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Me and My Flat Iron

This is a story about a girl an old broad who orchestrated the melding together of two of her best talents, found quite by accident.   This is a story of me, my velvet blackboard scratching voice and my Flat Iron.

The last few days, I’ve had this old song on my mind.  It’s called Me and Mrs. Jones  (Don’t ask).  I’ve noticed myself singing this song every time I go to flat iron my hair.    Strange union, but it somehow works for me.   You see, I am a newbie at the art of Flat Ironing, and sometimes bellowing like a cat singing soothing  songs helps me with the delicate rhythmic motions needed for a successful taming of the Brillo Pad that is my hair.

I have You Tubed (oooh I feel so young and hip saying that) the song in question, in order to refresh the memories of my older readers and enlighten my younger ones to the delights of Me and Mrs. Jones  (seriously, don’t ask).    Take a short listen, then meet me down below.   You won’t be sorry.


Wasn’t that a sexy song?  If you need a cigarette, I’ll wait.  It almost made me Start smoking, but I refrained.  I have self-control.  Mostly.   Ahem.

And so, in honor of the union of my singing voice, my Flat Iron and “Me and Mrs. Jones”, I have written a song.  

Will my vast array of talents never end?

Please sing along with my new song, “Me and My Flat Iron”…….sung to the music of Me and Mrs. Jones

Me and My Flat Iron

We got a thing goin’ on.

We both know my hair’s long

So it would just be wrong… to stop now.


I see you every day when my hair’s gone astray.

Six-thirty, no one’s seen my horrid hair

Not amused.  As you tend to abuse.

There’s much screaming and gasping for air!


Me and My Flat Iron

We got a thing goin’ on

We know my patience don’t last long

But it would be so wrong

To unplug you now.


We gotta be extra careful

That you don’t smoke my head like a ham

Because I have my own obligations

And can’t afford the doctor, the ER or even Spam   (What?  It rhymed!  Shut up)


Me and My Flat Iron

We got a thing goin’ on

We both know that it’s wrong

And it’s hot.  But I’m strong.

So we can’t stop now.


Well, it’s time for me to be leaving

It hurts so much, on my head I mean.

Now I’ll unplug and you’ll go to sleep, and

Tomorrow we’ll meet and

Do the same damned thing again.


Me and My Flat Iron

We got a thing goin’ on

Now my hair’s sleek and long

Aloe Vera smells too strong

But I need it RIGHT NOW!

Me and My Flat…..My Flat Iron………….

Gosh, I do amaze myself at times.


In the Cards

I decided to try this week's RememberRED prompt in which they want us to recall the games we played when we were young, and write a piece that explores one of our memories.  This piece is true, but the names have been changed.    Hope you enjoy!


It would probably surprise no one to discover that I wasn’t a model child.  I was a troublemaker and the naughty kid.  My cousin Max and I were both ‘black sheep’ kids of the family, and this excited me to no end.   Max taught me most of what I needed to know to be really good at being bad.   Max was a brat and excelled in the coveted talents of manipulation and the pursuit of sneakiness.  He was a master of his craft.

Our path of self-proclaimed world domination began way back before computer games and many of the fun board games.  One day Max came over to visit and I was very excited as we had always watched Superman on TV while reading our Superman comic books.  We would sit right in front of the TV and make Superman sounds and ‘pretend’ fly around the living room.  It was good to be seven.  I thought Max was so wise.   He knew all the coolest kid stuff and he always clued me in.

But on this day when his Mom dropped him off at our house, he wasn’t interested in Superman.  He had something new to show and teach me.  I was ready.  I knew it must be exciting because everything Max did was exciting.  He plopped down at the coffee table and took out a deck of playing cards.   The cards were brand new, and as Max spread them out across the coffee table, he told me all about the new games he’d learned, including Rummy, Old Maid, and War.   I was mesmerized as he explained each game, and absorbed the details like a sponge.  This was a new world for me, a grown-up world of sorts, and I was privileged to enter.  Somehow it felt wrong, and a bit naughty, and consequently, felt really good to me.   Max had led me astray, as he would several times in our growing-up years.

Fast forward five years.  I was twelve and Max and I were listening to a Beatles album in his room.   Max taught me how to french kiss, and once again, I liked it but only because I knew it was wrong.  Being bad and being different made me special.  Max was exciting and wise.  His Mom actually walked in on us, and we spent the entire afternoon trying to talk ourselves out of a whooping, to no avail.   We didn’t try the kissing stuff anymore.

Two more years passed, and Max and I were attending a party with dates.   I was fourteen and it was my first party with a boy and unsupervised.   Max had been dating at least a year before me and had been hanging out with an older crowd.  That night, he taught me about pot.  I had my first of many highs, not batting an eyelash at possible repercussions.  I knew it was cool if Max was doing it.  There seemed to be an invisible umbilical cord between him and me.

Fortunately, I was born with a little common sense, and I finally cut that cord after Max fell from grace in my eyes in the tenth grade.  He had already been arrested for drugs and he didn’t have to go to jail, so it seemed to me he got off too easily.  He quit school when he made a girl pregnant, and was forced to marry her.  They had to live with Max’s parents.

I continued with school, had a best friend, a boyfriend and managed to make good grades.  I graduated with honors and went into the Air Force.    The rest of my life has been pretty amazing.

As for Max, his parents died, his numerous wives left him, and he became an alcoholic.  I honestly don’t even know if he’s still alive.  I try to keep good memories of him, though, because all those years, when I was seemingly invisible to my parents and didn’t have many friends, Max saw me.  He treated me special.  We were Superman and we could fly.

Throughout my adulthood, I haven’t sat down to a game of Rummy or Poker without thinking about my playing-card-mentor of many years ago.   Godspeed cousin Max, wherever you are.


One Rave and One Rant

My Rave:

This blogging business can be brutal.   Some of my friends who read my blog can stand witness to this because some of them have started blogs and long since left them unattended like a weed-infested yard of an abandoned house.

Yet others have excelled, offering a blog with a single message that apparently resonates across personal boundaries I have yet to discover.    Lisa over at posts every day and never disappoints.    Her reading audience is varied and not just grandmas read her.  She’s an interesting writer and her blog keeps me coming back every day.

Karla provides humor that makes you think but also makes your sides ache from its comic perfection.  I am addicted to her brand of humor.

Erin, Ash, Nancy and Katie provide blogs from the perspective of young women of education and wit.  I am never disappointed at the range of knowledge and writing from these remarkable and lovely ladies.

Cheryl and Pamela provide the writing-wisdom and professionalism in their posts for which I hunger.  I never know what I’m going to get when I hop over to their blogs, and I look forward to each post with anticipation.

Ally and Eva give me my daily fix of life, love, humor and wisdom.   Words can’t describe my admiration for these women, as writers and as compassionate friends.  And my best friend, Mary, has a new blog of which I cannot get enough.  She has a knack for fiction that brings warmth and tears.

The above bloggers/writers have found their niches.  They have a following and deservedly so.  I am so happy to know and follow them all!    Just sayin…

I don’t really think I have found my niche yet, but I do love humor and I love to write heart-warming-type fiction.  I seem to be well-received and for that, I am so appreciative!   I am now writing a novel that is very new and will not be finished for a while, but I’m proud that I finally started the thing.

My Rant:

Last night, something happened that hurt me and kept me up most of the night, however.   I received a face book message from a complete stranger that bothered me more than it should have, I suppose.  I had requested to join a face book group (I will not name any names here.  I have a bit more class than the person who wrote me) that was compiled of women writers.  I recognized a couple names in the group and thought it would be a fun exchange of ideas and thoughts.

I received a message from one of the group’s administrators that proceeded to degrade me and insult me because of my choice to have cuss words in my posts.  According to her, everyone in the group had been emailing around all day yesterday trying to figure out what to do with me.   They called me a Quandary.   Hmmm.  Oh they didn’t “turn me down”…if only.   No, they pretty much “tore me a new one” by stating that most of the women in the group found my writing to be offensive and “blushy” and they even had to skip to the end to get over the bad words.

And then, she had the nerve to say she didn’t believe in censorship, so that was why they weren’t rejecting me.   They did, however, want me to only post my less-offensive posts, and at the scrutiny of the group, which may or may not be deleted at any time.

The actual message went on and on.  I felt about 2 inches high by the time this woman was done with me.    It was truly ridiculous.  I believe in a person’s right to state her opinion, but her (or the group’s) opinion bordered on “a lynch mob” mentality of which I want no part.

I just had to get that off my chest.   I don’t want to embarrass anyone with my language in my blog, but…

It is my blog.

And it is their women’s writers group.

And never the twain shall meet.       I politely declined.

Eye Blinkers and Little Stinkers

You simply haven’t lived until you’re sitting in the waiting room at your doctor’s office and a little girl of maybe four years old comes up to you, looks you right in the eyes, smiles and states, “I have a vagina”.  Oh yes, it happened to me.  Mom was sitting across the room, yacking on her cell phone while breast-feeding her baby, oblivious to her daughter’s apparently newly-discovered vocabulary.  Or maybe not.

I was understandably rendered speechless.  I couldn’t even manage a smile or a frown.  I was frozen in my seat.  My eyes blinked, but with a tremendous effort from my scrambled brain.   The little girl just stood there and looked at me, as if expecting a response to her prominently pronounced revelation.

Again, I managed to blink my eyes.  Mom, please come get your kid.   I’m a grandmother of grandsons.  I’m a mother of sons.  I know absolutely nothing about little girls and what to say to them when they seemingly want to converse on anything related to their parts.

Just come get your kid.   But, no, little girl stood there staring at me.  Then she smiled, as if she’d just came to another very important discovery.   Then she had a slightly amused, albeit puzzled look on her little face, as if she knew exactly where “my little goat lived” and she was going after it.

Eyes blinked again.  Mouth dry.   I tried gulping.  Still frozen to my seat.  Lord, I knew what was coming next, and I was helpless.  Mom was in cell phone land and there was no rescue in sight.

Do you have a vagina, too?”  asks the little girl, head tipped to the side, a wisdom in her big blue eyes I hadn’t seen before.  Goat, meet little girl, four… going on forty.  She had obviously pulled this waiting-room hell on someone before me.   Relenting, she was.  She stood there looking at me, waiting for an answer.  She finally put her hands on her hips and impatiently said, “Well do you?  My Mommy has a vagina.  That’s why we came to the doctors.  So Mommy could get her vagina checked. I don’t know what’s wrong but I think she needs some medicines.  Her vagina is sick.  Is that why you are here?  Is your vagina sick?”

Uh… Uh... Uh... Oh lordy.

By this time, I couldn’t even blink my eyes.   I was too busy counting the vagina’s coming out of this child’s mouth.  I believe it was five, and each one was pronounced in a higher, much louder pitch.   This tiny little girl loved her new word.   Funny, but no one in the waiting room seemed to notice.  My personal hell and I couldn’t even blink.

I just wanted the doctor to call my name so’s I could get my vagina checked and get the who-who outta there!  Or “tootie-fruity”, which is what I called it when I was a little girl.  I could strangle my Mom for that memory.

“Mrs. Stillman, the doctor will see you now”.  Mom gathered her things and ordered her daughter by her side.

The little girl hurried off as quickly as she had appeared, still chatting, “Mom are they going to look at your vagina now?   You can get some medicines.  Can we go to MacDonald’s after?  Huh Mom?”

I exhaled.  I blinked, many many times.  I needed a water fountain and a bathroom, STAT.

Anyone else have an eye-blinking experience to share?   

While the lasagna is baking

I thought I might jot off a skinny post while dinner’s in the oven, just to let everyone know I’m thinking about you and I haven’t disappeared altogether.

My excuse(s) for my absence?

The kids were here for four days.

I was ridiculously behind in my school work.

I didn’t feel very good….very tired for some reason.

I’ve really been bummed about that job and not hearing from them.  I guess that will teach me not to count my proverbial chickens, huh.

I have been writing.  Yes I’m actually working on a book now!  Wow, and “work” it is!

All the above excuses are true to some degree.  There were other excuses laziness, gluttony, gambling, drinking, women  but I won’t go into those boring details

So what ya’ll been doin’?

I missed you.   I will return with an enthralling, enticing, riveting, hilarious or some kinda blog very soon.

So, don’t forget me and please leave the light on.  I trip over things in the dark…..expletive, expletive, expletive.

Much love!


Patience and the Seven Dwarfs


I don’t do patience.

I do whiny.  I do pouty.  I do moody.  I do pissy.  I do dopey.  I do sleepy.  I do grumpy.

Oh my god!   I do the Seven Dwarfs!  

That’s just wrong…

Seriously, if my version of the Seven Dwarfs existed, I would be Patience.  We’d all live miserably ever after while I wait by the hearth for my Princess Jennifer Lopez Charming (a girl can dream)  to dance me away into the night.  Ah, but until that magical night, the Dwarfs are stuck with me, and I them.

It’s a cruel world.  Even the imaginary one.  Sometimes.

This week started out with Moody, and I have spent most of the last three days deeply involved with the little shit.  Needing a little extra attention,  I brought Sleepy, Grumpy and Pissy into bed and we pity-partied our little horror fairy tale asses off.   Then just this morning, Pouty shoved his short little self into my orgy and I kinda felt bad because Dopey just stood there looking lonely.  “Oh what the heck,  Dopester, you crazy guy, get on in here with us!  I’m sure the Princess won’t be arriving today.   It’s Thursday and she has to be in Hollywood for Idol.”

I’m nothing if not accommodating.  And versatile.  And apparently flexible.  You have to be when you party with a bunch of guys half your size.   You don’t want their self-esteem to go awry.   So you try to be everything to everyone.  Women are like that.   We facilitate.  That’s what we do.

And so…

To make Moody happy, all I had to do was scream out loud for no reason at all several times a day.  And it’s a lot more convincing if accompanied by hair-pulling and self-heckling.

To make Pouty happy, I just had to keep my bottom lip stuck out, prominently displaying my discontent.  FYI, the lip gets dry.  Really really dry.

To make Whiny happy, I had to pick up my game a little bit.  A good whine takes a certain octave level of which I am not accustomed.   I did manage to belt out a couple of good whiny tones.   Flat.  But Loud.

To make Pissy happy, I can’t tell you what I did.  Because I did nothing.  You can’t make Pissy happy.  Just try and you’ll see.  That little fucker ain’t getting happy.   And you should see the face he makes.

To make Dopey happy, I just had to talk about smart things.  Math and science and Harry Potter.  Dopey’s all about education.  I wouldn’t have thought him that way either, but he’s sneaky.   He’s also the quiet one. Dopey is an enigma.  He’s my favorite.  I could go all hetero on him...If he played his cards right.

To make Sleepy happy I just had to take Lortab.  It worked out fine until I opened the wine.  Lortab and wine don’t mix.   It’s hard to puke when you’re with Sleepy.  He’s actually pretty inconsiderate with the whole “praying to the porcelain gods” thingy.  He won’t even hold my hair back.

And lastly  (yes this will end soon, I promise)  to make Grumpy happy, all I had to do was tell all the other Dwarfs to shut up and listen, and then gave Grumpy the microphone.  And the floor.  It was indeed a magical pour acid in your ears performance.   He complained for 3 solid hours and then took a bow.  It was his moment indeed.

So turned out, Grumpy was top Dwarf for the week.   All the other Dwarfs died from exhaustion.

It’s just me and the Grumpy guy now.

Where’s my Princess ? 

Please stop this fucking Fairy Tale.  I want to get off!

This just in.   Princess Lopez was just sighted running down the middle of the Las Vegas Strip.   Apparently she got lost and ended up in the wrong Fairy Tale.   Now she has to kiss Kermit the frog for the rest of her life.  

Grumpy the Dwarf definitely trumps Kermit the Frog.

So I guess I win?

(Images from Google Images)

Honey, the kids are coming to visit!

I am so excited, and as most of you know, when I am excited, I have to write it down.  Well, not the naughty-excited stuff.  That usually stays locked in my wicked brain, for the most part, unless the wine takes over…another story, another day.   No, what I’m excited about is that my son Abe and my DIL2B Amanda will be here Sunday night to spend a few days with us.  You’re probably asking, “Why does she call her DIL2B?  That’s a bit clinical and cold, dontcha think?”  or “What is DIL2B anyways?  And is it contagious?”  or even, “Poor girl.  She doesn’t have a chance with a crazy mother-in-law like that.”

Well, stop that!

I dubbed sweet Amanda with the title of DIL2B as a token of my affection and devotion.  I am finally getting that daughter I always wanted, and while I have to call her my daughter-in-law, I will call her that in my own style.  Because I’m different.  And I roll that way.

So son and DIL2B will be wed on June 16th, 2012, here in Vegas, and we’re all very happy about this union.  Oh I forgot to mention that they are having an Elvis-themed wedding.   Ok, all you Moms out there, take a deep breath. Another one.  Now blink so’s your eyes don’t freeze like that.  I did the same thing, only didn’t tell the kids that (and they don’t read this stuff much).   I’ve gotten used to the idea, though, and it’s gonna be fun.   Joan and I are hosting the dinner after the ceremony, and then there will be a big reception the following weekend up in Boise, hosted by the Mother and Father of the Bride (DIL2B in case I’ve lost you.)

The dress has been purchased.  It’s amazing and looks stunning on DIL2B.  She texted me with a photo. I can’t show you, sorry. Of course, she looks like a model, so stunning is easy for her.  Other plans are being made, and we will probably be making even more during their visit.   Which leads us back to my subject.  The kids are coming to visit!   Yay!

So, in the interest of not poisoning son and DIL2B with the junk contained within our fridge and cupboards, I gave my son a call to see what their culinary/allergy/junk food needs might be:

Abe:   Hi Mom. How ya doin’?

He always starts with this.   He shouldn’t really because I have no qualms about proceeding with a dissertation about “how I’m doing”.   I refrain this time, however, and proceed with aforementioned plans:

Me:  Looking forward to your visit this weekend!

Abe:   Me too, Mom….

Long pause.   Ok, this is going to be a call where I pull teeth.  I love those calls.

Me:  I was wondering what kinds of food and beverages you and DIL2B would prefer, as I’m going food shopping soon?

Abe:    Uh…..

I’m serious.  That’s all I got.  I think he was playing a video game.  Or napping.

Me:   What I mean is, I know you two have been dieting/cleansing/exercising, so thought you might have special needs.

Abe:   Not that I can think of Mom.  I eat everything.

Me:  Didn’t you quit coffee?

Abe:    Uh, yep.  I did.

Me:  What about red meat?

Abe:   Uh….

Pulling. Teeth.  Determined, I forged ahead.  I’m nothing if not self-abusive.

Me:   You know, hamburgers, stew, stuff with red meat?

Abe:    Uh…. (pre-occupied.  Must be)   I like anything Mom.  Don’t go to any trouble.

Me:  So does Amanda still drink the Almond Milk?  Does she still like wine?

I was losing him.  I could swear I heard snoring.  It was time to pull out the big guns.

Me:  You know what?

Abe:   Huh?   What  Mom?

Me:   I think I’ll just let you two go food shopping when you get here.

Abe:   Yea, Amanda still drinks Almond Milk.  She’s allergic to dairy.

Me:   Did you hear me?  About the food shopping?

Abe:  Oh yea.  Yea, we could do that.  That way we could help you carry the groceries up the stairs.

UH, news flash son.  There will be no helping, because I will be sitting in my easy chair having a nice beverage.  

Me:   Ok.   Well, see ya’s Sunday.

Abe:  Ok, see ya Mom. Love you.

Me:   Love you too.   Hugs to DIL2B and Tono.

Click.   He was gone.  No more “you hang up first”, “no you hang up first” like he used to do.  I miss that.  He did say he loves me.  He always says that.   And I don’t even have to coach him.

Can’t wait to see the kids this weekend!  There will be talk about the Elvis wedding.  Wine.  A little gambling.  Visiting some wedding chapels.  Laughing and enjoying big Hugs.

Honey, the kids are coming to visit!  We gotta get this house cleaned up!

DIL2B Amanda and son Abe


Welcome to guest blogger Mary Barker

Hi everyone!   I've never had a guest blogger before, so today is a first for me.   Actually, my dear friend Mary does not have her own blog.  I'm not even sure if she's interested in blogging, but after reading a short piece she shared with me, I would love to talk her into blogging.  She is also quite the sketch artist.  You may remember a story I wrote awhile back called "The Little Cabin".  Well, Mary's sketch was the inspiration for the story.   So I have invited Mary to use my space here on Terri's Little Corner any time she wants, to share her stories or sketches.  Please make her welcome.   I love her and I know you will love her too!     So without further ado, below is Mary's story for your reading enjoyment.


As I’m getting older the obituaries are the first thing I read in our local paper. Lately I see people I went to school with featured in this depressing section of the paper. Some die of accidents, many from terrible illnesses such as the dreaded “C “word, cancer. In all cases I feel they were much too young to leave us. Their loved ones write about all the wonderful accomplishments they made, where they went to school, their jobs, how many children and spouse or spouses they had, the clubs they belonged to, etc. All the important things in life, Right? Those things are nice, but after listening to a conversation between my husband and grandson I know exactly what I want my obituary to read. Mary Barker was a good woman. Let me explain.
One day my eight year old grandson Matthew asked his Papa , I’m a good man, aren’t I Papa? After hearing his response, it dawned on me being known as a good man or woman should be the ultimate goal in all our lives. Papa told him yes, Matthew you are a good man. He went on to explain being a famous athlete, actor, doctor, politician, or any of the so-called successful professionals doesn’t automatically get that status. Yes, you will have fame and fortune, but that’s not the true making of a good man. Loving god, and following the life he planned for us, treating others the way you want to be treated, not judging people who are different than you, and doing your very best in whatever you do, are some of the things that makes us a good man or woman.
Matthew is lucky, he has the most wonderful examples to follow, his Mom and Dad (and a little bit of Papa and Grandma too). They have made sure Matthew had a personal relationship with God. He accepted Jesus this year. He was the youngest to be baptized that day. From the time he was little, he has had a remarkable relationship with God. With that kind of background I know Matthew will continue to be a good man through-out his life.