The Demon Junk Drawer

Every adult has one.  It’s usually in the kitchen and has a life of its own.  Stuff multiplies in it.  It’s suspected that secret unprotected interspecies sex occurs.

Many of us have a strange habit that’s impossible to curb.  It develops in spite of a simple mantra: “There’s a place for everything and everything has its place.”

That ding, ding, ding, you hear is the “exception bell” ringing in your head.  Suddenly you realize you need a special place for the “everythings” that don’t have a place of their own.

So at night when you hear what you think is the icemaker, it’s really your Junk Drawer … filled with things that go “bump in the night.”  Yikes!  What to do?


To manage those deviant items that defy our primary mantra, I offer you another axiom: “Out of sight out of mind.”  Leftover item … hmm.  Open “bump-in-the-night” drawer, pitch isolate-item into drawer, slam that sucker shut.

Repeat with a high degree of frequency.  Why?

Because many of us also have another effing rule: “Waste not, want not.”  Loosely translated this means – don’t ever throw anything away because it just might be needed somewhere, somehow, sometime within the next millennium.

Eureka!  We already have a place for this special-future-item.  In goes the now-valuable-thing to nestle with the deviant items already in the drawer, and bang the sucker shut.

Then one day you open your Junk Drawer and because you have been super diligent about “out of sight” and “waste not,” you discover it’s as stuffed as a premier bleu cheese olive in a Martini indicating that it’s time … to have a drink and inventory your Junk Drawer.

Most notable among the items …

Book of matches “Murray’s Mau-Mau Lounge” – I don’t remember being there

One tube unopened sunscreen stamped “Use by 4/14/11”

Meat thermometer that reads 113 F … constantly

Kitchen timer … no longer goes “ding”

One scissor – whereabouts of other scissor unknown

Used toothbrush – bristles splayed as if on medieval rack

Tooth whitening strips – unused but suspiciously yellowed

Once cleaned, I toss a condom in my Junk Drawer hoping to curb the growth of junk as a result of “bumping in the night.”

Just sayin’.

May I be “Frank” with you?

The Pope is coming!  The Pope is coming!  Sound the alarm!

Things will get hot, dare I say hot as Hell, if his visit to South America is any indication.

I like to call him Frank because he is so … “frank.”  He minces no words and has little time for idle chit chat.  His message is clear.  We are stewards of the earth and have an obligation to look out for our fellow beings.  Period.

I can’t wait for him to land in Philly and start chatting up Americans.

Given his apology for the way the Spanish invaders treated the native South Americans, I think we might get a few papal observations about our own behavior.

Pope:  “Gee, I’m not real sure, but I think the small pox infected blankets you gave to the Native Americans and the Trail of Tears March just might constitute human rights infractions.  Maybe even sins.”

“Hahmena, hahmena, hahmena” … that’s the mumbling you will hear coming from our BIA – yes, we still have a Bureau of “Indian” Affairs, not “Native American Affairs” – trying to answer Frank.

Pope:  “Gee, I’m not real sure, but I think climate change is a result of human actions.  Yes, I know cattle do contribute, but I truly think it’s mostly the result of human activity.”

“Hahmena, hahmena, hahmena” … that’s the collective mumbling you will hear from members of congress trying to avoid eye contact with Frank when he addresses them and they continue their unwillingness to accept scientific facts.

Pope:  “Gee, I’m not real sure, but I think your current economic system results in excessive greed and exploitation on a world wide level … it’s the dung of the devil.”

“Hahmena, hahmena, hahmena” … that’s the stumbling response you will hear from CEOs and the oligarchy as they try to justify the negative effects of unfettered capitalism.

And at the end of his visits, Frank always asks that people pray for him.  And he adds that if people could not pray for him, they think well of him and send him “good energy.”

Yes, we finally have a Pope … for everyone.

Just sayin’.

It Looks like Ireland to Me

I have a dirty little secret.  You’ve got to promise you’ll still act like you know me once I’ve shared it with you.

Every morning I walk on trails where large birds have left deposits that no bank would accept.  They remind me of the internationally acclaimed kid’s book, “Everyone Poops,” in which the author describes how everything that eats – mammal, fish, fowl – poops.

So there!  If it’s a legit kid’s book, I’m sure we can talk about a bit of bird s**t here.

Being a curious soul and possessing a way-bent brain, one morning it dawned on me that bird poop is Mother Nature’s parallel to Hermann Rorschach’s ten panel test of ink blots.

As in, “What do you see in this s**t?

You can’t tell me honestly that all these years you’ve walked around, stepped over or looked at bird poop you’ve never said to yourself, “That looks like ….”

Come on.  You know you have.  It’s like cloud watching.

Just to make sure I wasn’t going crazy, I Googled “bird, poop, art” and voila, several artists/writers’ names appeared who have in some way utilized bird poop as an art form or form of art.  Whatever.

Now I’m relieved, but also disappointed because it’s obvious some folks have put way more time and energy into this bird s**t than I have … or, ever will.

I just wanted to find ways I could be “present in the here and now” while I walked instead of being in my head and missing the beauty in everything … including bird s**t.  When I notice all the little things, it keeps my mind from taking its own walk about, and believe me you don’t want to go there.

So, I do have a purpose when I walk – to stay in the present moment – and I now also have a sideline – to analyze the bird poop plops in my path.

My only problem with this grand scheme is, to my utter disappointment, all the bird s**t I see in the mornings looks like Ireland.  Maybe it’s me.

Just sayin’.

Take a look at this fascinating work of an artist who “plays” in bird poop:”



Who put the “duh” in Floriduh?

“Man Fatally Stabbed in Feud over Corndog” … “Florida Strip Club Offering Free Flu Shots” … “Thieves Kill Family’s Pet Turkey for Thanksgiving” … “Man Dies Getting Stuck in Girlfriend’s Cat Door.”

Real headlines in real Floriduh.  Reasons for our behavior have been researched, studied, and pondered to no avail when all you had to do was ask me.

Here’s the “why” behind Floriduh-ian’s behavior.


There are only 133 Waffle Houses in our state.  We rank #1 in population in the south and are #4 in Waffle Houses.

Although open 24-7, all holidays included, many of our citizens are deprived of WaHo’s fine cuisine.  WHDS (WaHo Deprivation Syndrome) produces sudden outbursts of irrationality which leads to “duh-behavior.”


Floriduh’s a melting pot population of over 19.9 million including practicing fundamentalist-evangelical-snake-handling Christians, goat-killing and chicken-neck-snapping Obeahs, Satanists, and star dwellers.

That’s a solid base for mayhem and maniacal deity worship which leads to “duh-ness.”


Shells, sand, swamp and water comprise Floriduh’s topography, which averages approximately 100 feet above sea level.

That’s very damn close to the waves.

We live in constant fear of floating out to sea in the middle of the night in our Super-Queen-Dreammaker-Memory-Foam-Pump up-Tilt-o-matic-Vibrator-Beds.

We suffer from restless nights and lose a lot of sleep which leads to extraordinary amounts of “duh.”


Every day approximately 1,000 people come to Floriduh and stay.  You don’t leave one place and go to another unless you’re unsettled … or worse, unhappy.

Because these unhappy people are searching for happiness they already possess a proclivity for “duh.”  Once settled in Floriduh, they have ample time to maximize their already pre-induced “duh-state.”


The Lynyrd Skynner Band, the rock-aholic band who can’t spell, got its start in Floriduh … Jacksonville Beach.  Their signature song?  “Sweet Home Alabama.”

Unless and until the Skynners come up with a “Sweet Home Floriduh,” we will always be everyone’s butt joke!  If you’re always the butt of someone’s joke, your only salvation is to plunge whole hog into the “duh” of Floriduh.


I could blame our education system, but that would assume there is a functional system.  I could blame our state government, but Floriduh-ians have already elected a felon as our leader.  How much more “duh” can you get?

Amazing Grace

Sometimes you just can’t poke at, make fun of, or be sarcastic about the slice of life that just plopped onto your plate.

In a 10 day span, June 17-26, 2015, we experienced numerous lessons about “grace.”  In some ways it was a tough 10 days and in other ways it was a grace-full and grace-filled week.

No one ever told me that having grace, showing grace or experiencing grace would be easy.  I don’t know why I assumed it would be.

This was the week that SCOTUS showed its humanity, its grace.  Thank you for the rulings this week on marriage equality (Why did it have to go to any court?), establishing the ACA as a part of the fabric of the safety net every American deserves, and acknowledging that though inequality may be unintended, it’s still inequality (Fair Housing Ruling).

Maybe The Supremes should pose for their next formal photo in rainbow robes.

During this span, we also experienced and heard grace from our President.  And we witnessed grace from the families of the nine murdered members of the Emanuel AME church in Charleston.  Is it ironic that we now have Blacks showing, preaching and teaching grace to Whites?  Or was it always that way and we missed it?

Lost in the media blitz of SCOTUS and our President were two other opportunities to exercise grace in our lives.

Can we understand poor Joyce Mitchell, the woman who was duped by the murderers who escaped from the Clinton Correctional Facility?  How lonely, unloved and vulnerable she must have felt to get involved with the two men.  Doesn’t she as a human deserve our grace?  Our forgiveness?

Do we dare show grace to Dylann Roof, who killed nine African Americans because they were black?  If the families of the vanquished can let their grace be shown, is it not imperative that we do, too?

No one ever told me that showing grace would be easy.  But then, that’s why it’s amazing.

“Amazing grace how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost but now I’m found,

Was blind, but now I see.”

Just sayin’ …