Like, The Worst Fortune Cookie-Fortune EVER

Guess what came in the last order of Chinese takeout? An extra helping of lo mein General Tsao's chicken MSG anxiety!

I sincerely hope the writer of this fortune cookie-fortune is suffering from depression.  Failing that, my problem just got bigger.

Why Are You Reading This?

Seriously, you should be reading THIS:  http://www.thebigjewel.com/we-need-to-talk-about-braden. 

My Dermatologist and I Discuss Options

Hi, doctor.  Yeah, I was wondering if you could take a look at that freckle-thingie by my eye.  The one that’s shaped like Florida – at least if you stare at it long enough.  No? Maybe that’s just me.  But it’s okay, right?  Nothing to worry about?  Whew, what a relief.  Yes, I’ll make sure to wear sunscreen.  And a hat.

Umm . . . I’m 42.  Why do you ask?  Actually, no, I’ve never thought about Botox.  I mean, I know I have a few lines, but – really?  “Moderate to severe”, huh?  Sure, I can understand how that might bother some women.  Oh, I see – most women are bothered.  Deeply.

Gee, come to think of it, I’m bothered, too.  But . . . I’m going to have to pass on the Botox.  See, as I’ve aged, my kids have taken to sticking things in my wrinkles and timing how long they stay put.  Dimes, Pokemon cards, stray bits of cat food or what-have-you.  They call it “Let’s Stick Shit In Mom’s Face.”  One time, I held a squirt gun between my eyebrows for over a minute just by frowning.  The little guys went nuts!  I’d hate to ruin what amounts to good clean family fun.

You’re right, doctor, I do have a “masculine brow”! I’m glad you noticed that, it’s something I’m very proud of.  I’ve worked long and hard to cultivate my eyebrows into a heavy, menacing hair-ledge.  I call it “The Ferrigno”.  It really comes in handy when I need to glower at wait staff or small children.  So I guess I’ll pass on the laser hair removal, too.

You’re saying those lines around my mouth are actually “nasolabial folds”?  Oh, I get it: “marionette lines”.   Hmm . . . the filler does sound tempting.  For a while now, I’ve been thinking it might be fun to have some spongy, gelatinous junk injected into my face.  Kind of like having a pet worm, except trapped under my skin.  It could “migrate”, though?  I actually count that as a plus.  The kids and I could have a whole new game! Sort of like “Where’s Waldo?”, only with Restylane.  We’d call it: “Where the Fuck Is Mom’s Filler?”!  Did it slide down her chin?  Or is it that cheesy lump under her left nostril?

Yet here’s the thing, doctor: I adore puppets, the great and sassy “Madame” in particular.  I can think of no better tribute to her than to look exactly like a ventriloquist’s dummy.  That means no filler for me. And Ix-nay on the lip collagen, too.  Yes, you’re correct, I have the thin lips of a chimp.  However, I also have a reputation as a “thin-lipped bitch”, which I will protect at all costs.

Wait – you’re actually suggesting I get an eye-lift?  But that’s madness.  Madness! I’ll have you know my husband has a Bassett Hound fetish, and it’s fairly hardcore. I may look like Droopy Dog, but it sure as hell gets the job done in the bedroom, if you know what I’m saying. Along with howling and drooling, that is.

So now that my freckle checks out, I really should be going.  No Botoxed, swollen filler-face for me.  I’ll stick with my wizened, hairy puppet-face instead.  But thanks for the talk, doctor.  It’s nice to know I have options.

Announcing The Grave Artist by Paula Lynn Johnson

Well, folks, I have just uploaded my paranormal murder mystery, The Grave Artist, to Amazon and BN.com.  A mere two to three years ago, this would have made me a desperate, self-published author.  Now, it makes me an "Indie" author, sticking it to the Publishing Man.

Apparently, I'm part of a vast econo-technological uprising, which makes me kind of hip.  Who knew?

Anyhoo, I encourage anyone who loves a good ghost story to take a gander.  You will get more than your 99-cents worth, I promise.  Coming soon to the Apple iBookstore!

No. 4 on the New York Times Nonfiction Bestseller List

For immediate release 
Hedging and Betton Publishing is passionate about the art and craft of writing.  We believe in books that challenge, inspire, and tell stories-- especially with words, printed on paper.  We champion authors who explore and celebrate what it means to be human (or a cat).  To that end, we brought you the mega-bestsellers:

"Transcendant.  Proof that mangled animals just might save humanity."  -- Robert Woofer, author of My Dog, My Sensei.

*AND*

"A revelation.  Proof that ferrets just might cure what ails you."  -- Lonni Farkus, author of The Hamster Solution
 

"Ferrets got rid of my heartache, my loneliness, and my eczema.  Read this book, and you'll never look at crepuscular, sexually dimorphic members of the weasel family the same way again."  -- Sean Long, M.D., Ph.D., author of The Chinchilla That Found Me.
 

Now, Hedging and Betton proudly announces its latest publication, a searing tale of heartbreak, renewal and skin-shedding:

 

From the jacket flap: Ruthless predators, cold-blooded killers, just plain nasty -- that's what Bobbi Lynn Fowler thinks of the giant snakes populating her small town in the Florida Everglades.  Broke, alcoholic, and suffering from acute hemmorhoids, Bobbi even takes to hunting snakes for food.  But then Bobbi's best friend mysteriously dies and bequeaths her Lenny, a 15-foot long Burmese Python with a big smile and an even bigger appetite for life.
    
From the moment Lenny arrives in Bobbi's life, her fortunes take a miraculous turn for the better.  Whether it's the ex-boyfriend who refuses to leave Bobbi's trailer or the bill collectors who hound her at the door, the people holding Bobbi back and keeping her down seem to magically disappear.  As Bobbi's self-esteem grows, so does Lenny's size, as if he literally feeds upon her confidence.  And gradually, Bobbi begins to think of Lenny as less of a snake than her own scaly, forked-tongue savior.
   
Advance Praise for Squeeze Me, Lenny:
   
"A breathtaking debut.  A luminous addition to the canon of human-snake literature." -- Joan Lemmon, Professor of Zoology, University of Tiajuana
   
"Gripping, in the truest sense.  Proof that Pythons and humans share the same basic need for love and acceptance.  Oh -- and muskrats.  Lots and lots of muskrats." --  Lou Ferrigno, actor and author of What Your Hermit Crab Doesn't Tell You
     
"Jesus, help me [this was good]! I can't move [my eyes, away from the page]! Someone get this snake [his own children's book series]!" -- Dick Pritcher, Lenny's veterinarian and handler

I Aim to Befuddle

I'm at Errant Parent today, discussing my botched attempts at teaching my kids the Facts of Life.  To illustrate what a consummate failure I am in that department, you need only look at the diagram of the female reproductive system I made for my then-4-year-old son:

Confused? Disturbed? Not nearly as much as my son was.  That diagram planted ideas in the dark nether regions of his psyche.  Ideas like, "sexual intercourse is twisted and weird, like being trapped in a dream sequence in a David Lynch movie."  And: "when they're born, babies simply follow the directional arrows out their mothers' cooter."  I'm predicting years of therapy for the kid over this one.  Of course, I do sort of like the way I drew the lady's face to resemble Edvard Munch's The Scream, as that pretty much describes my childbirth experience. 

A Desperate Bid To Increase My Blog Traffic

It is with great dismay that I report that over 90% of my blog traffic is generated by readers googling "Pikachu thunderbolt attack".  For reals.  An additional 9%-plus of my traffic is due to google searches for "granny panties".  The remaining .001 percent is my mother, who is elderly and can't actually see what she's reading, which is really all for the best.

I could become dismayed at these stats.  Instead, I am emboldened.  No, I am not going to post naked pictures of myself.  That would likely result in someone's cardiac arrest and a protracted wrongful death lawsuit.  But while I'm unwilling to whore myself out for blog traffic, I'm more than willing to whore out my dog.

And so I give you . . .

CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY!!!!

CUTE PUPPY + CUTE KITTY = INSANE AMOUNT OF CUTENESS!!!  CATS AND DOGS! LIVING TOGETHER!

GAH! THE CUTENESS!! IT'S KILLING ME!!!

Ahem . . . now please excuse me while I go check my Sitemeter stats.

Your Mom Jeans Would Like A Word With You

Hold it right there, young lady.  Just where do you think you’re going?  “Out”, she says.  Out! Not dressed like that you aren’t.

What are those things you’re wearing, anyway – tights? Oh, they’re jeggings. Never heard of ‘em.  I don’t care if they’re “in”, they’re unflattering.  They thicken you, sweetie.  Your thighs look like something out of the 4-H fair.  Now, don’t get upset with me.  I wasn’t criticizing your legs – I swear! I love your legs.  They’re nice and sturdy. It’s just that those jeggings – well, honey, they don’t do anything for you.  They’re tacky.

Oh, I’m the tacky one, now? Really?  Well excuse me for hitting at your waist.  Excuse me for giving you some wiggle room in the hips.  Fine, fine – wear the low-rise if you want! Let your belly spill out like soft-serve! Go ahead and stuff those sausages of yours into skinny jeans! You’re a big girl now.  If you want to look like a train wreck, that’s your decision.  Just don’t split a seam when you sit down.

I can’t believe you’re shoving me to the back of your closet.  You don’t treat your other clothes this way.  You don’t tell your Land’s End Skirted Tankini she’s too “frumpy”.  Nope, every summer, you try on the one-piece you wore before your pregnancy.  And then once you’re done crying, you head off to the pool wearing that same damn Tankini –  just like every other Mom in the neighborhood. Don’t you girls know how to think for yourselves?  By the way, that built-in “support bra” isn’t supporting anything, little girl.  You can’t hold back a landslide with a bit of elastic and two foam cups – and I don’t care if it is “Miracle Foam”.

Sure, sure.  Now you’re trying on your skort.  You know how I feel about that skort, honey – she’s trouble.  Skirt or shorts? Seems to me she should pick a side.  Yes, I know it’s acceptable today to be “questioning”, but – did you just roll your eyes at me? DON’T YOU GIVE ME THAT LOOK.

I don’t think you realize just how much I’ve supported you.  Literally!  You carried twins, sweetheart.  Twins.   Just what do you think your gut was like after that C-Section?  I’ll tell you what it was like: a rubbery skin-paunch.  A melting flesh-sicle.  And I held it in!  Day after day.  Week after week.  Yes, the Spanx helped, too.  I’m not saying I did it alone.  But let’s see you try propping up ten pounds of spare tire.  It isn’t easy.

And now you just toss me aside, like I’m nothing.  Go ahead, sweetheart – I’ll be fine.  I’ll just sit here, alone.  Abandoned.  With that crazy poncho you never wear.  I won’t nag you any more, I promise.  I don’t want to be a bother.  But just remember, missy:  if you get pregnant again, don’t you dare come running to me.