after school, sitting next to my best friend.  We were seated in the middle of the bus, but within ear shot of the cool kids who sat in the back.  There was a boy I had a big crush on.  To be honest, every girl in school had a crush on him.  His name was Mike and he was good-looking and looked great in his bell bottom jeans. On this particular day, I heard Mike say, “Layce’s not bad looking except for her mustache.  I would never go out with girl who had more facial hair than me.”  All the cool kids laughed.

Talk about embarrassing.

That’s the kind of thing that haunts you forever.

But I didn’t cry.  I didn’t even flinch.  I went home and spread Nair cream all over my upper lip.  While I waited for it to work its magic, I plotted my revenge.  It was a plan that didn’t come true until two years later.

I was sixteen.  Mike was nineteen.  He didn’t remember me.  He drove his Camaro through the drive through of the hamburger place where I worked and I served him a burger with a smile and gave him a free order of fries.  He took the bait, sauntered inside and asked me out.

We dated for three months before I let my mustache grow.

I let it grow out to its fullest, peach fuzziest, glossiest length.  Then I went to the drive-in movie with Mike.  He waited until halfway through the movie to kiss me.  After the kiss, I turned on the car’s interior light and raised an eyebrow.

“See anything different about me?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Look,” I said, pointing to my upper lip.  “I have more facial hair than you.”

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He squawked and pressed himself against the door as far away from me as he could get.

“I’m going to tell everyone you kissed a girl with a mustache,” I said getting out of the car, firmly shutting the door and walking away.

It was a long walk home that night, but worth it.  I had found out something important.  And that something was:  Revenge feels good.

It wasn’t long after that I started dating girls.  They liked my mustache.  It tickled.

 

Guaranteed to tickle your funny bone!

Available at Amazon and it costs less than a latte.

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Candy Crush

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My name is Layce Gardner and I’m an addict.  I kicked the evils of alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes years ago, but have fallen victim to my latest addiction – Candy Crush. I knew the moment I downloaded the game to my kindle that I was going to have a problem.  It was so fun!  So addictive!  If I could just complete one more level!

Saxon asked me what I was doing. 

“Playing Candy Crush,” I answered.

“Candy Crust?” she said.

“Crush,” I said testily.  “Crush.”

I tried to quit playing after the first hour, but was bombarded with enablers everywhere I looked.  People on Facebook sent me messages to join them and a friend of mine kept calling herself the Jesus of Candy Crush and daring me to compete with her.  I simply couldn’t stand strong in the face of all these evil Candy pushers. I was only human after all.

 “Candy Crash?” Saxon asked.

“Crush, crush, crush” I said between gritted teeth.

 After only one day, things around my house began to slip and show signs of neglect.  My daughter was late to school and only got a Pop Tart for breakfast.  I didn’t have time to line dry the laundry anymore.  I stuffed the wet clothes in the dryer and called it good.  The dog threw up in the corner and I pretended I didn’t see it.  I made my daughter walk home from school.  All of this just so I could spend five hours completing level 30.

“Candy Crisp?”Saxon asked.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.

“Candy Crest? Candy Cat? Candy Crap?”she taunted.

I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Or killing her.

The worst part came that night.  My family was asleep, but I was still up and gaming.  My kindle wouldn’t load the next level.  The words ‘internal error’ flashed across the screen.  I ran to my computer to order a new kindle.  This one was obviously faulty.  I had to spend $200 on a new kindle and get it by next day shipping or how was I going to live?!

Saxon continued her jabs. “Candy Cantina? Candy Doodle Dandy?”

“Shut yer piehole and I mean it,” I growled.

 I was sobbing and ripping at my hair.  I blindly Googled and lo and behold!  I found out that fucking around with the date and time of my Kindle in order to get more free lives was what caused the internal error.  To fix it I simply had to set the date and time back to where it really belonged.

 “Candy Crunch? Candy Cruise? Candy Cunt?”

That was the last straw.  I exploded. “Candy Crush, you idiot!”

The next morning found me bleary-eyed and cranky from gaming all night. I was a mess.  Chapped lips, greasy hair, sore thumbs… I was wearing an old towel that I had fashioned into an adult diaper so I wouldn’t waste valuable time in the bathroom.

 Saxon scurried from the room, dodging the verbal epitaphs I slung at her like a

gorillas slings its feces. I could hear her maniacal laughter from the other room. 

Saxon eyed me up and down and immediately invoked an intervention.  She took away my Kindle and deleted Candy Crush. DELETED IT!  I cried. I sobbed. I begged.  I bargained.  I cried some more.  But to no avail. I offered her sex in exchange for just ten minutes of play.  (I almost got her on that one, but she declined.)

 Saxon continued to taunt me under her breath. “Candy Crude.  Candy Crud. Candy Crepe. Candy Cane.”

“I can’t take it anymore!” I yelled.  I collapsed to the floor in a heap and sobbed.

 That was my bottom.  Since then I’ve been taking it one day at a time.  I don’t know that I’ll be able to hold off the demons of Candy Crush forever…

 

Over three months on the Amazon Bestseller List!

Get your copy here.

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My Vagina has a First Name

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You know the old adage about if you love something you should set it free and if it loves you it will come back?  That happened to me and my vagina once.

I went to Mexico on a day trip.  My friend Brenda went with me.  We stopped in Ensenada, a little town near the border.  We were walking down the street, minding our own business, talking about where we could buy Retin-A or Valium to smuggle back across the border when a little Mexican man stepped out of the shadow of an alley and blocked our path.  He pointed at the ground near my feet and said, “Excuse me, Miss.  You dropped your vagina.”

I looked to where he was pointing.  Nothing was there.  I smiled like how you do when suddenly faced with a potential crazy person and said, “Um… no, that’s not mine.  Mine is much pinker than that.”

Then Brenda and I crossed the street and giggled all the way back to our car.  But that made me start thinking… what would it be like if a vagina was just an accessory?  Something you could take out whenever you wanted? You could buy vaginas in different sizes, shapes, colors.  Wouldn’t that be wonderful?  There could be name-brand vaginas.  Jaclyn Smith and Martha Stewart could have their own line of designer vaginas.  There would be spring vaginas, fall vaginas, winter vaginas.  Walmart would sell vaginas that cost less and are made by children in Taiwan.  Athletes would have sports vaginas.

Excuse me, does this vagina make my butt look big?

Does this vagina go with these shoes?

Don’t wear a white vagina after Labor Day.

Christians could advocate not wearing your vagina as a birth control device.

Vaginas would have cute little cases to carry them around in.  I would love to have a Kate Spade vagina case.

Vaginas could double as coin purses.

Brenda and I discussed the possibilities all the way home to Los Angeles.  I dropped her off at her apartment in the valley.  When I got to my apartment back in Hollywood, my answering machine was blinking.  I pressed the button and heard Brenda’s voice say, “I know you just dropped me off, but I thought you should know that your vagina somehow got in my luggage.  I put it on the counter while I unpacked my stuff and when I came back in the room the cat was playing with it.  I put it in the sink to soak.  I think it may have gotten scratched and stretched out a little, sorry, I’ll pay for any damages.  Anyway, I’ll talk to you later!”

There was a pause then a new message began playing. It was Brenda. “Hi, it’s me again.  Your vagina was getting really wrinkled in the sink.  I took it out and dabbed some Retin-A on it.  Can I put it in the dryer?  Is it Wash ‘n Wear?  Call me back.”

There was a third beep and the machine played another message, “You know what?  Forget about it.  I’ll take you to Vaginas ‘R Us tomorrow. You can buy another one.  This one is pretty worn out.  You can keep this one as a back up but it’s not looking pretty.”

I didn’t buy a new vagina.  I kept the old one.  There’s just something about a comfortable old vagina, you know?

We’ve been inseparable ever since.

If you have a vagina, you’ll love this book

Buy it here.

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The Day I Killed Santa Claus

I don’t remember ever believing in Santa Claus, though I know I must have. There’s an old 8mm tape somewhere that shows a four-year-old me sitting on my Grampa’s lap and grilling him about Santa. “How does he get down the chimney? What if you don’t have a chimney?” Even at that young age I was skeptical.

My daughter, however, believed everything I ever told her. So when Emma was in third grade and some of the other kids found out she still believed in Santa Claus, they made fun of her and she was very upset. So upset, in fact, that she hit a little boy who called her stupid for still believing.

I had to go to the school and pick her up. She was in tears. She cried, “He said there was no Santa Claus, Mom. He said I was a baby for believing it. He said you’d lied to me. He said it was you who put the presents under the tree. He said you ate the cookies and milk I left out for Santa.”

Oh boy, I thought. Here it comes. I didn’t have a choice. I was going to have to kill Santa Claus.

When we got home, I sat Emma down for a serious talk. “There is no Santa, honey. Not really. The spirit of Santa is there. But there’s not really a man dressed in red with a white beard and –“

“You lied to me?” Emma interrupted.

“Well, it’s more like a white lie. It’s for fun. And it’s not really a lie because –“
But Emma didn’t let me finish. “I hate you!” she yelled as she ran for her room and slammed the door behind her.

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I was stricken. I didn’t know what to do. After a bit, Emma came out of her room. She stood before me with her little arms crossed defiantly over her chest. “What about the Easter bunny?” she asked. “Is he a lie, too?”

I nodded. She ran back to her room. The door slammed again.

Later, Emma came out and squinted at me. “How about the Tooth Fairy?”

“Made up,” I answered.

She ran. Slammed the door.

A little later, she peeked out her door at me. “Jack Frost?”

“No,” I answered.

“The Sandman?”

“No.”

The door slammed shut.

Well, that’s it, I thought. All the childhood characters were now officially dead and gone. She would be mad for a little while then she’d forget and that would be that.

But it wasn’t over. The door opened. Emma peeked her head out. “What about Jesus? Is that all a lie, too?”

Oh boy…

 

A new romantic comedy by the duo of Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner.

Available at Amazon in ebook and paperback.

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